As the Jazz sucked and sucked and sucked over the last few years, I went to therapy in the form of composition, writing part one, part two, and part three to sort through the diagnosed Tortured Fan symptoms. 

I guess this is now part four. 

The 2024-2025 NBA Playoffs took off in May, and the Jazz, of course, were on the outs. Sprinkled into the playoffs were awards (Donovan Mitchell made the All-NBA First Team) and the NBA Draft Lottery order reveal. As you already know, the Tortured Fan sickness hit its peak as the Jazz, with the worst overall record and best possible odds for the first pick, were allotted the 5th pick (where the only certified studs are within the first two picks). 

So, for my fanhood, the sucking continued. 

And the first round had some awesome battles, featuring actual real basketball that I hadn’t seen from my home team in some time. That trend continued into the next round and then the Western and Eastern Conference finals, where defense was stout, threes were flying, home crowds were rocking, and buzzer beaters were a constant highlight. The 10 teams from each conference that were invited to join in playoff festivities are the starting bar, and the Jazz were nowhere close. The final four, let alone the actual champ, is the true goal, and the Jazz stay a grand canyon-sized chasm away from that peak. 

Now, I have an eight-year-old. We’ll call him The Dude. He has liked basketball casually and gone to games with me, and enjoyed the sport and my passion just fine. 

But then the 2024-2025 NBA Playoffs took off. 

Actually, let’s go back a few months and start with March Madness. The Dude made a bracket, expected to win all the matches, and fell in love with Cooper Flagg. He followed the games religiously, watched as many as possible, checked his bracket often, and always asked when Flagg and Duke would be playing next. As such, he fell in love with the idea of Flagg on the Jazz. I explained the idea of tanking and draft picks, and The Dude figured it out. In his mind, it was a done deal. It could happen; it would happen. Capture the Flagg would end with the star in Salt Lake City. 

All the while, the sky turned blue and the sun popped out as the seasons transitioned from dark winter to daylight-saving spring, which gave way to groundhogs, flower blooms, and the basketball hoop for the driveway. He started dribbling every day. Shooting every day. So did His Little Sister. Shooting hoops became a regular occurrence. 

And then the 2024-2025 NBA Playoffs took off. 

He tuned in with me nearly every night, first cheering for LeBron and the Lakers, Jokic and the Nuggets, and Brunson and the Knicks. During the first round, the lottery balls bounced elsewhere and I groaned and moaned and no-ed up and down the hallways, bemoaning another setback for the directionless Jazz as The Dude cried and cried in his room about the stupid Mavs who were going to get his favorite player ever. 

Like a switch, The Dude thought about the NBA every day from then on. Whether he was shooting hoops, rooting for Brunson on the TV screen, or asking questions about the game on drives and late at night (to me or his Google in his room), The Tortured Fandom disease spread like a viral infection, consuming every corner of his evolving “Ball is Life” brain. 

As The Dude’s Dad, what else do I want? Throughout my life, the NBA has been a part of my blood. Those who know me know my origin stories: that I cried when MJ hit The Shot to beat my Jazz in the NBA Finals; that I’d play as John Stockton at recess in Oregon instead of a Portland Trailblazer; that I’d spend all my money on collecting and organizing basketball cards; that I played one sport, basketball, for hours and hours and hours in my own driveways splashing the nets. Since then, around age seven or eight, I’ve been diehard. 

And The Dude is now eight, becoming diehard. Which leads me to wonder, is Tortured Fanhood genetic? 

For me, my introduction to basketball and the NBA revolved around the Utah Jazz playing deep into the playoffs, including back-to-back NBA Finals appearances (and losses) to the Chicago Bulls. As everyone else stopped playing ball, the Jazz were still on TV with iconic moments, plays, triumphs, and heartbreaks. 

For The Dude? Quite the opposite. The Jazz don’t have an identity, a star player, or a basketball brand that is fun to watch and cheer for. For The Dude, who are his favorite players? Does he know any Jazz guys? Yeah, Colin Sexton, who plays a style that The Dude is enamored with. What about others? Nope – he’s never heard of, never seen Lauri Markkanen, the All-Star who is in and out of the lineup with ‘injuries’ to help secure that #5 draft pick. 

Instead, it’s the guys and teams that made the NBA playoffs so electric. At first, he hopped on with me for LeBron as I told him stories, or Steph and his shot, or DM45 and the most recent best ball in Utah that he orchestrated. But then, he picked the fun guys – the guys that play hard, make plays, shoot the ball. He knows Ant; he knows KAT. He likes bench heroes like Mitchell Robinson, T.J. McConnell. He likes the do-everything guys like Aaron Gordon. 

My favorite memory from The Dude’s transition to ball fan was how he’d grab a pen and paper on his way to shoot hoops in the driveway. He would draft two teams to play against each other, with his favorites – like just mentioned – playing together on his team. After a while, he’d come inside and tell us the score, it’s 100-27 or whatever, with him narrating the game like Mike Breen for every second, and hitting every shot, too. After some crazy playoff endings, The Dude’s blacktop games got crazy, too, with ‘fouls’ on his misses and subsequent ridiculous turnovers or rebounds in his favor to further extend the lead. 

As questioned, is Tortured Fanhood genetic? Because if so, shouldn’t The Dude be rolling over in agony with the Jazz? 

Yes, he cried about Cooper Flagg, but with each day the Jazz continue to suck, with each home basektball game disheartening to watch, I’m afraid the Jazz will slowly lose the next generation of fans, my son included. 

Right now, two players stand out as his favorites, the ones he chooses to emulate in the driveway. Right now, it’s two teams that are his favorite teams in the NBA, the ones he chooses to avatar on NBA 2K25 on the Switch. 

And it’s because the 2024-2025 NBA Playoffs took off. 

Jalen Brunson of the New York Knicks and Tyrese Haliburton of the Indiana Pacers.

Something I’ve pondered over the last few months is if this playoff run fuels the fandom for the Knicks or the Pacers for The Dude that lasts the rest of his life. Is it possible that my son could be a fan – real, genuine fandom – of something other than the Stockton-To-Malone blood that runs in the Godfrey genes? Does each Haliburton miracle, or every Brunson clutch heroic, create a path for jerseys and posters? Do they inspire YouTube deep dives, laying a brick-by-brick foundation for the passionate root, root, root for his team? 

And, if so, would that lead to a life of less Tortured Fanhood? 

Highlights like these say yes. 

Highlights like these say no. 

Another thought exercise I put myself through is what would happen if I delayed my introduction to basketball for just a few years. Yes, the Utah Jazz were my dad’s team, and they had sustained success that helped act as my inauguration. But if I were anything like The Dude, what if I picked the team on TV and in the playoffs, who played hard and had fun players? 

What if the Spurs were the brand on TV for my first rodeo instead of the Utah-Chicago battles? What if I lived in Texas instead of Oregon in 1999, or spent much of my life in Texas instead of Utah? The San Antonio Spurs had iconic plays and star players that I could’ve hitched my wagon to. The key difference in this equation is that the San Antonio Spurs are far less tortured than the Jazz, or Pacers, or Knicks, as they won over and over and over again: 1999, 2003, 2005, 2007, 2014. Think of the talent acquisition, too: lottery balls give them Tim Duncan and then Victor Wembenyama; developmental staff fine-tunes Tony Parker and Kawhi Leonard; one coach rules them all with Gregg Popovich. 

As the NBA Finals finished on Monday with a heart-wrenching injury that spoiled the magnitude and greatness of an epic OKC-Indy series, our eyes were glued to the TV for the last time of the 2025-2026 season, a season that I will fondly remember as the year of The Dude falling in love. When the fourth quarter began, the game was essentially over, and The Wife and The Little Girl went upstairs. It was just me and My Dude, just the two of us to soak in all of the last moments. The final minutes tick-tocked off the clock, and The Dude came to lie on the floor beside me in the dimly lit basement. 

“I want to see the trophy,” he said, and I assured him we would watch the presentation and interviews and let the moment hit. It’s what I do every year, anyway, I told him, this is how it goes to let the season fully settle and resonate. 

Confetti fell from the arena, basketball players bounced and smiled, and cried when it turned official for the Oklahoma City Thunder to be crowned champions. The podium was assembled, the trophy given out, and players interviewed about the key plays and motivations from the series and the season. Then, the Finals MVP trophy was awarded, more confetti was shot into the sky, and all the sports lingo was uttered about teamwork, teammates, hard work, great games, and a special season. 

The crowd sung “We Are The Champions,” standing for another thirty minutes after standing the duration of the decisive game seven. Camera shots panned in and out of people hugging, people crying, people cheering, people giddy with joy for a moment they waited and waited and waited for. 

“One day,” I said, “One day this will be us.” 

“What? One day we’re going to move to Oklahoma?” he responded.