I know I’m late to the Utah Jazz mourning party, but I’m a middle-aged man living vicariously through twenty-something athletes. Sports fandom is all I have left. I needed time to heal. 

I shouldn’t have needed that time. My scarred heart should be numb at this point. After all, Jazz Nation is accustomed to disappointment. Every year ends in a letdown that rivals the Seinfeld finale, which aired about the same time the Jazz last made the NBA Finals.  

But after four decades plus of perpetual disappointment, the last couple of weeks might have culminated in the apex of agony for Jazz fans. On and off the court. 

For starters, the most beloved figure in Utah, John Stockton, doused his reputation in gasoline and lit off some fireworks—the type nobody seems to know who has authority to ban in this record-setting drought—when he appeared on an anti-vaccination documentary. 

For years Jazz fans longed for the introverted Stockton to be more engaged. And now we wish he would have kept to himself. We came to expect bone-headed statements from the Mailman. We loved him despite his innumerable gaffes. But Stockton was different. At least until now.

Sure, he has a right to his opinion. I’m not going to go all Laura Ingraham and tell him to shut up and dribble. But downplaying a virus that caused global economic devastation and cost the lives of over 600,000-plus Americans isn’t the best look for a man whose likeness is chiseled in bronze outside Vivint Arena. 

But we shouldn’t be surprised Stockton doesn’t appreciate the impact of illness. After all, he saw Michael Jordan run roughshod over the Jazz during the infamous “flu game.” On our home court. In front of 20,000 rabid Jazz fans. In a pivotal game five with the series tied at two games apiece. I could go on. 

The good folks at the pizza joint did their part doing whatever they did to the pizza MJ consumed the night before. All Stockton had to do was make Jordan work on the defensive end. Maybe run him through a series of screens. Maybe pass the ball to Hornacek and put the pressure on. Maybe make himself dry heave in front of his Airness to elicit a reaction. 

I don’t know. Something. Anything. But Stockton and the Jazz did nothing. 

Instead, the GOAT was able to stand idly by and rest all game on the defensive end while compiling a game-high 38 points en route to a critical victory that set the stage for the Bulls to finish off the Jazz the following game in the Windy City. 

If this all seems fresh on my mind, it’s because it is. The wounds were nearly healed. And then the Last Dance (a documentary chronicling the Bulls’ last championship run) was released last year and it seemed my heart’s near-healed laceration was reopened with a blunt piece of rock salt. 

Fast forward to this year’s postseason, and the stars were aligned for the Jazz to seek redemption and end the championship drought that is only overshadowed by our literal drought. For the first time in franchise history, the Jazz entered the playoffs with sole possession of the league’s best record, guaranteeing home-court advantage throughout.

My ravaged heart was on the verge of healing as the only unifying factor between Utes and Cougars—the Utah Jazz—was on the precipice of victory. 

And the dominoes continued to fall in place for a franchise desperate to hoist its first Larry O’Brien Trophy. One by one the league’s preeminent stars were cast away via injury, illness, or elimination. Steph Curry and the Warriors didn’t make the playoffs.

Lebron James and the defending champion LA Lakers were discarded in the first round. Kawhi Leonard was sidelined with the series deadlocked with the Jazz at two games apiece. Awaiting the Jazz were the Phoenix Suns, whose floor general, Chris Paul, had recently been diagnosed with Covid. And even the seemingly unstoppable trio in Brooklyn, who Vegas dubbed title favorites, was looking vulnerable due to its own slew of injuries. 

The prayers Governor Cox implored Utahns to make seemed to have been misdirected towards Utah’s other drought. We were destined to reach the finals for the first time since Bill Clinton was impeached. Except this time would be different: We wouldn’t be facing off against Superman with sneakers. 

Then game 6 happened and our championship aspirations evaporated quicker than our reservoirs. 

With a 25 point second-half lead, Gobert saw an opening to replace Stockton’s statue outside Vivint Arena. He gave an impressive audition. But as Gobert made like a statue in the paint, the Clippers decided to #TakeNote and spread five shooters outside the arc and made it rain—just not the type we needed. And just like that, the reigning Defensive Player of the Year was exposed like a Trump charitable foundation.

Quinn Snyder didn’t make the requisite adjustments and stubbornly stuck to his initial strategy just as Trump refused to change his “hoax” narrative in the face of a global pandemic. And both lost resoundingly as a result. The only difference is only one of them is lucid enough to realize it. 

Donovan Mitchell did his part. The budding superstar took the team on his shoulders through several stretches during this series. But in the end, his broad shoulders weren’t enough to carry Utah across the metaphorical plains to proclaim “this is the place” for NBA champions. He needed help. 

And that’s precisely what Jazz brass needs to do in this longer-than-it-should-have-been offseason. Maybe it’s a healthy Mike Conley, who is entering free agency. Maybe it’s signing a critical free agent. Or perhaps both. 

Let’s hope they find the missing ingredient. Spida Mitchell will lose patience with playoff losses quicker than he does a fan base that too often refuses to acknowledge the role race and racism plays in American society. And if you thought the Gordon Hayward exodus was gut-wrenching, let me summon a lyric from Hamilton: Just You Wait. 

Then you’ll really see the Jazz sing the blues.