My parents divorced when i was about 6 years old, and my mom won custody, except for every other weekend, which really is not enough time to spend with your father. I was jealous when my dad took my older brother to a Kings game, and kept pestering my dad to take me to a game some time.
I was eight years old when my dad got me tickets to my first Kings game for Christmas. The game took place two days later, on December 27, 1988. From the moment we arrived at the Arco Arena parking lot, it was magical—I stepped out of the car to see the first falling snow I had ever seen in Sacramento. I remember being impressed by size and skill of the Blazers’ Kevin Duckworth, and watching head coach Jerry Reynolds fall and lie face down on the ground—even getting a technical foul—before getting carted away on a stretcher. The Kings ended up winning that game on a buzzer beater by Harold Pressley. It was a fantastic way to initiate my true Kings fandom—I think I even got a free Jr. Western Bacon cheeseburger or something because the Kings won.
From that moment on, I started listening to all the games on the radio. Soon after, the Kings acquired Wayman Tisdale, who quickly became the player I would imagine myself as while playing basketball in my back yard (later, that player would be Mitch Richmond). I became obsessed with reading every newspaper article about the Kings, checking every box score, and gobbling up any information that I could. I loved those Kings, even if we were too poor to go to more than one game every three years or so. I was still just as much a fan as anybody.
I stuck with the Kings through all the tough seasons, and, together with my dad, cheered on the Lionel Simmonses, Briant Grants (future Karl Malone!), Sarunas Marciulionises, the Mahmoud Abdul-Raufs, and the Bobby Hurleys. Even if they didn’t win a lot of games for a few years, it was in no way a one-way relationship. The Kings gave me just as much as I gave them.
When the Kings won in the playoffs at Utah, I drove 40 minutes or so the airport to cheer for them as their plane arrived. I spent a few hundred dollars for two nosebleed seats in the game where Stockton killed us. The Arco Thunder is, to this day, the loudest thing I’ve ever heard.
I moved to Guatemala for my church mission between 2001 and 2003. During this time, I wasn’t allowed to watch TV. It killed me to see in sports page clippings sent from home that after all the years of struggling, the Kings were dominant—and I couldn’t see it. When I got back, they were still pretty good. They were never quite as good as they were while I was in sports exile, but it was still enough to keep me hooked. I watched, listened to, and attended every game I could.
After I got married, my wife converted to Kingsfandom. She taught me to keep my emotions in check by actually being more crazy about bad calls than I was. One time, after the Kings were screwed in consecutive home games on blown goaltending calls in the final seconds, I got so angry that I threw my shoe at the front door, leaving a big dent in the metal. My wife and I screamed at the TV so loud that I’m sure the refs could hear. Our neighbors certainly did—they visited my wife’s place of employment the next day to make sure that she hadn’t been beaten by her husband.
The press and Sacramento City officials have basically conceded that the Kings are leaving for Southern Cal. I have so many more memories of my time following the Sacramento Kings. Some big, some minor. I’m going to miss things like being able to talk to just about any random person on the street, and them somehow knowing the score of the game. Sacramento was always passionate about the Kings. Maybe that’s changed since I moved away for college and subsequent life abroad. But now that I’m going back, one of the most charming parts of Sacramento will be gone. Luckily, I’ve got a good enough relationship with my dad and other family that I don’t really need the Kings anymore.
I’ll be grateful forever for the memories I have of this team. But I’ll always wonder what could have been. I won’t be able to take my daughters or my first son, due in a couple months, to a Kings game. My wife will never get to hear the Arco Thunder. Life will, of course, go on. Until the A’s get contracted.
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