Seconds after winning the NBA championship, downtown Toronto was surreal. We looked at each other – all of us, a city united by our disbelief. Do we cheer? Scream? High five?
An eerie silence came over the city for just a few seconds.
Is this what winning feels like?
Then suddenly the first honk of a car, the first cheer from a stranger, the first high five from a random Torontonian also wearing a Raptors t-shirt.
And after those few protracted seconds of silence, the quiet erupted into chaos. Beautiful chaos.
I was one of the first people to jump into the mix of elated fans, eager to release our pent-up frustrations into repeated fits of joy. As I entered the subway with my friend Cat Hostick, a small group of Raptors fans half my age (I’m 41) began dancing in an energetic huddle. The relatively quiet subway car gradually began to fill with more and more noise. A cacophony of sports success, and an impromptu jazz session of victory.
A random Raptors fan started sprinting his way down the long & narrow TTC car, both hands extended, giving high fives to anyone who dared to shed his/her Canadian modesty for a few seconds of connection.
Then the party began in earnest.
As Cat and I entered King Street from the St. Andrew subway stop, the streets slowly shifted into the street party that the world has undoubtedly tweeted out ad nauseam. Several different random fireworks displays started popping up everywhere, and our Instagram feeds also became littered with the encapsulation of the implications of our shared We The North status.
As I watched so many younger people vibrating at such a high frequency, I became immediately reminded of the Toronto Blue Jays’ 1992 and 1993 World Series victories. I was starting high school the last time Toronto was the epicentre of the sports universe, and I remember everything in vivid detail. It was clear that a contemporary Raptors fan base comprised of so many younger fans had never experienced this before: This moment was their early 90s Blue Jays story.
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As a youngster, I grew up as somewhat of a paradox: loving sports so passionately, while also being terrible at them. I remember calling myself Roberto Alomar, yet being terrified of fielding ground balls the one unsuccessful year I tried my hand at actually playing the game I read about every morning before breakfast.
I loved baseball, but baseball hated me.
But basketball was the first game I could actually play.
I mean, I had no delusions of playing professionally. But for someone who was habitually chosen last in any athletic competition selection process (“I guess we’ll take Bobby” *sigh*), it was shocking to me when neighbourhood kids would nickname me “Jordan” when I played streetball at the St. Matthews basketball rims. I was certainly no Jordan, but I could play. Not just credibly, but intermittently impressively.
It was my taste of basketball success that was the catalyst for my NBA dreams. Not as a player, but as a fan. My Catholic school education taught me to pray for what we wanted in life. So I prayed for Toronto to have an NBA franchise.
A few short years later, Isiah Thomas became our first famous Raptor. And 24 years ago in Toronto, this beautiful dream began…
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As I saw about 20 young people dancing on top of a bus (one of them was twerking!), I began to see 24 years worth of ghosts in Toronto. Damon Stoudamire dressed up as Mighty Mouse, sitting on somebody’s shoulders to get a better view of the fireworks. Vince Carter and Tracy McGrady arguing over who took the better Instagram selfie. Chris Bosh telling everybody to “be safe” while he wore a crossing guard uniform in the sea of spontaneous ravers. The Junkyard Dog kept hyping everybody up, continually using the phrase “Lit”!!
Everybody showed up in the chaotic midst of rush hour human traffic on Yonge Street near Dundas Square. Chuck Swirsky beaming, Leo Rautins nodding knowingly. “I told you so.” Charles Oakley functioning as a bouncer, AD causing a bit of trouble. Andrea Bargnani even came, but didn’t realize what was happening. “Is this the World Cup?”
Ghost after ghost, memory after memory. 24 years of Toronto Raptor personalities – all contributing in their own ways to a quarter-century silence that transmogrified into a high-pitched squeal of delight…
Hell, my old friend Aubrey even turned into a musician. And we started making short films together so many years ago (true story). Now the ambitious drama kid from Toronto found a way to rip off his muzzle on the international stage. He even gave himself a new name: Drake.
And this was the scene the night the Toronto Raptors finally won the NBA championship, silent no longer, transforming Canada from a polite country of hopefuls into a volcano of passion at the pinnacle of sports success.
And from the top of this basketball mountain, we shouted: vowing never to be silent again…
Bobby Del Rio
