There's a post making the rounds from a lifelong Warriors fan — born and raised in the Bay, loyal since the "We Believe" run at Oracle — who's selling his four United Club seats for the final home stretch because a family emergency is pulling him out of town. It's a genuinely heartfelt offer, and we hope he and his family are doing okay.

But buried in the replies is the real story. As one local put it: "What's the face value on the tix? I've gotten discouraged because you almost never get that if you aren't a season ticket holder."

That's the quiet truth about Chase Center that nobody in the Warriors' front office wants to talk about. The gleaming $1.4 billion arena in Mission Bay was supposed to be a crown jewel for the franchise and the city. And architecturally? Sure. But for regular fans — the ones who packed Oracle Arena when the team was winning 26 games a season — Chase has become a velvet rope.

United Club seats with all-inclusive food and drinks in Section 103 aren't for the average San Franciscan scraping by in a city where median rent is hovering around $3,500. The secondary ticket market is brutal, and the pricing structure at Chase is designed to cater to the tech-money crowd and corporate hospitality buyers, not the die-hard from Daly City who painted his face blue and gold before it was fashionable.

This isn't unique to the Warriors, of course. It's the economics of modern professional sports. But it hits different in a city that prides itself on community and inclusivity while simultaneously pricing out the very people who built that community.

The play-in race is tight. The Lakers game is always electric. Chase Center should be rocking. But when the loudest fans can't afford to get through the door, and the people who can are checking their phones through the third quarter, you have to ask: who exactly is this arena for?

The Warriors moved from Oakland to San Francisco chasing revenue. Mission accomplished. But somewhere between Oracle and Chase, they left a whole lot of real ones behind.