The Origin Story

On repressing trauma, and a love of the Utah Jazz.

“….why the Jazz?”

Often the first question that gets asked upon discovery that I, a late-3os Macedonian-Australian heavily-tattooed social worker, love a small-market NBA team. One quick glance at my ink-covered arms answer the “could she be Mormon?” question. “There’s gotta be a reason”. Well, yes there is, and the answer is not as simple as “Stockton and Malone”.

Sportsball

Aside from playing netball as a kid, I’d never had much of an interest in sports. Growing up in Sydney, there was an assumption that you would naturally follow in the fandom of your parents’ chosen sport and team. For my family, Macedonian immigrants, this meant 3 am wake-ups to watch the (soccer) World Cup on SBS, or enduring hours of grand slams to see Monica Seles and Goran Ivanisevic hopefully dominate, bringing glory to (former) Yugoslavia. As I grew older, I become more interested and involved in the creative arts, especially music. Initiation into the “serious classical musician” fold would require choosing your allegiance - the arts or sport, as though being interested in any athletic feat was below the required grace and sophistication of reciting Mozart concertos. I had made my choice - to be an insufferable wanker - and nothing would change that.

The connection and comradery I felt as a youth musician, however, would dissipate once it became my study and eventually my chosen career. And while I left that fold, I continued to remain separate from any sporting scenes.

….but what is there to do in Utah?

When I first moved to Salt Lake City in 2009, my knowledge of American sports was concentrated to “Superbowl ads”. I had attempted years earlier to watch a Gridiron exhibition game in Sydney but became frustrated at the ad breaks every 90 seconds. I’d seen billboards along the I-15 about the Utah Jazz, and thought I’d give it a go. And while I found the spectacle of the game, arena and half-time show enjoyable, I hadn’t given it much more thought - it was merely another thing to check off on my USA bucket list, watching a major league sports game in-person (The Jazz are still the only major team in Utah) (Edit - thank you not-cricketer Steve Smith for reminding me that Real Salt Lake, MLS team, exist).

Moving back in 2015, my life circumstances were completely different. I was older, but absolutely not wiser, and had moved not long after experiencing devastating loss. The time between loss and move was short so in my body’s wisdom, the trauma compressed so tightly into a little space in my brain as I didn’t have the capacity to address it, let alone process it. This was the beginning of my years of disconnection.

Connection

I have never been overly patriotic, or proud to be Australian. Modern Australia’s foundation (and continuation) of colonialism and ongoing oppression of First Nations people does not create a feeling of pride. First-hand experience of xenophobic attitudes further exacerbated the chasm I felt between myself (a wog), and those around me (not wogs). So, you can imagine my confusion when I began feeling a longing for certain “Australianisms” that I had wanted to distance myself from.

From being understood when I asked to get something out of the boot of the car, to being referred to as a “cunt” in endearment, I missed Australia. Whether it was missing that specific cultural norm or it being symbolic of “home”, I found myself drawn to any way I could be connected to it. I would listen to The Smith Street Band, Violent Soho, Courtney Barnett and The Waifs on repeat. I’d watch Jim Jeffries shows and stand-up. I then discovered that there were not one, but two Aussies on the Utah Jazz - Dante Exum, and Joe Ingles.

Joe’s on-and-off court banter could best be described as him being “cheeky fucker”. His unashamed bogan dad qualities felt like a part of home, and I wanted to keep connected with it. I began to go to Jazz games to cheer Joe and Dante on, and quickly found myself getting more consumed by the game itself. In awe of the athleticism of the players, I started to learn the rules and mechanisms, bit by bit. I’d find myself feeling the anticipation, excitement and eventual elation or despair depending on game outcome. And I wasn’t alone in these waves of emotion - there was a whole arena of other people I shared this with. Thousands of people who fully invested themselves in this moment and movement - and loved and appreciated Joe, the Australian, for who he is.

The underdog

But once I started getting invested in the team and players, relative tragedy struck - Gordon Hayward had done a shifty, and went over to the Celtics. Announced via a letter in the Player’s Tribune, his departure during free agency left fans (and the state) in disbelief. What went from a potential playoff contending team with an All-Star player, turned into “….maybe we can try for a lottery pick?”. New PG Ricky Rubio had not immediately impressed Jazz fans, and then Rodney Hood was sidelined indefinitely with an injury. Along with the rest of the state, I felt deflated. And it seems the players could feel this sentiment, with Rudy Gobert tweeting what would eventually become the statement of the season:

Rookie Donovan Mitchell had stepped into the starting lineup to replace Hood, and partner with Rubio. The 13th draft pick for 2017, Mitchell would become our catalyst for hope as the underdog on-court. Off the court, the bond between the players was palpable - you could not help but become invested in the success of this team as the most endearing, engaging brotherhood. Social media added a whole new element to fan and team engagement, with the heart beaming every time Joe would shit talk a team mate on twitter. And Rudy was correct - we were fine. We’d defied the odds, and made it to playoffs, facing the Oklahoma City Thunder in the first round.

Hope

That 17/18 season, I attended every single playoffs game at Vivint Arena. The atmosphere at each one was electric, like nothing I had ever experienced before. I’d made posters directed at antagonising Joe, and shared in laughs and tears with everyone around me. Nobody had expected the Jazz to beat OKC in that series - the team with a Rookie as SG was expected to be swept by the experienced prowess of Russell Westbrook and Paul George. But as the ever-affable Rubio pointed out at a press conference, he expected the team to make it through - “because we have heart”.

That heart was left on the court, each and every single night - from Donovan dominating in shooting, to Joe irritating PG so much that he was heard to say “Fuck off, Joe”. And it wasn’t only the hopes and emotions of the team, but also every single fan in the arena, and streaming. Every lead change, every foul call, I felt in my bones. In game 6 of the series, the anticipation turned to an uneasy sense of hope, anxiety and heart palpitations. The sense within the arena was resoundingly “can we actually pull this off?” - all felt among a sea of neon yellow shirts, provided by the team. And when the game end buzzer went off, everyone - I mean everyone - jumped out of their seats in sheer elation.

That night, I felt more connected to my new (temporary) home than I ever had, or ever would. I’d found somewhere I could invest my energy, emotion and free time. A community around a team that would remain the perpetual underdog but one that always, at its core, has heart.

I am back in Australia these days, and the team has evolved into a few different iterations since that playoffs series. But I remain connected through streaming games, Jazz twitter, and a group chat for Australian fans of the Utah Jazz (there are DOZENS of us!! DOZENS!! Well, not quite). Through the Jazz, I have found a community, a family. Despite significant changes including team ownership, the values of the team which drew all of me in have remained. And I still get heart palpitations at buzzer beaters.

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