One night, in the early 1980s, as he had done many times before, my father climbed out of his window and into the evening air. Pedaling quietly through a landscape of asphalt and the warm sodium yellow of streetlamps, his bicycle carved its way past the darkened silhouettes of neighborhood domesticity until he’d arrived at the rendezvous spot where his friends waited for him. The hum of downhill coasting accompanied them, each bike an instrument in a ghostly orchestra as they worked their way out of their sleepy communities and into the streets of central Austin. Gradually, the clicking was joined by the sound of laughter, growing louder as the distance from home increased; snippets of conversation lost in the call-and-response of joke and laughter, quip and retort, youthful thrust and parry — young men measuring themselves in ways as old and time-honored as tradition itself. For most of the night, they hooted and hollered through the streets of a sleepier, laid-back memory of the city it became, taking on whatever aimless entertainment the evening offered up, avoiding the thought of their uphill trek home, latchkey children in a latchkey world. But eventually, they turned their handlebars northward, saying their goodbyes at each of the relevant avenues until the muted chorus of rubber on blacktop was whittled down to a single voice. Exhausted, my father returned his ten-speed to the garage and climbed back through the window. He was halfway undressed in the darkness of the room before he caught the uneven hum of another low sound emanating from his corner of the room. Approaching the sound with caution, his eyes began to adjust to the blackness, and a form began to take shape: his father, dead asleep, in the middle of his bed. Why this particular family story came to the forefront of my mind during last night’s game, I cannot say for sure. Something about the contest felt youthful and reckless in a way that draws forth both consternation and affection. Stephon Castle played suffocating defense, per usual, but offensively operated with a self-assurance beyond both experience and current skill level, heaving shots so early in the clock that you could almost hear Gregg Popovich growling from the confines of a comfortable chair — could almost see the replays of him laying into a teenage Tony Parker on the sideline. Dylan Harper charged relentlessly, as if convinced that youthful athleticism could thwart the defensive adjustments that teams have begun to make in reaction to budding interior drivers with otherwise shaky shot profiles. Even Victor Wembanyma joined in, calling for the ball in sub-optimal positions, forcing shots where passes would have been the better option, certain that physical freakishness and heroic confidence would suffice.    The results were about as uneven as you’d expect. Mitch Johnson benched Castle in favor of other lineups for a while. Harper tallied just one assist in addition to taking only seven shots, due to the swarming of a Celtic defense replete with guards capable of denying him entry. And Wemby? Well, he ended up being right, as he sometimes is, with a game-winning mid-range pull-up that all but wiped away the memory of any ugliness. The thing is, sometimes youth is right in a way that only youth can be. The recklessness can go either way, and while experience is best suited to guide it, it can’t always predict the reward for risks that only youth will take. Nor does it necessarily understand consequence to the fullest extent of experience. The Spurs have spent the last several weeks riding that line with the kinds of results you’d expect from a team that’s figured out that they’re further along than they thought they were, but still fall short of a fuller maturity. The Oklahoma City victories announced them as an ascending power with the force of growth spurts and climbing testosterone levels. Now they have to reckon with the blemished skin and the body odor. Defeating the best team in the league convinced them that they were in a place where they could simply flip the switch at will. Consequently, effort and focus have sometimes fluctuated, and games have been much closer than they should. Combined with an abysmal shooting drought (the Spurs are 26th in True Shooting Percentage, 28th in Effective Field Goal Percentage, and 24th in Field Goal Percentage over the last 10 games), I felt certain they’d fall flat against a regimented Celtics team. Youth has proven me wrong yet again, and it’s hard to be mad about it. My father snuck out of his childhood home more times than he can count. His parents raised five high-spirited young men in the 70s and 80s, and they had their hands full. It’s hard to keep track of that many children in the best of circumstances, and as a result, he frequently got away with it. Every now and then, though, he came home to find someone sleeping in his bed. Thirty years later, he had the poetic pleasure of doing the same to one of his sons. The cycle never ends. Some things never change. The piper will be paid. Just not last night, thank goodness. Takeaways It’s nothing short of a miracle that the Spurs have been winning games with such abysmal shooting. Whether it’s bad luck, regression to the mean, or something weirder, the Spurs are dead last in 3-point percentage at 29% over the last 10 games, and 26% over the last five. How can they possibly win games like that? Well, it certainly helps to be 2nd in defensive rating over those 10 games, and 1st in the NBA over those five. What’s even crazier is that the defense still has room to improve, with so many young players soaking up playing time, important absences, and chemistry still building. The offense still has a ways to go, but the Spurs are a top defense *now*, and that bodes well for any postseason aspirations. Speaking of absences, boy, is Devin Vassell’s noticeable right now. Without him, it seems like Champagnie, Barnes, Fox, and Wemby have all taken turns having hot nights in isolation, with no one else sharing in their good fortune. While the defense has held up surprisingly well without Devin (who’s having an outstanding year on the end), the offense just doesn’t have enough shooters to compensate and make up for the spacing issues. While the Spurs are deep, the lack of shooting depth specifically will have to be addressed in the off-season or at the deadline. Can we talk about what mind-bending freak Wemby is? It just doesn’t matter how teams scheme him, or what part of the lineup he’s in, he’s going to affect the game in a major way, no matter the minutes. Over the last 10 games, he’s averaging 23/9 in just 25 minutes, while adding 2.5 stocks (combined steals and blocks) and shooting just shy of 52% from the field. He’s not the only reason the Spurs are still winning games in the midst of this slump, but he’s not far from it. Playing You Out – The Theme Song of the Evening: Learning To Fly by Tom Petty ...read more read less