2025-26 San Antonio Spurs
119 · 2026-05-31 · medium
I live on the fourth floor. My balcony overlooks a courtyard with a central Mediterranean-style fountain that used to hold water, or so I'm told. On warm nights, the quadrangle is filled with happy children, and the way to be named King Of The Kidz is to kick a footsoccer ball into the top of the fountain. Across the courtyard from my building is what was once a sports gambling parlor, until the country outlawed those before the pandemic. They simply changed the "Bet" in the name to "Bar" and it's a café now, but they still have more flatscreens than a Buffalo Wild Wings. This past Saturday evening, all the neighborhood kids gathered outside to watch the UEFA Champions League final. Just before 9 p.m., as the epic penalty shootout progressed, they made a joyful noise. They banged empty Fanta bottles together like Thunderstix, took off their shoes and slapped them against the café chairs, lit firecrackers and cherry bombs. Pa-ree! (clap-clap-clap) Par-ee! And then, a minute later, Ar-se-nal! Ar-se-nal! The kids were lost in the spectacle, they didn't care who was winning. What could possibly explain this behavior? Did all their parents bet the over? It turns out that a.) children are herd-mentality imbeciles, and b.) footsoccer makes perfect sense even if you have two brain cells. As I was relaxing on the porch, pleasenjoying a handcrafted cocktail, I pondered and mused. Could basketball, a sophisticated sport for smart adults, ever inspire this kind of blind passion? Then I remembered that where I come from, we leave our goldfish-brained front-running to the press. Perhaps you didn't know this, but America's centrist newspaper of record gooses its numbers by selling all-access expat subscriptions for ten dollars per annum, which is $9.99 more than they're worth. Picture yourself living abroad, with no access to radio or television, only able to follow a seven-game NBA playoff series by way of nytimes dot com slash athletic. You'd probably be hospitalized with a broken neck from all the whiplash. Victor Wembanyama's astounding Game 1 masterpiece just tilted the NBA on its head. Hmmm, okay, tell me more. SGA shook off Game 1 struggles and forged an MVP moment. Looks like the NBA is tilting back? Victor Wembanyama needs to evolve for the Spurs to survive. Can they meet the moment? I don't know, can they?!? Thunder's depth has questions to answer after Game 4. Oh no, will they ever find the answers? Victor Wembanyama looked mortal in Game 5 loss. Don't die, Wemby! Thunder's potential dynasty faces inflection point after Game 6 loss to Spurs. Stop it, nytimes dot com slash athletic, I can't take this anymore! Even NBC is trying to turn Vicyama into Michael Jordan for casual-fan ratings purposes, and good luck with that I suppose, but anybody putting him in the headline of a Game 7 story is doing Julian Champagnie erasure. Dude went undrafted, was on a two-way contract three years ago, and just unleashed a fusilade of threes to win San Antonio the NBA Western Conference title. Is that not an intriguing enough narrative? Hey, don't look at me! All I know is that if I were ever forced into being excited about Paris Saint-Germain – even for just one minute or a single penalty kick – I would take the weapon from out of the gunman's hand, whisper au revoir les enfants, and stick the barrel straight into my mouth.