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OAKLAND — This is the look of losing.

It is time running out and the score 93-89 against you. It is the Cavaliers rushing at each other and hugging each other on your floor in your house, and you standing there, mere spectators with that sick feeling in your gut, knowing you could have won two championships in a row. But you didn’t.

It is Luke Walton staring at the joyous chaos over there — on the other side — Walton with his hands on his hips, disbelief on his face. It is Steve Kerr, the most optimistic coach, standing at the scorer’s table doing nothing. Just nothing. He is in a state of waiting, as if he expects another quarter, expects the season to continue. Because it always continues and the Warriors always win.

It is assistant coach Ron Adams leaving the floor and walking sadly to the locker room. It is Walton following him. It is the knowledge the Warriors were up on the Cavs 3-1 and blew it. Evaluate that statement any way you want.

The Warriors had an all-time great regular season. You know that. They did not have an all-time great overall season, if winning the championship defines this kind of greatness. And it does. The Warriors did not have a great Game 7, the game they counted on. They did not score in the final 4½ minutes.

This is the look of losing.

It is Stephen Curry, who took bad shots, who turned over the ball, staring at the Cavs’ celebration. Staring at LeBron James, who has taken over the Warriors’ house. Curry standing next to Andre Iguodala, their shoulders slumped. The two of them just staring. They are the excluded.

It is the rim around both backboards still red from time running out, the red rim indicating the Warriors ran out of time. A red reminder. Danger. It is the Warriors, a phenomenal home team, knowing they lost their final two home games.

It is the Warriors’ locker room almost empty of media. The media being with the winners in the Cavs locker room, so noisy and full of champagne and happiness. The Warriors not where the story is. The Warriors an afterthought.

It is Curry now in the locker room with his back to the silent scene. Curry looking at the screen of his phone. What do players look for at a moment like that? What did losers do before cell phones?

It is Curry sitting down in his chair and putting his head in his hands. Looking so young and sad. Head in hands a long time. It is Curry finally standing up and walking through the few media people over to Draymond Green, staring at his own phone.

It is Green seeing Curry. It is Green standing up. The two hug. It is Curry and Green talking softly and shaking their heads, and then Curry walking to the shower to be alone. And staying in there a long time not taking a shower. And walking out again and hitting the tile wall in rage. Or is it resignation?

This is the look of losing.

It is Harrison Barnes — bad game, bad series — sitting in his chair staring into his locker, staring at a mini-cooler filled with Red Bull like someone looking for the truth or a happy ending. After a long time, he puts a towel around his waist and walks quietly to the shower.

Curry is back at his locker. No one approaches him. Everyone observes a certain decorum. Observes something like a rite of losing. The room is as quiet as a library. Or a wake.

Now, Klay Thompson sits at his locker. His face blank. He does not look at Curry. He does not talk to Curry. He talks to no one. No one talks to anyone. There is nothing to say.

Thompson drapes a black towel over his head and stares into his cubicle. The black towel looks like a shroud. Thompson blocks out reality — the reality of the room, the reality of reality.

The media whispers. Whispers define the occasion. Festus Ezeli, who started the game and scored no points and played badly, is dressing on the other side of the room. No one approaches him. Not players. Not media. Everything about him says, “Leave me alone.” He is grieving like there’s been a death in the family.

Curry goes to the interview room. It is what a gentleman does, especially in defeat. Three players remain in the joyless room — Barnes, Ezeli, Anderson Varejao. Andrew Bogut’s jersey, No. 12, lies neatly on his empty chair. He is not around. He is hurt and didn’t play and might have helped. Who knows?

Varejao starts to leave the room. He chucks Barnes on the shoulder but Barnes doesn’t turn around. At 8:30 no players remain. The room contains no presence. It is pure absence. A public-relations man tells the media stragglers it’s time to clear out. What’s the point of staying?

In the hallway, Warriors owner Joe Lacob lingers. It is late but he’s still there. Like a man with nowhere to go. He is talking to a security guard, someone in a uniform who makes sure everyone in that area has a credential. Lacob is talking rapidly to the security guard. He needs to talk to the security guard.

“One minute away from back to back,” Lacob tells the guard, who vigorously shakes his head in agreement.

It is a very long minute that never will return. Lacob is mourning the loss of the minute and the game and the championship and the greatest NBA season ever, now not the greatest NBA season ever, and two championships in a row. Lacob is standing with the security guard in the deserted hallway feeling like hell.

This is the look of losing.

For more on the world of sports in general and the Bay Area in particular, go to the Cohn Zohn at cohn.blogs.pressdemocrat.com. You can reach Staff Columnist Lowell Cohn at lowell.cohn@pressdemocrat.com.

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