Let me tell you about the night I realized why basketball teams become more than just organizations - they become part of who we are. I was watching this incredible PBA game between underdogs and favorites, and it struck me how much these teams represent different aspects of our own struggles and triumphs. The way fans cheered for their squads reminded me of that international match where Thailand was supposedly the clear-cut favorite to beat tournament newcomer Cambodia, yet Cambodia managed to beat Vietnam and push the Philippines to five sets. That's the beautiful unpredictability of sports - the paper favorites don't always win, and sometimes the newcomers surprise everyone.
My own journey with basketball teams started when I was twelve, watching my first NBA game with my father. He was a Boston Celtics fan since the Larry Bird era, and I naturally gravitated toward the purple and gold of the Los Angeles Lakers. This created this fun family rivalry that lasted decades. I remember arguing with my dad about Kobe versus Pierce, about Magic versus Bird, even though I never saw those legends play in their prime. What fascinated me wasn't just the game itself, but how these teams became markers in my life - I can tell you exactly where I was during the 2010 Finals, who I watched the 2020 bubble games with, and which heartbreaking losses made me want to throw my remote at the television.
When people ask me "What is your favorite basketball team in PBA/NBA and why it matters to you," I always pause because the answer has evolved over twenty-three years of fandom. Initially, it was about the colors, the cool logos, the spectacular dunks. Then it became about understanding systems and strategies - why Phil Jackson's triangle offense worked so beautifully, how the Spurs maintained excellence for two decades, what made the Warriors' small-ball lineups revolutionary. Now, it's about something deeper - the connection to community, the shared experience with strangers in bars or living rooms, the way these teams become part of your identity. I've probably watched over 1,200 Lakers games in my lifetime, attended 47 live games despite living halfway across the world, and spent what my wife calls "an irresponsible amount" on merchandise.
The business side of basketball fandom intrigues me too. The Lakers franchise is valued at approximately $5.9 billion according to recent estimates, making them the second most valuable NBA team behind the Warriors. But those numbers don't capture why they matter to people like me. When the Lakers struggled through those rebuilding years from 2013 to 2016, winning only 27, 21, 17, and 35 games respectively, I learned more about loyalty than during the championship seasons. There's something about sticking with a team through terrible seasons that makes the eventual triumphs sweeter. I've noticed this pattern in other leagues too - that underdog spirit we saw when Cambodia, despite being newcomers, pushed established teams to their limits.
What makes basketball fandom particularly special is how it connects across cultures and borders. I've been to games in Manila where the energy was so electric you'd think it was Game 7 of the Finals, and I've watched PBA games where the passion rivaled anything I've seen in the NBA. There's this universal language of basketball that transcends where you're from or what language you speak. The game becomes this shared experience where for those forty-eight minutes, nothing else matters except what's happening on that court. I've made friends with complete strangers at games simply because we were wearing the same team's jersey - there's an instant bond there that's hard to explain to non-sports fans.
My perspective on fandom shifted dramatically during the pandemic. Watching games in empty arenas made me realize how much the collective experience matters. The virtual watch parties, the group chats blowing up after big plays, the shared misery of losses - these became our new normal. It reminded me that while we cheer for laundry (as Jerry Seinfeld famously joked about sports fandom), we're really cheering for connection, for shared narratives, for being part of something larger than ourselves. That tournament newcomer Cambodia beating favorites? That's why we watch - for those moments when expectations get turned upside down and new heroes emerge.
The older I get, the more I appreciate how basketball has woven itself into the fabric of my life. My daughter's first word was "ball," I proposed to my wife during a Lakers game commercial break (she said yes, thankfully), and some of my most cherished friendships were forged over debates about basketball strategies. These teams become markers in our personal timelines - I remember where I was during specific games the way people remember where they were during historical events. The Lakers' 2020 championship during the bubble felt particularly meaningful not just because they won, but because it provided this beautiful distraction during a difficult time for everyone.
At its core, choosing a favorite team and sticking with them through thick and thin teaches you about commitment, about riding out the tough times and truly appreciating the good ones. It's about finding your tribe - whether that's the millions of Lakers fans worldwide or the dedicated followers of a PBA team that might not have the same global reach but means everything to their community. That connection, that sense of belonging to something bigger than yourself - that's why your favorite team matters. It's not really about the wins and losses in the end, though those certainly help - it's about the stories, the memories, and the people you share them with. And sometimes, it's about watching the clear favorites get challenged by newcomers who play with heart, reminding us why we fell in love with the game in the first place.
