The NBA is annoying right now. The Spurs are my perfect, beautiful angels who can absolutely do no wrong and I love them deeply and irrationally, but the NBA as a whole? Annoying. The league. The season. The vibes. It’s hard to get excited for these games right now. I feel unenthused. Unaffected. Uninspired. I’m trying to feel something, you know? It turns out that watching Victor Wembanyama stomp around on Jaxson Hayes’s sandcastle didn’t exactly do the trick.
I realize the Spurs are not blameless in the grand phenomenon of Load Management and DNP Old. If anything, they wrote the playbook for it. Tim Duncan and co.’s minutes quietly shrinking. That Miami game. The fine. Look, Pop wasn’t apologizing for it then, and most of us weren’t either. It felt rebellious. It felt punk rock. It felt smart.
And maybe it still was. At least, maybe that version of it was. Maybe I’m just a hypocrite! Fine. But whatever the league has turned into now is leaving me cold. The strategy around when and how teams are sitting people, the current iteration of the Spurs included, no longer feels like a cheeky shenanigan. It feels corporate and methodical. It’s like spending my entire day trapped in an Excel doc, only to come home and discover that my cool, fun hobby has also been corrupted by the unholy spreadsheet.
I don’t know what the fix is. I’m not even talking about tanking. The Spurs’ hands are just as unclean on that front, so it’s probably more polite to stay on the sidelines for that particular conversation. All I’m asking for is that these games matter. Just a little. I want them to have some stakes. I want it to feel important every time we line our guys up against theirs. I want it to hurt to miss a game. I want this stuff to mean something!
Because the scary little secret lurking under the surface, the one no one is really allowed to say out loud, is that it doesn’t. None of it does. The games. The league. Everything. The Thunder won the title last year? Doesn’t matter. The Spurs have won five banners? Doesn’t matter. In a real world sense, this is all pointless. It’s a game, and a silly one at that! One that’s been inflated into a giant industrial complex designed to separate us from our money as efficiently as possible and keep us coming back.
The players keep me coming back. Their stories. Their lives. Their games. I want to watch them grow and excel and do things that make me sit back in awe of what the human body is capable of.
The fans keep me coming back. The community. The family. I want to be part of something bigger than myself. I want to feel alive when the crowd erupts after a big play. I want to hug strangers because they’re wearing the same colors as me. I want to feel joy and pain in equal measure with the people around me. I want to beam with pride every time I see San Antonio represented on the world stage.
It _only_ matters because we care about it. Because _we_ ascribe meaning to it. We have to figure out how to hold on to that. To blow on whatever embers of passion are still glowing in there, because the slog the regular season keeps turning into is going to extinguish it for good if we’re not careful.
* Ok. It was pretty cool to watch Victor for a bit there. It wasn’t a fair fight and it definitely had that tang of watching a 14-year-old dunk on an 8-foot rim. Like, yes, buddy. We see you. Maybe set your sights a little higher. But you can only play the opponent in front of you, and Victor absolutely did that. Seventeen in four minutes. Thirty-seven at halftime. Forty in twenty-six minutes. If you’re going to participate in a scrimmage disguised as a nationally televised game, at least make it art. Congrats to him on that.
* The Spurs are getting a touch better at not turning these schedule wins into full-blown emotional stress tests designed to shave years off my life. There was a time (recently!) when “undermanned opponent on the second night of a back-to-back” meant we’d flirt with disaster for three quarters before escaping with a six-point win and mild cardiac damage. This one was different. It wasn’t perfect. It wasn’t transcendent. But it was competent. Mature. A touch better. Just a touch!
* I would prefer, specifically, if none of our players ever got hurt. Ever. I recognize that this is not how sports works, but you miss 100 percent of the shots you don’t take, yeah? Steph, we simply must protect our pelvises. I love the reckless abandon. I love the full-court sprint into a chase-down block attempt when the game is already in hand. I love it! But also, please. The Pelvi. We need them intact. Protect the pelvi.
* This was rude:
_\- Speaking of things mattering, you excited for the All-Star game?_
\- I should revoke your press pass for a question like that.
_\- You’d infringe on my freedom of speech for asking a simple question?_
\- Brother, I’d fight you in the street for asking me to care about the All-Star game.
See More:
* [Spurs Analysis](/spurs-analysis)
* [What we learned](/what-we-learned)