Joy alchemists
The lessons in rooting for a struggling team, the desire in fandom to be bigger than ourselves, and the hope of community.
You know what seems fun? Being a fan of the San Antonio Spurs right now. Also being an employee of the San Antonio Spurs, especially if your occupation is “professional basketball player.”
That isn’t a particularly trenchant observation. The San Antonio Spurs are a good basketball team. They win more games than they lose. They’ve got a bunch of guys — young, likeable, talented — who seem like good hangs. One of those guys is a baby-faced French man who reads a lot of books and has beautiful opinions about humanity and justice. They wear those Fiesta uniforms a bunch, which seems like an unfair advantage. Who, in their right mind, would be anti-fiesta?
These days, after home wins, the Spurs do a whole bunch of extra business to keep their fans hyped up. Is it as cool as pointing a giant beam at the heavens, as if to say “LISTEN UP, GOD, THE SACRAMENTO KINGS WON A BASKETBALL GAME AND NOW WE’RE MAKING IT YOUR PROBLEM”? Of course not. Nothing is. But it’s worth checking out. You see, they’ve got this drum. And all the fans clap along with the drum, arms outstretched as far as possible. The tempo builds. As a fan, you get to look at yourself on the Jumbotron and hear a super loud thunder clap and be like, “We did that.” Here, let Victor Wembyama show you how it’s done.
Like all earnest things human beings do together in public, the whole affair is both pretty damned sick and pretty damned silly. The defining duality of our times. Caring that much rules/Caring that much is cringe. I bet, if I were a San Antonio Spurs fan, I’d be so hype to do that slow clap. And by that same token, if I hated the San Antonio Spurs, I’d develop a seething hatred of the slow clap. Friends would learn not to bring up the Spurs around me, because I’d go off on one of my infamous clap rants. “They look like a bunch of stupid seals,” I’d mutter, trying to convince myself.
Fortunately, I am neither a Spurs fan nor hater, so I have no dog in this imaginary fight. Nor, it should be noted, am I a pedant, so I don’t care that the Spurs celebration is also the Minnesota Vikings Skol chant and the Icelandic soccer celebration. Of course it’s duplicative. Human beings have been around for a really long time, and there are only so many ways to clap. I’m just glad that everybody involved gets to have a good time with their friends.
And regardless, there’s more going on in Bexar County than just the drum. There’s the special section of super fans, reportedly hand picked by Victor Wembyama back when he had hair. They’re called the Jackals, an immensely metal name for a collection of human beings. There’s Keldon Johnson, who wears cowboy hats (again, that duality: looks sick/looks silly) and who convinced Wemby that they should shave their heads together. Apparently all of Keldon Johnson’s best friends have shaved heads. That’s summer camp behavior (complimentary), basically a half step away from making friendship bracelets and promising to meet up at the lifeguard station, every year, on July 4th, because that’s what best friends do. As of this writing, two of the Jackals have already shaved their heads in solidarity, and a third Jackal re-created the slow clap ceremony with his family and an aluminum chalupa plate.
Again, nothing remarkable here, on the face of it. Being on a winning basketball team is fun. Cheering for a winning basketball team is fun. But kudos to them still, because this is 2026 and the San Antonio Spurs are an American sports franchise, and if I’m being honest, I’m hard pressed to find too many collective American identities whose vibes aren’t dire/apocalyptic right now.
That’s a political statement, of course, and one made by a leftist political organizer, so you could argue that I’m just projecting. I’ve spent the past two months coaching and supporting friends and organizers in Minneapolis who are resisting a literal Federal Occupation. Two of their neighbors are dead, and hundreds more have been locked up in Whipple or loaded onto planes bound for who knows where.
But honestly one of the most distinctive features of Trump’s America is that it isn’t just the losing political team that’s bummed out and on edge all the time. Sure, the left is frequently despondent, but are the vibes good in MAGAland? Objectively, no. That crowd seems just as grumpy and put upon as they were when Biden was President. They’re still complaining about pronouns in bios and Antifa wine moms, even as they’re simultaneously claiming that they defeated their enemies beyond recognition and sent woke packing.
There are a million reasons why I don’t hold reactionary politics, but one of them is that it seems exhausting. You gain total control of the government and then, like the most malevolent dog that caught its own tail, realize that the hole in your soul hasn’t disappeared.
I am a father and a writer and an organizer and a Milwaukee Bucks fan. The throughline between all those identities is an undercurrent of optimism, even when it might not be warranted. It’s not that I’m just burying my head in the sand. I am capable of reading box scores, both in the literal and metaphorical sense. But I can’t help it. I may not be having “shaving my head with my best friend” levels of fun right now, but neither am I nihilistic. That’s the problem with believing in other human beings. We let each other down so much, but not always. And it’s the “not always” that makes it worth it. We can be beautiful to each other, but only when we try.
Because of my day job, most days I get a call from somewhere in the world that takes my breath away, just not always in the same way. One day, “Garrett, guess what, I just started our neighborhood group a few months ago and last week 80 people showed up to the library for our community forum,” and then, “Garrett, we’re trying, here in Minneapolis, but we’re so terrified. You wouldn’t believe what ICE just did on our block…”
At night, after my kids are in bed, I turn on the Bucks game. It’s usually mid-way through the third quarter. We’re usually losing. But still, I hype myself up. Why not? I wonder, Maybe this is the game that Kuzma surprises me. A few minutes later, I remain unsurprised. But then a buddy (a poet, a Nuggets fan, a lovely person) texts our NBA group chat: “A moment of zen for Garrett,” he writes, alongside that clip of Kuz getting to do what he was put on Earth to do (strut down the Jennifer Hudson Show celebration tunnel). That’s all we want, Kyle Kuzma and I, to be seen that deeply.
The Milwaukee Bucks also have a special super fan section. It was founded fifteen years ago, back when the team played in a much maligned Brutalist fortress gifted to the city by the same industrialist family who bankrolled the Heritage Foundation, the American Enterprise Institute and most of the other foundational institutions of America’s rightward shift. A real “my only love sprung from my only hate” situation for me, specifically. The fan section was Andrew Bogut’s idea originally, a Hail Mary to inject some energy into a vacuum. Bogie’s no community organizer, but in that moment he got it.
Sometimes hope happens organically, but more often you have to tell a group, “Listen, we’re gonna start cheering like we’re winning, even if we’re not.”
I moved to Milwaukee in 2010. Back then, being a Bucks fan felt like being a member of a niche, weirdo club. Bucks fans weren’t quite like ham radio aficionados or birders, but we weren’t far off. There were the Packers and the Brewers and the Badgers and Marquette and then, much farther down the list, you’d run into a dude wearing a Yi Jianlian jersey at the bar and the two of you would convince the bartender to put the game on and, for a couple hours, you never loved another human being more. “You know back in Cameroon, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute is, like, an actual prince,” you’d say, and the other dude would be like, “Yeah” as Monta Ellis pulled up for another early shot clock contested jumper.
And listen, everything I’m saying here should be taken with a grain of salt, because nothing’s more insufferable than a middle aged dude droning on about supposed halcyon days. But if sports fandom is just one more attempt, as an imperfectly social species, to be a part of something bigger than ourselves, there is a special magic in the moments when you and your buddies are the losers and you’re forced to be joy alchemists.
Was being a Bucks fan in 2010 fun as hell? Not like being a Spurs fan in 2026, but sometimes. You’d watch a lot of Brandon Jennings ISO possessions result in a despiriting clank off the rim, but you also know that sometimes he’d go off for 50 points. Scott Skiles seemed to hate him, but that’s how the world got Chartjunk. Larry Sanders looked unstoppable for a few games, but then he quit to take care of his mental health and that too was something we could celebrate. “Looks like he’s doing a lot of skateboarding now,” we’d say, admiringly.
The arena was only ever half filled, and Bulls and the Heats fans would take it over without even really trying, but there was always the phallic Bango blimp that flew around dropping coupons, and you could dap up David “One Call, That’s All” Gruber in the concourse and that super fan section really was quite loud. “Bucks in six,” we’d shout to each other, way too enthusiastically. Another gift from Brandon Jennings, that one. He was so corny, until he was right.
Here’s the thing about being a basketball fan — it’s way easier when your team wins a lot, but it’s not necessary. Even when your team loses by forty, at some point one of your guys is gonna make a rad dunk, or hit an impossible three, or block a shot emphatically. During time outs, there will still be reverse eating cams and trampoline dunk squads and at least a half dozen opportunities to do one of the most pure and transcendent things we can do with a stranger: jump out of our seats, exchange clumsy high fives and have no doubt, in that moment, that you’re both feeling the exact same thing.
I got calls the day after Zohran Mamdani won in New York. I got calls when ICE descended on Chicago and Minneapolis. I got calls from friends who won union elections, or who lost municipal ones. I got calls from organizers pissed off that all their neighbors bailed on them when they needed them the most, and others who couldn’t stop gushing, “I put on the event… and people actually came.” I got calls when the streets were filled for rallies bigger than anybody had ever seen, and vigils that everybody wished weren’t necessary.
The folks on the other end of the line didn’t usually need advice. They’ve heard all about moral arcs of the universe. They’re dreamers, so they’ve long since learned that only some dreams come true, and only after a million hours of under-attended meetings with people who sometimes annoy you. I try to be useful, but mostly I’m just so grateful that they reached out.
When we ask for advice, either in our most hope filled our hopeless moments, we usually already know what to do. What we need is a promise: If I show up (to the arena, to the protest, to the church basement) and it’s only a quarter filled, will you sit next to me? If I show up a year later, and it feels like we’re winning, will you remind me not to take it for granted? If I jump out of my seat and hold my hand out for a high five, will you leave me hanging? On the day that I feel most alone, will you tell me that I’m not?
 | A guest post by
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Great piece, Garrett! This really resonates with me. I'm a Kings fan, and I admit that, when I first heard of the beam, I thought it was a silly gimmick. But, it grew on me, and I grew to like it. I also remember the joy and excitement from 2022-2023, the season where they were good and pushed the Warriors to 7 games...only to see things go downhill from there.
It's been easy to be in despair. To be cynical about the Kings (especially Kings' management). To be overwhelmed by current events. To be living in fear and anxiety, particularly as we see so many atrocities. I know I've been struggling myself to cope and deal with it (and have felt burnt out).
And yet: "But if sports fandom is just one more attempt, as an imperfectly social species, to be a part of something bigger than ourselves, there is a special magic in the moments when you and your buddies are the losers and you’re forced to be joy alchemists."
Indeed. Your article reminds me of what gives me hope and also reminds me that we're not alone. It's community. To be able to meet some beautiful souls and connect with them has helped me keep going. I've been able to meet up with fellow Kings fans and share joys (like about the rookies and just being able to spend time together). I've also been able to meet people in my local area who brighten my days with their kindness and with all the good that they're doing. I'm inspired by many at home and around the country standing for justice. They all have shined lights so bright through the darkness.
"When we ask for advice, either in our most hope filled our hopeless moments, we usually already know what to do. What we need is a promise: If I show up (to the arena, to the protest, to the church basement) and it’s only a quarter filled, will you sit next to me? If I show up a year later, and it feels like we’re winning, will you remind me not to take it for granted? If I jump out of my seat and hold my hand out for a high five, will you leave me hanging? On the day that I feel most alone, will you tell me that I’m not?"
This resonates with me a lot. I sometimes worry about being alone, especially given how bleak things are. And like I said earlier, it's easy to despair and feel alone. So, I share similar questions, but also many hopes as well.
Excellent write, Garrett :) Kudos.
Incredible piece Garrett! This paragraph:
"There were the Packers and the Brewers and the Badgers and Marquette and then, much farther down the list, you’d run into a dude wearing a Yi Jianlian jersey at the bar and the two of you would convince the bartender to put the game on and, for a couple hours, you never loved another human being more. “You know back in Cameroon, Luc Richard Mbah a Moute is, like, an actual prince,” you’d say, and the other dude would be like, “Yeah” as Monte Ellis pulled up for another early shot clock contested jumper."
really hit home. Thank you!