It felt hard to log back into the Spurs for this one. I was still carrying the weight of that double dip with the Warriors, the kind of sports hangover that lingers longer than it should. Close the blinds. Sip a blue Gatorade. Accept, with a quiet wince, that the words “slight calf injury” are among the worst things you can hear about Victor Wembanyama. Drift back toward the safety of bed. That was the plan.

But the NBA schedule cares not for my metaphysical malaise. The gears of commerce and entertainment must forever grind forward with no concern for pain, joy, fear, or anything remotely human. At best, they offer a temporary distraction from “the horrors,” a passing comfort and nothing more. So, with the reluctant duty of a hamster crawling back onto the wheel, I turned my attention to

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