In the fall of 1989 my family moved to Phoenix, Arizona. I went to my first ever NBA and Suns game that 89-90 season at Veteran’s Memorial Colisseum, which was nicknamed ‘The Madhouse on McDowell’, being located on an avenue of the same name. My favorite player was KJ (Kevin Johnson), the Suns diminutive point guard.

It was this year when I started to learn how to watch basketball, the importance of the player running the point, calling plays, making passes, managing the offense. Then the big burly forwards and centers that would do all the muscle work down near the basket, fighting for rebounds, making hard fouls and difficult turn-around jumpers or driving hook shots. Then the shooters that would camp out at the 3-point line or on the baselines, cooly making clutch shots with hands in their faces. I fell in love with basketball, but really I fell in love with the Suns. We lived in Phoenix now, and this is what people in Phoenix did. In the months of May and June as the temperatures raised to previously unheard of levels to your average 10 year old kid who grew up in Pennsylvania - this was where I wanted to be - in Air Conditioning in front of the TV watching the Suns try and beat the Showtime Lakers. And they did! I remember talking with my shocked classmates on the playground during recess, and dreaming about going to the Finals.

The Finals were magic. Even now as I’m thirty, I dream of The Finals. It’s like a place that can only be spoken of in hushed, reverent tones. The Finals is sort of like Heaven…except it’s the hardest part of the postseason, and can be the most trying experience for any fan. Living in Dallas, I’ve seen what last year’s Finals did to some of my friends. The exhilirating highs as the Mavs went up 2-0, then annoyance, followed quickly by frustration, anger, and lamentations for what could have been after they lost the next four games in succession to the Heat. As a fan, the only thing you can do is circle November and start all over again. Which is excruciating.

The Suns lost in the 3rd round that 89-90 season. After a couple more years of close but not close enough finishes, the Phoenix braintrust decided something big was needed. I remember hearing that after losing to Portland after the 91-92 season, they decided they needed a brawler under the basket, “someone like Charles Barkley”. As it turned out, Barkley was available and Philadelphia basically gave him to us for next to nothing. The Suns changed uniforms to something more modern, moved out of the Madhouse into a state of the art new facility named America West Arena, and added their franchise player without giving up KJ or Majerle. Barkley won MVP and the team won 62 games, setting a franchise record in the process. I was in eighth grade and the Suns were the only thing that mattered.

Then Michael Jordan and the Bulls and John Paxson happened and The Finals were over. Then Houston and Hakeem Olajuwon. Then we fired our head coach and traded Barkley away. Now in high school, preparing for college, I looked at the Suns the same way I looked at the Red Hot Chili Peppers. I used to be into them, and when I pop in Blood Sugar Sex Magic, I still like it. But only because I once liked it. I had other things to worry about. In college I noticed the Suns changed their uniforms. I was annoyed, then realized it had been 8 or 9 years since 92-93. The Suns had moved on as well.

Phoenix sucked so bad they landed a lottery pick by missing the playoffs. They drafted Amare Stoudemire. After a couple more mediocre seasons and making empty sounding assurances that they were committed to the future, they signed Steve Nash to a big contract.

And suddenly the Suns were among the elite teams of the NBA once again.

Yet The Finals were still out of grasp. And now, as I type this we are four and a half hours from tip-off for Game 4 against the San Antonio Spurs. Just as the Bulls and Rockets were the nemeses of my youth, now I have the Spurs to hate with all my being. On Saturday night I got that same 8th grade feeling of getting my heart broken by a gang of bullies. The only thing I could do was grit my teeth, cuss under and over my breath, and exhaust myself in the process. After losing another 3 hour battle I promptly went to sleep, dreaming of the defeats and the close but not close enoughs of my past with the Phoenix Suns.

Four hours, twenty minutes. Is this it? I can’t help thinking this is the best Phoenix Suns team I’ve ever cheered for. Yet they cannot seem to overcome when met with extreme adversity. I don’t know what to do. I can’t wait for the beginning yet I dread being around for the ending.

I can’t help but be emotionally involved. I no longer live in Phoenix. But they’re My Team. And I guess they always will be. Nothing I can do. Except hope.

Four hours, ten minutes.