Sports
How E-40 fuels the Golden State Warriors. And vice versa.
E-40, the Bay Area rap legend, has been a Warriors since birth. To understand what it means to love a dynasty in peril, you need to see the Dubs through the eyes of their No. 1 fan.
AS EARL STEVENS watches the Golden State Warriors play at the Chase Center on Jan. 4, one of his actions stands out during the matchup against the Denver Nuggets: complaining about the referees from his usual courtside seat.
Stevens, or "Uncle Earl" as Warriors guard Gary Payton II calls him, is slightly irritated by the lack of fouls called against Nuggets star Nikola Jokic, who is rubbing elbows, bumping hips, locking arms and butting his shoulder against several Warriors players. "They let that boy do anything against us," Stevens says quietly to everyone and nobody. You rarely see that kind of specious comment from Stevens -- who didn't get to sit courtside at the Chase Center by being overly emotional -- but fandom will turn the coolest heads from calm to agitated.
When he walked into the arena, the loudspeakers were blasting Stevens' "Tell Me When to Go'' and "Front Row 40," tracks that have become psalms for the San Francisco Bay Area. This highlights one of Stevens' greatest charms: Even though his specter hangs all over the Chase Center, he's still a die-hard Warriors fan: someone who can tell you the moment he knew Stephen Curry would become a superstar; someone who maintains close relationships with players but never offers them too much advice; someone who questions whether coach Steve Kerr is deploying minutes to his players adequately.
You know the 56-year-old Earl Stevens as E-40, the legendary rapper from Vallejo, California, who is widely considered the Warriors' No. 1 fan. If the Knicks have Spike Lee and all of his charmingly performative body language, then the Warriors have "40 Water" and his regal stoicism. A big man wearing dark-tinted sunglasses, a blue button-up shirt and milk-white leather pants, 40 walks around Chase Center like an artist who also functions as a bouncer, a celebrity, and more importantly, an inspirational beacon who reminds the team of its roots.
As he strolls carefree and upright -- 40 has impeccable posture -- he emerges from the darkness of the tunnel to reach his courtside seat. 40 doesn't have a worry in the world -- even as the best years of the Warriors dynasty appear to be behind them -- a result of his prolific career and ripe vision. To understand what it means to be a Warriors fan in this most tumultuous of seasons, and what this team means to the Bay Area in the last dying days of the dynasty, you need to see the team through the eyes of its most famous fan. To see 40 is to see a connector; he represents the bridge between the team and the idiosyncratic region that the Warriors play in.
E-40's CAREER IS an exercise in the sincerity of regional rap. As a 30-plus-year veteran in hip-hop, 40 has a career deserving of a "Behind the Music" episode.
His catalog honors an entire region by staying emboldened to its dialect and avoiding the trappings of radio by omitting mainstream production. Few rappers have been able to create a cosmical world through language, and few rappers have been able to capitalize on regional fame the way 40 has. Even if you think the Bay Area rap flow is unreliable and off-kilter, no one can deny the slang that 40 has created: an advanced cosmogenic technique on how to speak San Francisco. Sure, New Yorkers might not consider him a part of the classic rap canon, but the Bay Area knows the canon ceases to exist if it doesn't include the man who created the word "undersmell" (which means "understand"). Or the word "Elroy," which means "police." For 40, those lyrics help undercut some of the unorthodox flows that might fall on the deaf ears of a New Yorker with a Yankees hat on.
His music stands on its own two feet, but albums like 1995's "In a Major Way" feature 2Pac -- who was a personal friend of 40's -- at his most daunting. "Charlie Hustle: The Blueprint of a Millionaire," from 1999, contains first-of-its-kind collaborations with Southern rap stalwarts Cash Money Records' Lil' Wayne and BG, made before region-to-region hookups were chic. In the mid-2000s, his work finally became more celebrated by people outside the Bay Area; 2014's "Choices (Yup)" rings sincerely throughout the Chase Center, too.
As the Warriors became an NBA dynasty -- prompting owner Joe Lacob to brag that his team was "light-years" ahead of most franchises -- 40 solidified himself as a household name. Swap meet soundtracks became Verzus battles, and studio meetups with Gary Payton developed into a friendship with Payton II, the Glove's son. 40 is now the guy whom visiting rappers come to break bread with, but his lyrics still flow like the visual of a working heart monitor, and he's implicitly looped in. His latest album, "Rule of Thumb: Rule 1," features Baton Rouge rapper YoungBoy NeverBrokeAgain and Hot Boys rapper BG -- two men who represent two very different decades in Louisiana hip-hop.
If you've never heard 40, start with "In a Major Way," then work your way through his catalog, and the common tendency of propping up East Coast rap as the beacon for unfiltered creativity fades away; the Bay Area is so unique it deserves its own bracketed genre. "I have always mixed vintage rappers with the new school. No disrespect to the Bay, but not everybody is like me. My style is unorthodox. I play with my words a lot," 40 says.
Most regional rappers become local heroes by default -- an example of how unheralded rap regions stick by their champions like sneakers stick to the floor of a dive bar, but 40 has become something different: the ambassador of the Bay Area. All the Nipsey Hussles, the Young Dolphs -- local heroes who made music for their neighborhoods, then subsequently invested in those neighborhoods -- followed 40's blueprint: They're the Robin Hoods of rap.
"I knew I was going to be somebody. I didn't know I would be someone like this," 40 says.
DOZENS OF FANS INSIDE the Chase Center -- white, Black, Asian, Latino, men, women -- ask 40 for a photo as we walk to the JP Morgan Club, the most elegant space in the arena. He also stops to hug the ushers and security guards he sees along the way. These interactions reveal his folksy charm despite his status as an icon of the region and larger hip-hop culture nationwide. He knows the responsibility he has as a celebrity from the Bay Area.
"If you make yourself present and show people you're successful at the games, people will show love. This is a dynasty, one of the greatest in many years," 40 says. "It all makes sense for me, to put myself in the presence of greatness and be elite."
Around eight years ago, he created another slogan that he seemingly can't wait to talk about. Slogans are 40's primary trick as a rapper; like Jay-Z, he is somehow able to sound like both a gangster and a politician with a sly intelligence when he raps. He speaks poetically, with a Bay Area drawl. This slogan pops when you hear it: There's stages to these wages. This comes from traveling with the team; he has purchased his season tickets since 2014 -- he doesn't get them for free. This has happened through the passion he has for music and his community. He uses the slogan in his song "Lift It," but he coined it before then, reminding himself he could become successful even when others doubted him.
THE DOMINANCE OF THE Golden State Warriors would lead you to believe there are plenty of bandwagon fans who come to the Chase Center, but 40 isn't one of them. Silicon Valley tech bros can attend as many games as they want, but a true Warriors fan sits adjacent to the team's bench. Since birth, 40 has carried the torch for San Francisco teams. The truth is, even before Curry's 3-point shot transformed the game, forcing old heads to mourn the loss of "real basketball," 40 was rocking with Oakland's team. 40 travels when the team is playing away games. When the Warriors played the Cavaliers in the NBA Finals, 40 sat right next to Cleveland brass. When the Warriors win, he's grateful for his floor seats; he's locked in.
The Bay Area - overshadowed by the glitz and self-promotion of Los Angeles -- can be overlooked for its history. Even though Curry will go down as the greatest player in franchise history, the year of Baron Davis -- the stocky king with hops like a trampoline -- dunking over Andrei Kirilenko shouldn't be considered a footnote; it's a memory that created babies and sparked disciples of Bay Area basketball. "I've been a fan since the beginning, you understand me?" 40 explains courtside. "Since Rick Barry!" Seconds later, Curry drills a 3-pointer.
"Does a Curry 3 ever get old?" I ask him.
"It never gets old!" he says.
40's relationship with the players functions similar to a college booster or your proud uncle who shows up to your AAU games every night. Calling them friends isn't completely accurate. They are something like inspirational magnets for one another -- titans in their fields united by their mutual love for the Bay Area and the fans who cheer for them. In the case of Payton II, though, 40 is a close family friend. Payton II's father, Hall of Famer Gary Payton, built a house right next door to 40, his fellow Bay Area native. They became close friends; thus, it was simple for 40 to be involved in the younger Payton's life. Payton would visit 40's studio and listen as he made new music, or they'd play dominoes and let their competitive juices flow.
"Since I can remember, 40 was 'Uncle Earl.' I would go over to his house and hang with his kids Droop-E and Emari," Payton II says over the phone. "I think both 40 and my father, being from the Bay and doing positive things for the city, turned their friendship into a brotherhood. To this day, they think of themselves as brothers."
40 keeps space for the players to do their jobs, but when Klay Thompson was rehabbing a pair of devastating knee injuries, he couldn't help but message him some encouraging words. 40 told him to stay strong and reminded Thompson that he's one of the greatest players of all time. To 40, confidence is everything. He has a peerless intensity and keeps his head upright as he sips his red wine. "That's why Klay concentrates," 40 says. "Confidence is fate. They're cousins!" A laugh roars from his mouth when he says this.
Andre Iguodala, who won four chips with the Warriors, grew up listening to 40's music in Chicago, a region that birthed its own eccentric rappers. When the Warriors played at Oracle, in Iguodala's first season with the Dubs, 40 was an obvious presence at games. It helped Iguodala become acclimated to the culture in the Bay Area. "I always gravitate to people who aren't following the scene, but who are in the scene," Iguodala explains.
"He is a scene. He moves naturally."
The Warriors have always wanted to remain authentic to the Bay Area, and 40 has embodied that authenticity for the players. Oakland's Oracle Arena was everything you would wish for home-court advantage to be: loud, exceptionally so, and full of personality and vigor. It was the place where day one fans came together to cheer the hometown Warriors. With the Chase Center now in San Francisco, in the heart of gentrification, some fans who used to be able to afford Warriors tickets have been priced out. Iguodala, though, says the team still feels the presence of the Bay Area when 40 is around.
40 laments this at times, too. At several points during the game, he claims that the crowd was louder in Oracle Arena and that a lot of fans -- people who would have the energy of a nuclear bomb when they hear his music at Chase Center -- are no longer in the crowd.
"Some of the fans now, can't afford it like they used to," 40 says.
To give 40 his credit: He's still the man who plays dominoes with his friends -- men who look like him and are just like him. He's still married to Tracey, his best friend and wife of 32 years. He's the son of parents who migrated to the Bay Area from the sweltering heat and hardships of Louisiana. A single parent, 40's mother would get in at 10 p.m. on a Friday after washing dishes at the local burger joint, Maggie's Restaurant; these humble beginnings are indelible in 40's mind. Sometimes, he would wash the walls at the naval base that supplied many jobs for Black folks in town. As the oldest child, he often went shopping for his family. Hardships made 40 stronger, a champion of the streets. That's why the city of Vallejo recently named the street he grew up on "E-40 Way" and gave him the key to the city.
"People used to laugh at me," 40 says. "Now I am laughing at these motherf---ers who used to laugh at me. I kept my faith in God and stayed solid."
That authenticity, and appreciation of his come up, are why the game of dominoes is crucial to understanding how folksy 40 is. Iguodala can tell you about the infamous games that 40 and Draymond Green play inside his studio. They get competitive, and as you might expect, Green brings his artistic trash talk to dominoes, a game that is synonymous with Black neighborhoods. When someone says they play dominoes, Green says, you know within seconds if they actually play or not. It's a game for the men who never let their success change their mentality. "We've had a couple of times where he got me, but it is always a pleasure to sit with him and soak up what he has to say," Green tells me in the Warriors locker room.
40 remains tight-lipped about their domino games but says Green has surprisingly defeated him a couple of times. "That man talks all kinds of talk afterwards, too," 40 says.
To Green, being who he is -- the kid from working-class Saginaw, Michigan, who didn't get draft buzz until his senior season at Michigan State -- is imperative. It's almost too easy for him to be himself. Green grew up listening to 40's music. There's a clear connection between the Bay Area and Michigan rap. Green's eyes widen when I bring up hotshot Michigan rapper Veeze in comparison to 40's hieroglyphic raps.
"To meet 40 as a rookie -- he's legendary, my parents would listen to 40 songs, so it meant a lot to me," Green says. "40 always says, 'Michigan and us in the Bay are cousins!'"
THE 2023-24 EDITION OF THE WARRIORS is not the team you remember from the "Splash Brothers" era, or even from two years ago when they beat the Boston Celtics in six games to win the NBA Finals. The Warriors look frustratingly old at times. After a torn Achilles and a torn ACL, Thompson no longer has the feline and lateral quickness that made him a devastating two-way player. His 3-point field goal percentage is no longer otherworldly; at 38.5%, it is just very good, and that is enough slippage in his game for him to now be on the bench in crunch time. As Thompson lamented sitting on the bench toward the end of the Warriors' win against the Brooklyn Nets on Jan. 5, Green was in the locker room rapping "What's Beef?" by The Notorious B.I.G.
"Who the f--- cares? I didn't close Game 5 of the NBA Finals," Green said.
The Warriors are 32-28 and ninth in the Western Conference. They're now perpetually competing for the play-in games, it seems. Deeper than just the record, the players are grumpier than usual; at their best, the Warriors had dynamic personalities and impeccable chemistry. Five fingers made a fist; everyone bought into what their role was, and they seemed unflappable even when they weren't.
This season has been different. Green's issues have been widely discussed to the point of fatigue. You've seen the details; he put Rudy Gobert in a chokehold, he hit Jusuf Nurkic, and the NBA suspended him and required counseling before his return. Green's piping-hot intensity became a subject of noisy debates. Although Green is always at his best when he is physical and intense, some thought he had reached a point of no return. The Warriors have always had haters -- people mad at them for being a winning machine -- but now they have to deal with the possibility that the best years with this team are behind them. This season feels like a "Last Dance" of sorts for Warriors players.
However, 40, who is always optimistic, doesn't believe the end is near. He thinks they have residual goodwill from the championship era. To him, the decline of the Warriors has been discussed forever. "They said that a few years ago and then we won the championship," 40 says. "I was used to more trials and tribulations before then. They're quick to forget. We could rattle off 20 games. We're beating ourselves with certain mistakes. We still got the best player in the world: Stephen Curry."
The Dubs have won 10 out of their past 13, but this Warriors team is merely a shadow of their glory years. The 2021-22 Warriors won the championship despite losing in the play-in game the year prior, but that squad was defined by the rejuvenation of Green and Andrew Wiggins. These days, Wiggins looks lost, like someone has zapped the springy athleticism that once made him a formidable role player. He plays with less spunk; he's timid on the court. But, if there is a guy to be bullish about, it is Jonathan Kuminga. After the Jan. 4 game against the Nuggets, Kuminga reportedly lost faith in Kerr as a coach and as someone who would help him reach his potential. This might be the new normal for the Warriors: The goodwill is fading; the young kids aren't willing to be ceremonious. They want their minutes and they want them now.
As time expires in the Nuggets-Warriors matchup, Jokic nails a half-court buzzer-beater to seal the victory and complete an 18-point comeback. It's the type of shot that 40 got used to seeing his stalwarts make. Though the game is over, 40 is quietly incensed about Kuminga's lack of minutes, muttering to himself about his inconsistent playing time. Kuminga sat the final 18 minutes, even as it was clear the Warriors needed an extra boost. 40, at this moment, isn't a keen hustler but an extremely disappointed viewer.
As he stands up from his seat, he is mostly silent, trying to process a new dynasty -- in Denver -- that could soon take shape. His music no longer blasts through the walls; there is now a burning silence in the whole arena -- so silent that you feel the awkwardness. Despite the clandestine club 40 belongs to, despite the success he has enjoyed with his favorite team, and despite all of his musical prolificacy -- there isn't any difference between him and an ordinary fan.
Stevens, or "Uncle Earl" as Warriors guard Gary Payton II calls him, is slightly irritated by the lack of fouls called against Nuggets star Nikola Jokic, who is rubbing elbows, bumping hips, locking arms and butting his shoulder against several Warriors players. "They let that boy do anything against us," Stevens says quietly to everyone and nobody. You rarely see that kind of specious comment from Stevens -- who didn't get to sit courtside at the Chase Center by being overly emotional -- but fandom will turn the coolest heads from calm to agitated.
When he walked into the arena, the loudspeakers were blasting Stevens' "Tell Me When to Go'' and "Front Row 40," tracks that have become psalms for the San Francisco Bay Area. This highlights one of Stevens' greatest charms: Even though his specter hangs all over the Chase Center, he's still a die-hard Warriors fan: someone who can tell you the moment he knew Stephen Curry would become a superstar; someone who maintains close relationships with players but never offers them too much advice; someone who questions whether coach Steve Kerr is deploying minutes to his players adequately.
You know the 56-year-old Earl Stevens as E-40, the legendary rapper from Vallejo, California, who is widely considered the Warriors' No. 1 fan. If the Knicks have Spike Lee and all of his charmingly performative body language, then the Warriors have "40 Water" and his regal stoicism. A big man wearing dark-tinted sunglasses, a blue button-up shirt and milk-white leather pants, 40 walks around Chase Center like an artist who also functions as a bouncer, a celebrity, and more importantly, an inspirational beacon who reminds the team of its roots.
As he strolls carefree and upright -- 40 has impeccable posture -- he emerges from the darkness of the tunnel to reach his courtside seat. 40 doesn't have a worry in the world -- even as the best years of the Warriors dynasty appear to be behind them -- a result of his prolific career and ripe vision. To understand what it means to be a Warriors fan in this most tumultuous of seasons, and what this team means to the Bay Area in the last dying days of the dynasty, you need to see the team through the eyes of its most famous fan. To see 40 is to see a connector; he represents the bridge between the team and the idiosyncratic region that the Warriors play in.
E-40's CAREER IS an exercise in the sincerity of regional rap. As a 30-plus-year veteran in hip-hop, 40 has a career deserving of a "Behind the Music" episode.
His catalog honors an entire region by staying emboldened to its dialect and avoiding the trappings of radio by omitting mainstream production. Few rappers have been able to create a cosmical world through language, and few rappers have been able to capitalize on regional fame the way 40 has. Even if you think the Bay Area rap flow is unreliable and off-kilter, no one can deny the slang that 40 has created: an advanced cosmogenic technique on how to speak San Francisco. Sure, New Yorkers might not consider him a part of the classic rap canon, but the Bay Area knows the canon ceases to exist if it doesn't include the man who created the word "undersmell" (which means "understand"). Or the word "Elroy," which means "police." For 40, those lyrics help undercut some of the unorthodox flows that might fall on the deaf ears of a New Yorker with a Yankees hat on.
His music stands on its own two feet, but albums like 1995's "In a Major Way" feature 2Pac -- who was a personal friend of 40's -- at his most daunting. "Charlie Hustle: The Blueprint of a Millionaire," from 1999, contains first-of-its-kind collaborations with Southern rap stalwarts Cash Money Records' Lil' Wayne and BG, made before region-to-region hookups were chic. In the mid-2000s, his work finally became more celebrated by people outside the Bay Area; 2014's "Choices (Yup)" rings sincerely throughout the Chase Center, too.
As the Warriors became an NBA dynasty -- prompting owner Joe Lacob to brag that his team was "light-years" ahead of most franchises -- 40 solidified himself as a household name. Swap meet soundtracks became Verzus battles, and studio meetups with Gary Payton developed into a friendship with Payton II, the Glove's son. 40 is now the guy whom visiting rappers come to break bread with, but his lyrics still flow like the visual of a working heart monitor, and he's implicitly looped in. His latest album, "Rule of Thumb: Rule 1," features Baton Rouge rapper YoungBoy NeverBrokeAgain and Hot Boys rapper BG -- two men who represent two very different decades in Louisiana hip-hop.
If you've never heard 40, start with "In a Major Way," then work your way through his catalog, and the common tendency of propping up East Coast rap as the beacon for unfiltered creativity fades away; the Bay Area is so unique it deserves its own bracketed genre. "I have always mixed vintage rappers with the new school. No disrespect to the Bay, but not everybody is like me. My style is unorthodox. I play with my words a lot," 40 says.
Most regional rappers become local heroes by default -- an example of how unheralded rap regions stick by their champions like sneakers stick to the floor of a dive bar, but 40 has become something different: the ambassador of the Bay Area. All the Nipsey Hussles, the Young Dolphs -- local heroes who made music for their neighborhoods, then subsequently invested in those neighborhoods -- followed 40's blueprint: They're the Robin Hoods of rap.
"I knew I was going to be somebody. I didn't know I would be someone like this," 40 says.
DOZENS OF FANS INSIDE the Chase Center -- white, Black, Asian, Latino, men, women -- ask 40 for a photo as we walk to the JP Morgan Club, the most elegant space in the arena. He also stops to hug the ushers and security guards he sees along the way. These interactions reveal his folksy charm despite his status as an icon of the region and larger hip-hop culture nationwide. He knows the responsibility he has as a celebrity from the Bay Area.
"If you make yourself present and show people you're successful at the games, people will show love. This is a dynasty, one of the greatest in many years," 40 says. "It all makes sense for me, to put myself in the presence of greatness and be elite."
Around eight years ago, he created another slogan that he seemingly can't wait to talk about. Slogans are 40's primary trick as a rapper; like Jay-Z, he is somehow able to sound like both a gangster and a politician with a sly intelligence when he raps. He speaks poetically, with a Bay Area drawl. This slogan pops when you hear it: There's stages to these wages. This comes from traveling with the team; he has purchased his season tickets since 2014 -- he doesn't get them for free. This has happened through the passion he has for music and his community. He uses the slogan in his song "Lift It," but he coined it before then, reminding himself he could become successful even when others doubted him.
THE DOMINANCE OF THE Golden State Warriors would lead you to believe there are plenty of bandwagon fans who come to the Chase Center, but 40 isn't one of them. Silicon Valley tech bros can attend as many games as they want, but a true Warriors fan sits adjacent to the team's bench. Since birth, 40 has carried the torch for San Francisco teams. The truth is, even before Curry's 3-point shot transformed the game, forcing old heads to mourn the loss of "real basketball," 40 was rocking with Oakland's team. 40 travels when the team is playing away games. When the Warriors played the Cavaliers in the NBA Finals, 40 sat right next to Cleveland brass. When the Warriors win, he's grateful for his floor seats; he's locked in.
The Bay Area - overshadowed by the glitz and self-promotion of Los Angeles -- can be overlooked for its history. Even though Curry will go down as the greatest player in franchise history, the year of Baron Davis -- the stocky king with hops like a trampoline -- dunking over Andrei Kirilenko shouldn't be considered a footnote; it's a memory that created babies and sparked disciples of Bay Area basketball. "I've been a fan since the beginning, you understand me?" 40 explains courtside. "Since Rick Barry!" Seconds later, Curry drills a 3-pointer.
"Does a Curry 3 ever get old?" I ask him.
"It never gets old!" he says.
40's relationship with the players functions similar to a college booster or your proud uncle who shows up to your AAU games every night. Calling them friends isn't completely accurate. They are something like inspirational magnets for one another -- titans in their fields united by their mutual love for the Bay Area and the fans who cheer for them. In the case of Payton II, though, 40 is a close family friend. Payton II's father, Hall of Famer Gary Payton, built a house right next door to 40, his fellow Bay Area native. They became close friends; thus, it was simple for 40 to be involved in the younger Payton's life. Payton would visit 40's studio and listen as he made new music, or they'd play dominoes and let their competitive juices flow.
"Since I can remember, 40 was 'Uncle Earl.' I would go over to his house and hang with his kids Droop-E and Emari," Payton II says over the phone. "I think both 40 and my father, being from the Bay and doing positive things for the city, turned their friendship into a brotherhood. To this day, they think of themselves as brothers."
40 keeps space for the players to do their jobs, but when Klay Thompson was rehabbing a pair of devastating knee injuries, he couldn't help but message him some encouraging words. 40 told him to stay strong and reminded Thompson that he's one of the greatest players of all time. To 40, confidence is everything. He has a peerless intensity and keeps his head upright as he sips his red wine. "That's why Klay concentrates," 40 says. "Confidence is fate. They're cousins!" A laugh roars from his mouth when he says this.
Andre Iguodala, who won four chips with the Warriors, grew up listening to 40's music in Chicago, a region that birthed its own eccentric rappers. When the Warriors played at Oracle, in Iguodala's first season with the Dubs, 40 was an obvious presence at games. It helped Iguodala become acclimated to the culture in the Bay Area. "I always gravitate to people who aren't following the scene, but who are in the scene," Iguodala explains.
"He is a scene. He moves naturally."
The Warriors have always wanted to remain authentic to the Bay Area, and 40 has embodied that authenticity for the players. Oakland's Oracle Arena was everything you would wish for home-court advantage to be: loud, exceptionally so, and full of personality and vigor. It was the place where day one fans came together to cheer the hometown Warriors. With the Chase Center now in San Francisco, in the heart of gentrification, some fans who used to be able to afford Warriors tickets have been priced out. Iguodala, though, says the team still feels the presence of the Bay Area when 40 is around.
40 laments this at times, too. At several points during the game, he claims that the crowd was louder in Oracle Arena and that a lot of fans -- people who would have the energy of a nuclear bomb when they hear his music at Chase Center -- are no longer in the crowd.
"Some of the fans now, can't afford it like they used to," 40 says.
To give 40 his credit: He's still the man who plays dominoes with his friends -- men who look like him and are just like him. He's still married to Tracey, his best friend and wife of 32 years. He's the son of parents who migrated to the Bay Area from the sweltering heat and hardships of Louisiana. A single parent, 40's mother would get in at 10 p.m. on a Friday after washing dishes at the local burger joint, Maggie's Restaurant; these humble beginnings are indelible in 40's mind. Sometimes, he would wash the walls at the naval base that supplied many jobs for Black folks in town. As the oldest child, he often went shopping for his family. Hardships made 40 stronger, a champion of the streets. That's why the city of Vallejo recently named the street he grew up on "E-40 Way" and gave him the key to the city.
"People used to laugh at me," 40 says. "Now I am laughing at these motherf---ers who used to laugh at me. I kept my faith in God and stayed solid."
That authenticity, and appreciation of his come up, are why the game of dominoes is crucial to understanding how folksy 40 is. Iguodala can tell you about the infamous games that 40 and Draymond Green play inside his studio. They get competitive, and as you might expect, Green brings his artistic trash talk to dominoes, a game that is synonymous with Black neighborhoods. When someone says they play dominoes, Green says, you know within seconds if they actually play or not. It's a game for the men who never let their success change their mentality. "We've had a couple of times where he got me, but it is always a pleasure to sit with him and soak up what he has to say," Green tells me in the Warriors locker room.
40 remains tight-lipped about their domino games but says Green has surprisingly defeated him a couple of times. "That man talks all kinds of talk afterwards, too," 40 says.
To Green, being who he is -- the kid from working-class Saginaw, Michigan, who didn't get draft buzz until his senior season at Michigan State -- is imperative. It's almost too easy for him to be himself. Green grew up listening to 40's music. There's a clear connection between the Bay Area and Michigan rap. Green's eyes widen when I bring up hotshot Michigan rapper Veeze in comparison to 40's hieroglyphic raps.
"To meet 40 as a rookie -- he's legendary, my parents would listen to 40 songs, so it meant a lot to me," Green says. "40 always says, 'Michigan and us in the Bay are cousins!'"
THE 2023-24 EDITION OF THE WARRIORS is not the team you remember from the "Splash Brothers" era, or even from two years ago when they beat the Boston Celtics in six games to win the NBA Finals. The Warriors look frustratingly old at times. After a torn Achilles and a torn ACL, Thompson no longer has the feline and lateral quickness that made him a devastating two-way player. His 3-point field goal percentage is no longer otherworldly; at 38.5%, it is just very good, and that is enough slippage in his game for him to now be on the bench in crunch time. As Thompson lamented sitting on the bench toward the end of the Warriors' win against the Brooklyn Nets on Jan. 5, Green was in the locker room rapping "What's Beef?" by The Notorious B.I.G.
"Who the f--- cares? I didn't close Game 5 of the NBA Finals," Green said.
The Warriors are 32-28 and ninth in the Western Conference. They're now perpetually competing for the play-in games, it seems. Deeper than just the record, the players are grumpier than usual; at their best, the Warriors had dynamic personalities and impeccable chemistry. Five fingers made a fist; everyone bought into what their role was, and they seemed unflappable even when they weren't.
This season has been different. Green's issues have been widely discussed to the point of fatigue. You've seen the details; he put Rudy Gobert in a chokehold, he hit Jusuf Nurkic, and the NBA suspended him and required counseling before his return. Green's piping-hot intensity became a subject of noisy debates. Although Green is always at his best when he is physical and intense, some thought he had reached a point of no return. The Warriors have always had haters -- people mad at them for being a winning machine -- but now they have to deal with the possibility that the best years with this team are behind them. This season feels like a "Last Dance" of sorts for Warriors players.
However, 40, who is always optimistic, doesn't believe the end is near. He thinks they have residual goodwill from the championship era. To him, the decline of the Warriors has been discussed forever. "They said that a few years ago and then we won the championship," 40 says. "I was used to more trials and tribulations before then. They're quick to forget. We could rattle off 20 games. We're beating ourselves with certain mistakes. We still got the best player in the world: Stephen Curry."
The Dubs have won 10 out of their past 13, but this Warriors team is merely a shadow of their glory years. The 2021-22 Warriors won the championship despite losing in the play-in game the year prior, but that squad was defined by the rejuvenation of Green and Andrew Wiggins. These days, Wiggins looks lost, like someone has zapped the springy athleticism that once made him a formidable role player. He plays with less spunk; he's timid on the court. But, if there is a guy to be bullish about, it is Jonathan Kuminga. After the Jan. 4 game against the Nuggets, Kuminga reportedly lost faith in Kerr as a coach and as someone who would help him reach his potential. This might be the new normal for the Warriors: The goodwill is fading; the young kids aren't willing to be ceremonious. They want their minutes and they want them now.
As time expires in the Nuggets-Warriors matchup, Jokic nails a half-court buzzer-beater to seal the victory and complete an 18-point comeback. It's the type of shot that 40 got used to seeing his stalwarts make. Though the game is over, 40 is quietly incensed about Kuminga's lack of minutes, muttering to himself about his inconsistent playing time. Kuminga sat the final 18 minutes, even as it was clear the Warriors needed an extra boost. 40, at this moment, isn't a keen hustler but an extremely disappointed viewer.
As he stands up from his seat, he is mostly silent, trying to process a new dynasty -- in Denver -- that could soon take shape. His music no longer blasts through the walls; there is now a burning silence in the whole arena -- so silent that you feel the awkwardness. Despite the clandestine club 40 belongs to, despite the success he has enjoyed with his favorite team, and despite all of his musical prolificacy -- there isn't any difference between him and an ordinary fan.