INGLEWOOD, CA - APRIL 2: Dylan Harper #2 of the San Antonio Spurs dribbles the ball during the game against the LA Clippers on April 2, 2026 at Intuit Dome in Los Angeles, California. NOTE TO USER: User expressly acknowledges and agrees that, by downloading and/or using this Photograph, user i s consenting to the terms and conditions of the Getty Images License Agreement. Mandatory Copyright Notice: Copyright 2026 NBAE (Photo by Juan Ocampo/NBAE via Getty Images) | NBAE via Getty Images I’m fascinated by limitations. I don’t think I’m alone in this, but in my case, the fascination borders on morbidity. Even when the ceiling on something is predictably low, I’m curious as to how precisely low that is. NFTs seemed like such obvious snake oil (especially the whole ‘Bored Ape’ phenomenon), but I couldn’t stop tracking the ascent before the eventual downfall. Most of us knew it was coming, but I just had to know how astronomically overvalued they would become. I had been a bit young to fully appreciate how farcical the value of beanie babies were in the mid-to-late 90s, but I couldn’t miss out on part deux, and I was riveted. There was an almost fatal optimism around it that was spellbinding. It became a sort of litmus test for those you had previously considered reasonable and those who reeked of artifice. Immunity was unpredictable. Not because it exposed the unintelligent, but because it exposed what even the intelligent were not exempt from: the weaponization of hope. I didn’t need the dulcet tones of Morgan Freeman’s voice to remind me that hope was a dangerous thing. I was living that reality as a Spurs fan. Clinging to every peripheral acquisition. Holding my breath if the team strung two or more wins together in a row. Panning my way through game replays and box scores in search of the faintest glimmer. I watched Keldon Johnson pile up rebounds and stumble his way into an unforeseeably hot streak from long distance. I fantasized that he could be a sharpshooting Charles Barkley-lite, never minding that those rebound numbers had been the result of an otherwise lone effort on the boards, or that his shooting form roughly resembled that of a medieval trebuchet. I told myself that Dejounte Murray and DeMar DeRozan’s mid-range games could easily be extended beyond the arc, and that Chip Engelland would work his magic, ignoring that even under his tutelage, Tony Parker had never really managed to become an outside threat. Lord help me, I even let myself think that maybe Luka Samanic was right, and that something dimly resembling Kevin Durant could be looming somewhere off in his future. I grasped at every straw, I crawled down every rabbit hole, I tuned into every fluctuation. And you know what? I was wrong. I was categorically, unquestionably, embarrassingly wrong. But that’s the thing. No one is immune to the necessity of hope in one part of their lives or another. I was experiencing marital troubles. I was strained by a regime change at work. I was diagnosed with a degenerative condition just two weeks before my daughter was born, in the midst of a country-wide lockdown. I needed to believe that something unreasonable was possible, even when the rest of my brain knew better. If there’s one thing you can say for the truly mad, it’s that they’re rarely suffering from a crisis of faith. I find it to be supremely interesting that what the rest of us designate as insanity is often merely a belief in that which the collective agrees is preposterous. It makes me wonder how flimsy that agreement really is. Because, honestly, are there any of us who do not believe in at least one vaguely absurd thing? Sure, there’s a difference between believing that more than half the population has been replaced by lizard beings who have assumed their identities and believing that Lonnie Walker IV could blossom into some variation of Vince Carter if he could just find the right confidence-restoring mantra, but I’m starting to surmise that it’s not as large a gap as one might think. I suspect it (largely) has more to do with how much a belief consumes the rest of your life rather than the belief itself. After all, I have a Jock Landale t-shirt and no one’s come to put me away, yet. The problem is that once you reach a place where you’re capable of recognizing the delusion for what it is, it can make you a little gun-shy regarding anything that threatens to seduce you in a similar fashion. You recognize the sensation, and then connect it to previous hallucinations in relation to the potential of one Malaki Branham, and it kind of takes you out of it to the point of wielding your crosses and your holy water whilst bidding the devil begone. That’s been my prevailing instinct all year. The Spurs are on a double-digit win-streak? Well, let’s not get ahead of ourselves. They keep beating the reigning NBA champions? I mean, it is just the regular season after all. They go undefeated for the month of February? It was only 11 games. They scored 110+ points in every game? Defense in the NBA isn’t what it used to be. Hell, I even went as far as to declare the Spurs just shy of championship caliber two weeks into the very same month. And while the Spurs have certainly evolved into something different in the time that has passed, it’s not hard to see why I felt that way. The inconsistency was prevalent. The youth was without question. But that’s the thing about rationality, it’s not a zero-sum game. Sometimes in our desire to be reasonable, we tilt too far in the wrong direction. We make a deity out of philosophy, and in our desire for the world to be coherent, we place our hope in something equally absurd. According to the myth, the Pythagoreans, cultic in their belief in a rational universe, threw their compatriot Hippasus into the depths of the sea for bringing to light the irrationality of the square root of 2. My takeaway from that story has always been that there’s no definitive mode of thought that can insulate you from the unpredictability of the cosmos. I saw more people attribute the arrival of Victor Wembanyama to fate and/or the power of positive thinking than to mathematical chance. The numbers were just not as optimistic. Sometimes you just have to place your hope in something, even within the framework of other faiths and creeds. Sometimes you just have to believe. The difference is that this team isn’t fool’s gold. I had started thinking that long before they cut down the-nephew-that-must-not-be-name and the hungry Los Angeles Clippers without the aid of their gargantuan leader. 59 wins. The Spurs are going to win 60+ games. They’ve just tallied their 2nd 11 game win streak of the season, and looked supremely unbothered in the process of knocking down a team that’s played them close and hard all season. De’Aaron Fox reminded fans that the jet-boosters attached to his legs are still in their prime, picking his spots with the selectivity and sleight-of-hand of a longtime carnival worker who knows all the tricks of the trade. Stephon Castle continued to make teams pay for sagging off of him at the arc, upping his three-point percentage to 43% over the last 10 games, and navigating crowded space like the Millennium Falcon through an asteroid belt. Luke Kornet did his best Wemby impression in protecting the paint, and Dylan Harper threaded passes with the delicacy of a jeweler crafting a Faberge egg and an audacity that opened up lanes so wide that it almost felt like the Clippers were begging him to start a layup line. Everyone made their contribution. Nobody seemed to break a sweat. They’ve spent most of the season taking every team’s best shot, and in doing so have become a team for whom limitation exists at the boundary of what they can imagine. The Spurs have arrived in a manner that is much more suggestive of the iPhone than a blockchain full of cartoon monkeys. And sure, there are gonna be people who sneer at them and cling to their Blackberry. I have empathy for them, though. They have to hope their teams will remain relevant. That the tide is still high. That they’re not beating on against the current, being borne ceaselessly into the past. I’ve been on the other side of it, and I can’t begrudge them their fantasies. Hope is the garment of every naked emperor, and we all take turns playing at the role. They’re welcome to borrow my Jock Landale t-shirt, though. I hear it’s going up in value. Takeaways: I’ve been pretty vocal about this for most of the season, but if Stephon Castle can keep hitting threes the way he has been, Dylan Harper is the most natural fit for running the point. No player on the roster getting real minutes has been more turnover efficient than Harper, even as his touches increase. He converts passes that would make Manu blush. He finishes inside with an ease that would put rookie Tony Parker to shame. He can hit shots from the outside, and he sticks to guards and wings alike, forming a natural pairing with Castle in the back-court (who is himself capable of thwarting the forwards that Harper cannot handle). It’s really a shame that he’s not going to win ROY, because he definitely would have if he’d swapped draft years with Castle. He’s just that good. Whatever the case, San Antonio’s back-court is set up to be oppressive both now and in the future. I can barely contain myself thinking about what they’ll be capable of next season. I did a bit of a deep dive data-wise yesterday afternoon, and discovered that Devin Vassell and Julian Champagnie have the highest net ratings for low usage players in the league. They are the definition of efficiency on both ends, and they helped keep a healthy Kawhi Leonard in check last night, while adding their usual long-distance contributions. It’s no coincidence that the Spurs have led the league in offensive rating pretty much from the moment they both made their way into the starting lineup together. Wemby might be the engine that runs this train, but they’re the ones diligently throwing coal on the fire, and they’re keeping it hot! Also, boy is this team different when they can lean on Luke Kornet. No offense to Mason Plumlee (who’s been a damn sight better in relief than Bismack Biyombo), but Kornet’s health is paramount to this team making it through the Western gauntlet in the postseason. He’s been a little banged up as of late, so I’d love to see the Spurs rest him a bit before the close of the season. Against most teams, as long as Wemby’s playing, they can get away with playing him less. Admittedly, the Clippers’ front-court squad is far from fearsome, but keeping them from getting any easy points was probably the difference in playing out a very stressful 4th quarter, and walking away with a double-digit margin of victory. He’s been one of the best signings in the NBA this offseason, I’d daresay. Playing You Out – The Theme Song of the Evening: The Logical Song by Supertramp ...read more read less