Believe.

In the end, it turned out to be the exact same story. A journey through 13 painful years of frustration and defeat (and defeat... and defeat... and defeat...) ended with... frustration and defeat.

I've wanted to write this column so many times over the past few months. I always wanted to start it a new way - anger at the Warriors for missing the playoffs for the 13th year in a row (didn't happen), surprise at making the playoffs (I resisted), glee at defeating the Mavericks (got greedy, wanted more), before deciding that whatever I wanted to say, it could and would wait until it was all over. And now that the time is here, not only do I not know where to begin, but I don't want to write it.

The Warriors and I go back a long way. We first met in 1990, when I discovered Run TMC at the age of 4. It was a fun time - I had nary a care in the world, and the W's played like they didn't either. Pretty soon, we settled down and got serious, and at age 7, when the Warriors were led by a pair of veterans (Chris Mullin and Tim Hardaway), the second-most dynamic big man in the game (Chris Webber), and my favorite player (Latrell Sprewell), I was madly in love.

They reeled off 52 wins that year. It was a sign of prosperity to come, and I was ready to make the long-term commitment. Much to my Mom's dismay, such a commitment included my insistence on her cutting my hair into Chris Mullin's trademark crew cut. Of course, she never relented (hello, bowl cut) and things started to unravel.

If cheering for the Warriors in 2007 has been like riding a roller coaster like "Top Gun", then 1994-2006 was pretty much Drop Zone for a good 13 years. Sure, there were bright spots, like my Dad winning a car at a Warriors game in 1994, or going to a Warriors game in 2003 and watching Adonal Foyle miss 7 of 8 free throws to end the half (...okay, maybe not), but for the most part, rooting for the Warriors was absolutely brutal.

Bad personnel decisions (Penny Hardaway --> Chris Webber --> Tom Gugliotta --> Donyell Marshall --> Donald Royal --> two Philly cheesesteaks and a bumper sticker) and bad drafting (Adonal Foyle over Tracy McGrady, Todd "My GPA is higher than my scoring average" Fuller over Kobe Bryant, and Mike Dunleavy over a cardboard cutout of aforementioned Foyle) were only part of the problem. The fact that the W's (they almost changed their name to the L's) had more coaches than I had elementary school teachers was also an issue. As was owner Chris Cohan's refusal to open his wallet except to horde coupons. But the biggest problem of all was the attitude, the atmosphere.

One of my biggest beefs with the Warriors was that no one cared. Say what you will about my boy, Latrell Sprewell (yes, I know he's psychotic), but at least he got pissed off enough to try to do something about it. Strangling the coach just probably wasn't the best way of expressing himself.

These were the dark years, the late 90's. Vonteego Cummings sometimes visits me in my nightmares. But things started to change in the next century. The Warriors amassed a fair amount of talented players (Antawn Jamison, Gilbert Arenas, Larry Hughes), before letting them all walk and star for other teams. Next Cohan opened his wallet, and gave Mullin the opportunity to obtain some talent. Of course, in true Warriors fashion, he shelled out upwards of $150 million to four guys (Derek Fisher, Dunleavy, Troy Murphy, Foyle) that combined to play about 10 minutes in the playoffs this year (and Fisher also happened to singlehandedly bury the Warriors).

Look, it's not like I was being picky. I didn't care if we won by scoring 150 points a game in exciting basketball or scoring 65 points in boring, Houston basketball. I just wanted to make the damn playoffs.

If I sound bitter... I was. But Mully made things right. He brought back Nellie, gave us a chance to win this year, and our boys did the rest. Waiting 13 years for anything is probably not worth it. But if anything IS worth it, it was those past three weeks of playoff bliss.

Roughly two months ago, I'd had it. I was ready to jump ship, not only write off the season but seriously contemplate divorcing the Warriors for good. If you know me and how dearly I love my teams, you must realize that it must have taken me a lot to get to that point. But I'd had it. We'd spent the money, we had the talent, we'd tried. If we were going to fail, and keep failing, I wasn't sure I could take it anymore. Once we were mathematically eliminated from the playoffs, I was going to write this column, and you'd never get to read the rest.

But if there's anything sports can teach us, it is to never give up hope, to never stop believing. That's the reason I stay until the final second of every game (except one, we'll get to that). And lo and behold, in their darkest hour, the Warriors pulled a playoff berth straight out of their rear ends. Warrior fan to the core, I was convinced we'd either blow a 20 point lead with 2 minutes left to get knocked out, or that the NBA would invoke the new "9th place team hops the 8th place team to make the playoffs" rule. This became the second time I had to resist my temptation to write this column.

It was odd caring about the NBA playoffs. Every year since 1994, I hadn't had to care about basketball in May. And to be honest, it was usually around Spring Training when basketball didn't matter anymore. But this year was different.

When you want something so badly, and appreciate it so dearly when you get it, you might become fiercely rabid. And that's what I (and other members of the glorious Bay Area) became. This was more than a story about a basketball team finally making the playoffs. It was about the unification of a region, whose common anguish lingered for so long that its breakthrough triggered a magnificent wave of emotion.

"We Believe" became our slogan. "We" extended past those 12 men in blue and the ridiculously paunch-bellied coach. "We" became 20,679 fans in the arena. "We" became 7 million people in the Bay Area. "We" even became that dude wearing the tattered Joe Smith jersey down Bruinwalk last week.

"We" became the team of outcasts, the ones who no one else would take a chance on. From Stephen Jackson, the emotional, volatile "thug," to Matt Barnes, the journeyman cut by more than half a dozen teams. From a perennial loser, Jason Richardson, to the embattled Al Harrington, to the tiny guard Monta Ellis. From raw, athletic Mickael Pietrus to equally raw, athletic Andris Biedrins. And lastly, to the man who was criticized as a "coach-killer," an underachiever, a talented but egocentric, me-first player, Baron Davis.

These were our boys. And we loved them. We loved them because they brought us here. We loved them because everyone else counted them out. We loved them because they cared. They were the perfect underdogs, and any time they needed a lift, we were there for them. Playing a frenzied pace in a frenetic arena was the perfect recipe for tidal waves of points, emotion, and wins.

We drew Dallas in the first round. No one gave us a chance... so we pulled off the greatest upset in first round history. We ran them off the floor with threes galore (Game 6... Stephen Jackson for 3. Stephen Jackson for 3. Stephen Jackson for 3. Stephen Jackson for 3. Stephen Jackson for 3. Stephen Jackson for 3. Stephen Jackson for 3.) and rim-rattling dunks (Matt Barnes over Dirk). We shoved it in Barkley's face and made Dirk wish he was back in Germany. When people said we were taking our celebrations too far, and that we should act like we'd been there before, we responded with a Fuck you, and no, we haven't been here before. We care.

We ran into a gang of physical, unattractive brutes in Utah. As they pounded us to smithereens, we hung tough in every game. While the "experts" told us to scrap our 3-ball mentality and up-and-down pace, we said No. That's what got us here, that's who we are, and that's how we're going to live (or die).

Maybe it's natural for a Warriors fan to have that instinctive reaction to think negatively. It's kind of like a mutated gene, which after years of being accustomed to losing, always assumes the worst. Either way, Game 2 nagged at me down the stretch. It quickly became one of the most painful games I had ever seen. We blew the lead in such a horrific fashion, that I couldn't bear to watch the last 48 seconds of defeat.

After Baron put AK on posters worldwide in Game 3, a do-or-die Game 5 came. I'm never one to blame the zebras, and we did not play well enough to deserve a win, but the frustration at the prejudice placed against our "thug" team finally set in. We always let the world see how we felt, for better or worse. Tonight, the world hated us and our ways. And so ended our glorious run.

Talk about mixed emotions... how do we feel now?

Frustrated. Frustrated that we didn't get a fair shake. Frustrated that we didn't play well enough to win. Frustrated that we aren't playing anymore.

Thankful. Thankful to have had the opportunity to experience the past three weeks. Thankful to have had players who cared for us and represented how we feel.

Angry. Angry that I'm writing this damn column right now and not a month from now.

The national media may have fallen in love with our scrappy, never-say-die attitude or our unique and exciting brand of basketball. Or they may have hated us for our "thug" image and emotional outbursts. We couldn't care less. None of us give a damn about what the rest of the country thinks. We care about winning. We care about the Bay. We care about our Warriors. We don't have room for bandwagon fans (except for Jessica Alba). And that is why I'm proud to be from the Bay. I love the Warriors.

Believe.