My dad has been telling me for years that “they’re done.” I refused to believe him. But Tuesday morning, as I sifted through the news headlines and solemnly scrolled through clips of Steve Kerr’s post-game interviews, I knew he was finally right. The Golden State Warriors’ historic dynasty is over.
I feel spoiled to say that I grew up alongside a sports dynasty. The most dominant, ground-breaking team of players to ever represent my hometown in Oakland, and I got to experience it all from beginning to end? Pretty lucky.
But having this team so closely entangled with my childhood, my daily routine and my relationships makes its end even more bittersweet.
I was six years old when I went to my first Warriors game. The tickets were probably less than 30 bucks, and my dad and I stood in the nosebleeds of Oracle Arena. No one sat down in Oracle, even for a 37-45 Warriors squad who barely scraped through each game. It was a flood of yellow t-shirts, screaming fans and a ruckus that kept the building trembling for two and a half hours straight. My dad picked me up on his shoulders and covered my ears, afraid I’d get too overwhelmed by the commotion. I pried his fingers away and absorbed every second of it.
At the time, my dad worked in Palo Alto. He left for work at 8 in the morning and came back around 10 every night, long after my mom escorted me to bed and turned off the lights. But when I heard the garage door open and the chattering of muffled voices on the living room TV, I crept downstairs and nestled next to my dad to watch recordings of the game.
This nightly occurrence quickly became part of our routine. When I missed a game, my dad skipped it too, and we’d watch the recording together the next day. My limited time with him was Warriors time, and I loved it.
Of course, it’s easy to love a 73-9, record-setting team. It’s easy to cheer for a team where, odds are, if Steph Curry’s on the floor, you expect to end the night with a win. But for me, an eager, wide-eyed middle-schooler, I think I loved what the Warriors’ consistent and dependable success represented: childlike optimism and naivety, which blinded me from the reality that life is imperfect.
But of course, good things don’t last forever. I grew up, and the Warriors fell out of their prime. I entered high school and my evenings were overtaken with homework. My dad underwent health challenges and relocated to Minnesota for a few months to get treatment. The Warriors left Oakland in a money-grab move for downtown San Francisco and were overtaken by the corporate, tech-bro audience who let the yellow shirts rest on the backs of their seats … which they sat in. Though the team felt different than the Oakland-based powerhouse that I deeply cherished, I still had faith that they’d remain true to their roots and dominate the NBA for years to come.
As we adapted to our newfound lives, my dad and I took up texting about the games, replacing our nightly watch parties with sporadic messages.
“They’re done,” my dad texted me after Curry broke his hand in October of 2019, the first year of the team’s move across the Bay. They had traded Kevin Durant to the Brooklyn Nets earlier that summer after Klay Thompson tore his ACL in the playoffs.
“Nope,” I texted back, determined to hold onto this era of unwavering success and my steady outlet for joy.
As they entered a dismal season — finishing worst in the league with a 15-50 record — I could physically feel the impact of each loss pulse through my body. I’d sob for hours after a heartbreaking game, letting the disappointment and failure burn in my stomach. I depended on a Warriors win. For me, their success was a reflection of my actions, my luck, my wishes. Every loss forced me to confront the fact that I couldn’t control the uncontrollable; sitting on my living room couch, praying for a bucket or following my strict, superstitious rules wasn’t enough. As a result, the last bit of my childhood innocence and hope began to dissipate.
When COVID-19 hit, the storm of devastation offered me one glimpse of hope — I had time, albeit forced, to spend in my house, once again watching the Warriors with my dad. And perhaps through a miracle, they weren’t “done” yet. In what felt like a replay of my youth, my dad and I watched every game of the 2021-22 season together. We witnessed Thompson come back from injury, brick threes, stumble across the floor, and, to no surprise, still find himself in game six to send home the Memphis Grizzlies and propel the team to the Western Conference finals for the first time in four years.
Their unexpected resurgence to take home the 2022 Championship wasn’t just a confidence boost or evidence to defend my “washed” team; it offered a reminder of how the Warriors dynasty had shaped me and my childhood.
Maybe my emotions surrounding the Warriors’ collapse are just a one-off, weird dependence on a basketball team for happiness, inspiration and family connection. But for Warriors kids — or for anyone else who grew up supporting a dynasty — witnessing the success of a team we so desperately rooted for reveals something lingering beneath the surface.
That was certainly true for me. Every Warriors victory was not just another tally in the win column; it encapsulated the excitement my dad and I shared in our living room, shouting at the screen and trading jerseys for good luck. It reflected a time when simply hoping for something to go well could be enough. No game was ever over when the prime Warriors squad was on the court, and, therefore, no fantasy or dream of mine could be dispelled if I really wanted it.
I flew home last weekend to visit my dad. He works from home now, and I know he gets lonely. When I texted him that I was going to fly up and asked about any plans he had for us, he replied: “Warriors!” Conveniently, their second play-in game, which was a must-win to make the playoffs, tipped off a few hours after I landed.
So, for the first time in years, I found myself engaging in my old nightly ritual: nestled closely next to my dad in our jerseys, screaming at the TV and praying for a Warriors run.
Things felt different here, though. When the final buzzer went off to signal a Warriors loss, marking the end of their season and dynasty — the last game of Kerr and Green’s contract — I turned off the TV and glanced over at my dad. His wrinkled face and delicate expression eased my disappointment, grounding me in a mature reality. I didn’t feel the same dejection or misfortune that used to bring me to tears. They were done, and that was it.
Charlotte Hahm SC ’28 loves Survivor and hates Luka Dončić.
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