‘San Antonio: Remember the…mermaid?’

I spent the last week in San Antonio, Texas, at a conference with some fellow teachers from around the country. Normally I love visiting new towns. But try as I might, I couldn’t find a place in my heart for the Alamo City. This got me wondering, do I really find San Antonio unappealing because it lacks merit? Or has my pure hatred for the Spurs completely clouded my vision and caused me to see San Antonio through dirt colored glasses?

The first thing I noticed about San Antonio was its unimpressive skyline. San Antonio ranks seventh among our nation’s most populated cities, ahead of such behemoths as Dallas, Detroit, San Francisco, and Seattle. Yet each of these other locations has a more impressive cityscape than San Antonio. I enjoyed the Riverwalk, though I couldn’t help but notice its artificial sentiment. It felt like Little Italy in lower Manhattan, a collection of tourist-frequented restaurants lacking that authentic feel. And if I eat another plate of Tex-Mex food this month, my insides are going to make a last stand like Davy Crockett at the Alamo. Speaking of, San Antonio’s most famous monument didn’t quite capture my imagination. The Alamo reminded me of visiting Mount Rushmore in South Dakota—it was cool, for sure, but it somehow left me disappointed and wanting more.

Despite its lack of magnificence, San Antonio offers plenty to do and seems like a nice place to live. But I don’t like the city. In fact, I found myself hating it, wanting to leave as soon as possible. My only explanation, after much reflection, is the Spurs. I so hate the Spurs that I’ve completely associated San Antonio with its basketball team. The Jazz’s well-documented struggles in San Antonio lie at the root of this hatred. I can imagine some poor sucker in San Antonio back in the 1990s feeling the same way toward Salt Lake. Remember the good old days when the Jazz used to knock the Spurs out of the playoffs every other year, and Jim Rome referred to David Robinson as The Mermaid? Despite having home court advantage, the Spurs couldn’t get past the Jazz in 1994 or 1996. In 1998, following a Game 3 debacle, Karl Malone promised his team would not return to San Antonio, meaning they had to win Game 4 in Texas and finish it in Salt Lake. Of course, the Mailman delivered on his word.

Regrettably, the tables turned and now the Jazz can’t find a way to consistently beat San Antonio. At first glance, the Spurs don’t seem like your classic love-to-hate-them team. Tim Duncan, their superstar, doesn’t brag or boast. The Spurs run a classic offense, and they play hard-nosed defense. So what’s to hate? Well, take Manu Ginobili and Bruce Bowen for starters. Both belong on a top ten list of the league’s most despicable players. Ginobili combines the unsavory characteristics of flopping and whining. Bowen also whines and flops when given the chance, but his game includes the additional dimension of dirty play. Tony Parker doesn’t mind throwing himself on the floor at the slightest contact from a defender, plus he’s French, which makes him awfully hard to respect, even if he has a hot wife. Robert Horry turned plenty of people against the Spurs with his cheap shot on Steve Nash during the 2007 playoffs. The inherent hypocrisy of Horry’s hit bothered me more than anything. Big Shot Bob has sent plenty of teams to the locker room disappointed during his playoff career. Finding himself on the losing end of an important game, Horry responded by suddenly imagining the court as a hockey rink.

For me, the frustration with losing to San Antonio really hit home as I sat in the upper bowl of the Game 4 playoff disaster during the 2007 Western Conference Finals. The Spurs were better than the Jazz, by far. Despite keeping the contest close for three quarters, the final stanza amounted to a slow death. The Jazz melted down on the court, fouling on nearly every San Antonio possession and then settling for jump shots. The lost its collective head as well, screaming uncontrollably at the officials and throwing debris onto the court. That night stands as one of the more embarrassing moments in recent Jazz history. Yet the ultimate, undeniable result is an even more pointed, focused hatred of the enemy. Immature? Probably. Unsportsmanlike? Undoubtedly. But when you truly love a team, you naturally hate your rivals, as well as the towns that produce them.