Let’s begin at the end, when things snapped back into place.

148–106.

The largest deficit of the season.

Probably not the lowest point of the season, nor was it the worst loss, but it was certainly the most loss, and that’s something. Something bad.

Or—I mean—was it bad? Are we keeping track of good and bad anymore at this point? Each result, win or loss, is kind of just floating through the directionless void of a nondescript final stretch. Silly. Frivolous. Inscrutable.

This quarter was full of things I like. Tons of Mamu action. He basically closed the game. I watched him raise his arms defiantly against Trayce Jackson-Davis, who was attempting to throw down a dunk. Mamu sent it away and we all rejoiced! Jackson-Davis got the rebound and gently put it back through the hoop to put the Warriors up 124–87.

I vaguely remember, earlier in the game, the camera cutting to Tim Duncan sitting serenely in the crowd. His hair was down. He wore a camo t-shirt. He looked like someone who had just woken from a deep sleep that lasted a decade. I envied him

The last time he played for the Spurs was May 12th, 2016.

Did anything cool happen in the 3rd quarter? The Spurs almost got the lead under 20 a few times. Keldon Johnson hit a nice little transition three. Vassell threw a couple buckets in. Castle hit a three. I don’t know.

Mostly, the third quarter was the point where time started to lose meaning. The numbers on the scoreboard slowed, warped, and began looping back on themselves. Symbols replaced digits. Time was no longer chronological, just ambient. Devin hit a finger roll in the paint right around Strawberry: Mountain Fire Truck. The Tower of the Americas at center court started slowly revolving at some point.

I’m almost positive the Warriors and the Spurs were playing, but the Warriors were wearing black and the Spurs were wearing blue.

No one will believe me, but I’m fairly certain there was a large coyote running around on the sidelines. He had a crazed look on his face and bright green eyes that stared out into space and burned into my soul. He wore a jersey with the number “2!”.

That’s right, even the number 2 seemed to be screaming.

The game already felt lost when the 2nd quarter began.

The Spurs missed their first five field goal attempts of the quarter. Keldon Johnson traveled. Mitch Johnson got a technical foul about it. Steph Curry was on the court but seemed unnecessary, like a fancy dress on a scarecrow. This game was obviously fulfilling some cosmic purpose that didn’t seem germane to the physical entities occupying the space. A talent like Steph Curry belonged somewhere else. Somewhere the stakes felt a little more down to earth.

Begone, Steph Curry! Return to the realm of men! Where this game is going, we don’t need roads.

As the half came to a close, an instrumental version of Jay-Z’s hit 2000 song “Big Pimpin’” blared loudly over the speakers. Blake Wesley hoisted a fadeaway three.

The ball glanced off the side of the backboard.

When Brandin Podziemski hit his first three of the game, I didn’t think much of it. It gave the Warriors an early 5-point lead. Natural. Expected. He set an off-ball screen for Moses Moody at the elbow and then popped out beyond the arc. The ball swung around to him, and the rest of his teammates mobilized, getting into the flow of their offense. Brandin waited half a second. He stared at his defender, Harrison Barnes, and decided he had enough space.

He let it fly. Quickly and decisively. The ball rolled around the rim and dropped in. The sun rose, as it always does. The tides obeyed. The world continued on into infinity. Chris Paul brought the ball back up the court, an impassive look on his face.

I’ll confess right now that I do not know enough about Brandin Podziemski to say whether or not Sunday night was a “career night” or anything like that. What I know is that his first shot was emblematic of the game he was about to have. Easy. Confident. Carefree. He would drive headlong into the lane, his bright pink shoes clashing violently against literally every possible combination of colors on the floor, then put the brakes on and send his defender flying through the air. A silky pivot later, he’s dropping the ball under the reverse side of the rim.

He hit contested shots. He hit open shots. He hit ones where he stood at the three-point line and stared into space for what felt like hours before even considering sending the ball on its way. He was magnificent.

To watch a player like Brandin Podziemski have a night like Brandin Podziemski had, amidst the kind of night this collective Spurs team was having, did not feel natural at all. It felt alien. Otherworldly. A futuristic tongue being spoken amongst a chorus of ancient sounds.

This game wasn’t meant to have things like this. This was a place where basketball would be broken down into its core elements: rubber, wood, flesh, and 100% recycled lightweight polyester. I tuned in expecting to watch this game devolve into shapeless forms banging against a monolith searching for meaning. Instead, I had to watch a 22-year-old boy from Wisconsin play like he invented fire.

I respected it, but I feared it. I didn’t know what to do with what I was seeing. I wanted to hide.

The Spurs walked off their home court last night, shook hands with their opponent, and continued to be exactly who they were at tipoff.

Basketball was played. Of that we can be certain. I spent the evening watching as the ball drifted back and forth across the court, over and over again, fulfilling its purpose.

Imagine existing like that.

Imagine being out there, exactly where you were meant to be from the moment you were brought into the world. A perfectly round sphere. Empty. A potential limited only by the current that carries you along.

The Spurs continue to float like that, at least for now. They swim against the tide, then ease back out with it. They weaken and lose strength as the season goes on, but something deeper must be happening through this process—a metamorphosis we can’t fully see, know, or understand. A shape forming toward some greater design.

For now, we can only exist and flow alongside, content in knowing that our journey continues apace.

We don’t know where we’re going—only that we’re headed there.