Seventyniner
Every game is game 1
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But even the wins feel hollow. It is not contained to this thread anymore.
Nothing will be okay
- Thread starter spurraider21
- Start date
Coyote2!
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Utah beat the Wolves at home last night. Keyonte George with a 40-piece...
George will hang 50 on us tomorrow night and Bailey will have a career night. The Wolves may have shit the bed last night, but what we're about to witness tomorrow night will make their effort look respectable in comparison.
George will hang 50 on us tomorrow night and Bailey will have a career night. The Wolves may have shit the bed last night, but what we're about to witness tomorrow night will make their effort look respectable in comparison.
Dex
I Want To Believe
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Also, pineapples are mean fruits that try to inflict bodily harm to protect their worthless existence.
Spursgenius
Active member
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Fire the token puppet hire
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My bot cracks me the f up man, no lie
We meet the Jazz again, because meaning is never resolved—only revisited.
Utah returns like a recurring thought you hoped you had outgrown. The Spurs are still ahead in the standings, still favored by logic, still armed with all the reasons this should be routine. And yet nothing about Spurs–Jazz is ever routine, because familiarity breeds not comfort, but dread.
The last meeting ended in a Spurs win, 123–110—clean in the box score, uneasy in the body. The second quarter flirted with collapse, just enough to remind Spurs fans that safety is a rumor passed between possessions. Doom didn’t arrive that night, but it took a seat courtside and stayed attentive.
And so we arrive at the rematch, where Will Hardy once again stands across from Gregg Popovich, rehearsing the same existential plea. Hardy coaches as if effort itself might bridge the distance between student and master. Every adjustment is precise. Every challenge earnest. He wants this one not for the standings, not for the rebuild, but for something far less attainable: acknowledgment.
Popovich, of course, will not give it. Approval is not a trophy you earn in January. It is not hidden in a well-executed after-timeout set. It is something you realize you were never owed. Hardy may coach brilliantly tonight. He may even win. And still the silence will remain intact.
The Spurs will try to impose order.
The Jazz will resist out of habit, pride, and unresolved attachment.
And Spurs fans will watch with the weary knowledge that even victory carries a tax.
Can Will Hardy finally earn Pop’s approval?
No.
But he will try anyway—because devotion, like basketball, continues long after its meaning has slipped out the side door.
We meet the Jazz again, because meaning is never resolved—only revisited.
Utah returns like a recurring thought you hoped you had outgrown. The Spurs are still ahead in the standings, still favored by logic, still armed with all the reasons this should be routine. And yet nothing about Spurs–Jazz is ever routine, because familiarity breeds not comfort, but dread.
The last meeting ended in a Spurs win, 123–110—clean in the box score, uneasy in the body. The second quarter flirted with collapse, just enough to remind Spurs fans that safety is a rumor passed between possessions. Doom didn’t arrive that night, but it took a seat courtside and stayed attentive.
And so we arrive at the rematch, where Will Hardy once again stands across from Gregg Popovich, rehearsing the same existential plea. Hardy coaches as if effort itself might bridge the distance between student and master. Every adjustment is precise. Every challenge earnest. He wants this one not for the standings, not for the rebuild, but for something far less attainable: acknowledgment.
Popovich, of course, will not give it. Approval is not a trophy you earn in January. It is not hidden in a well-executed after-timeout set. It is something you realize you were never owed. Hardy may coach brilliantly tonight. He may even win. And still the silence will remain intact.
The Spurs will try to impose order.
The Jazz will resist out of habit, pride, and unresolved attachment.
And Spurs fans will watch with the weary knowledge that even victory carries a tax.
Can Will Hardy finally earn Pop’s approval?
No.
But he will try anyway—because devotion, like basketball, continues long after its meaning has slipped out the side door.
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Sorry I'm behind, but here is Nihilist Bot's recap of last night's win. Throwing some shade at Utah, I see you, Nihilist Bot 
The Spurs won 126–109, which suggests certainty—but certainty was not the experience.
The score insists on comfort. The game did not.
De’Aaron Fox moved with ruthless efficiency, scoring 31 points as if urgency itself had found a body. Wembanyama followed with 26 points, 13 rebounds, and five blocks—an answer to the previous night’s failure, though answers never erase the question that produced them. Keldon Johnson and Stephon Castle filled in the margins, proof that collective effort still matters, even as doubt lingers overhead.
And yet: it was tied at 31.
It was tied at 99.
Each time the Jazz crept close, Spurs fans felt the familiar tightening—the sense that dominance is always temporary, that leads exist only to test your attachment to them. Utah, committed to nothing but persistence, kept returning, kept insisting that collapse was still on the table.
Jusuf Nurkic orchestrated from the high post like a man discovering purpose too late, piling up assists in a statistical rebellion that history will note and promptly forget. The Jazz played hard. They always do. Effort, after all, is cheapest when expectations have already been abandoned.
Then the Spurs ended it—coldly, efficiently, with a 27–10 closing run that felt less like triumph and more like enforcement. Fox’s three made it 109–99, and the illusion was finally withdrawn. The game stopped pretending.
The Spurs shot well. They ran freely. They punished a defense that allows everyone to become themselves.
They won.
But the night still carried that unmistakable aftertaste—the knowledge that even against a depleted Jazz team, even in a double-digit victory, doom remains patient. It doesn’t rush. It waits for a closer opponent, a tighter fourth quarter, a night when the ending isn’t so cooperative.
The Spurs move on.
So does the unease.
The Spurs won 126–109, which suggests certainty—but certainty was not the experience.
The score insists on comfort. The game did not.
De’Aaron Fox moved with ruthless efficiency, scoring 31 points as if urgency itself had found a body. Wembanyama followed with 26 points, 13 rebounds, and five blocks—an answer to the previous night’s failure, though answers never erase the question that produced them. Keldon Johnson and Stephon Castle filled in the margins, proof that collective effort still matters, even as doubt lingers overhead.
And yet: it was tied at 31.
It was tied at 99.
Each time the Jazz crept close, Spurs fans felt the familiar tightening—the sense that dominance is always temporary, that leads exist only to test your attachment to them. Utah, committed to nothing but persistence, kept returning, kept insisting that collapse was still on the table.
Jusuf Nurkic orchestrated from the high post like a man discovering purpose too late, piling up assists in a statistical rebellion that history will note and promptly forget. The Jazz played hard. They always do. Effort, after all, is cheapest when expectations have already been abandoned.
Then the Spurs ended it—coldly, efficiently, with a 27–10 closing run that felt less like triumph and more like enforcement. Fox’s three made it 109–99, and the illusion was finally withdrawn. The game stopped pretending.
The Spurs shot well. They ran freely. They punished a defense that allows everyone to become themselves.
They won.
But the night still carried that unmistakable aftertaste—the knowledge that even against a depleted Jazz team, even in a double-digit victory, doom remains patient. It doesn’t rush. It waits for a closer opponent, a tighter fourth quarter, a night when the ending isn’t so cooperative.
The Spurs move on.
So does the unease.
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The Spurs lost to the worst team in the league, which is to say: the universe remains perfectly calibrated.
San Antonio spent most of the night buried, anonymous, drifting through possessions like a team temporarily forgetting why it exists. Then, as if to maximize psychological damage, they remembered. The comeback arrived. The deficit vanished. A five-point lead appeared—small, fragile, intoxicating.
Hope was introduced.
This was the mistake.
What followed was not chaos. It was structure. A clean, deliberate 17–3 Pelicans run, executed with the calm of inevitability. Missed shots. Soft rotations. A turnover that felt preordained. Each possession a small confirmation that the earlier surge had never been real—only a delay in punishment.
The Pelicans, owners of the league’s worst record, did not suddenly become good. They simply became necessary. Someone must remind the Spurs of what they are when comfort sets in. Someone must puncture narratives. Someone must drag expectations back into the dirt where they belong.
The Spurs did not lose because of one play.
They did not lose because of one player.
They lost because progress is a rumor that collapses under inspection.
A five-point lead dissolved into nothing.
The game ended.
Meaning followed shortly thereafter.
This was not a setback.
This was a clarification.
San Antonio spent most of the night buried, anonymous, drifting through possessions like a team temporarily forgetting why it exists. Then, as if to maximize psychological damage, they remembered. The comeback arrived. The deficit vanished. A five-point lead appeared—small, fragile, intoxicating.
Hope was introduced.
This was the mistake.
What followed was not chaos. It was structure. A clean, deliberate 17–3 Pelicans run, executed with the calm of inevitability. Missed shots. Soft rotations. A turnover that felt preordained. Each possession a small confirmation that the earlier surge had never been real—only a delay in punishment.
The Pelicans, owners of the league’s worst record, did not suddenly become good. They simply became necessary. Someone must remind the Spurs of what they are when comfort sets in. Someone must puncture narratives. Someone must drag expectations back into the dirt where they belong.
The Spurs did not lose because of one play.
They did not lose because of one player.
They lost because progress is a rumor that collapses under inspection.
A five-point lead dissolved into nothing.
The game ended.
Meaning followed shortly thereafter.
This was not a setback.
This was a clarification.
spursistan
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Yeah, no way to sugarcoat it, this is been pretty much a play-in caliber team since Christmas. I think they will get bounced by whoever they meet in the first round.
timtonymanu
We back!!
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I’ve come to accept that a 1st round exit is likely. However I’ll lose my shit if this is the same core next season. We’re already seeing that this core won’t get it done if we want to ring in the future. An example is to upgrade from Barnes to start.
Seventyniner
Every game is game 1
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No need for that bot, just read what most everyone else posts.
spursistan
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Update: continue to be the case until further notice or until they actually drop into the play-in.
NotRobDiaz21
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Poor 3 point shooting, poor 3 point defense, poor coaching. Way too inconsistent, would be a minor miracle if they can make it past the 1st round.
Even worse, we will play the clippers in the 1st round and lose in 5 with Nephew averaging 30 5 and 5
Kick-Stand
baseline bum
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The look on Tony's face when he pulls that bag off AJ's head
