Every now and then, you see something that’s just hard to put into words.
A specifically timed (and context-dependent) moment of humor. An unusual sequence of events. A coincidence bordering on a glitch in the Matrix. And one of the first things you do is look around and see if anyone else is around to share in the moment. And yet, somehow, that is almost never the case.
It’s as if the moment was plucked from the immensity of the cosmos and placed there just for you, and you alone.
Depending on the
event, it can be the sort of thing that makes you question your sanity and your senses. You’re not even sure that you should share the story because it’s so outlandish.
That’s not what last night was.
When I was in my early 20’s, I helped run a print and copy shop in New Braunfels.
In contrast to the otherwise humble appearance of the shop, it did quite a lot of business (from both corporate and individual sources), and this led to a steady stream of customers entering and exiting the building.
The printing industry has a way of attracting a wide breadth of eccentricity. Just about everyone has ideas, but only those most certain of their vision pursue having that vision printed out.
I will, for instance, never forget the lady who wanted know if we could print on oversized tortillas for a retirement party (and brought them with her). Or the gentleman who regularly paid a pretty penny for mounted full-scale blueprints of his favorite science-fiction star-ships. Or the one and only time I received a request for a combined quinceañera+baby shower invitation. Oh, the stories I could tell.
The point being that any given day one might encounter an architect with unusual CAD drawings that required multiple blueprints to be taped together, or an artist upset at how the color printer can’t perfectly replicate the vivid shades of their artwork off of the glass, or the recently bereaved wife of a Lombardi-era Green Bay Packer needing assistance duplicating treasured keepsakes.
Or, an extremely suave gentleman, with two ladies in tow, dressed head-to-toe in a robin’s-egg blue colored suit, topped off with a cane and matching short-brimmed fedora.
I can recall with ease a great number of oddities and peculiarities from my time in the printing industry, but anomalies and foibles are the expected within that arena, rather than the exception. For every eccentricity I can recall, there are dozens more that have faded from memory.
But I will, never, ever forget the first time I encountered The Copy Pimp.
In all fairness to the gentleman in question, I never did get confirmation of what his occupation actually was. But each Tuesday, without fail, about an hour before closing, he would enter the shop in the company of those two ladies, bring me a new (and somewhat chaotic looking) flyer, and inquire as to which copier would be best suited to reproduce them.
I would then set up any needed manual adjustments on the copier of his choice, and produce a test print for his review. He would then thank me, in a tone as smooth and rich as molasses, and sit down in a chair at the nearby customer kiosk, to supervise the ladies who would then take over the copying.
Sometimes he would come lean against the counter, and ask me about pricing, and the ins-and-outs of the industry. About profit margin, foot traffic, custom work, bulk discounts, even who some of our biggest clients were — always asked with impeccable manners and the insight of a businessman.
“That is no kind of return, Sonny,” he once remarked when I told him that the profitability ratio of public-use copy machines was roughly pennies-on-the-dollar. “Y’all need to mark that up. Get your worth.”
When I replied that their purpose was really just to bring people into the store, he grinned appreciatively and saluted the intelligence of the owner by remarking that that was “…a proper honeypot.”
By this point we had a routine down. The song and dance really didn’t require much conversation, though he seemed to thrive on the ritual of it. I’d been witness to what (I believe) was his entire ensemble rotation. All pastels in green, blue, orange, pink, and a yellow suit that I only saw him wear once, the week after Easter.
The problem was, in sharing these stories with my coworkers, I found that no one else had ever encountered him.
Each mention brought forth an eye roll, and it was starting to concern me. Seeing someone that no one else has seen, after all while, starts to become concerning.
The problem, I reasoned, was a matter of timing. There were only seven us to begin with, counting the owners. By the time the Copy Pimp arrived, just before close, there were only two of us. One (usually me) working the front of the store, and the other (usually my coworker Drew) working in the back on our most time-sensitive or skill-specific jobs.
Convinced that this was the issue, I told Drew that I would come let him know the next time the Copy Pimp was in the store. The next Tuesday, at six o-clock, no one showed up.
Nor the following Tuesday. Nor the Tuesday after that. Until finally, almost a month later, the man himself finally appeared, clad in his signature robin’s-egg blue. It remains one of the few times that I have, without exaggeration, seen another person completely freeze, and their jaw literally drop.
As it turned out, the gentleman in question (who I estimate to have been about 60) had experienced a bad bout of pneumonia, which he explained as very he genteelly introduced himself to my stunned compatriot.
It was all I could do not to actually elbow Drew in the ribs after weeks of self-doubt and him giving me an incredibly hard time about my ‘delusions’.
And that is almost exactly what watching the Spurs last night felt like.
I almost radiated smugness as I watched the Spurs all but dismember one of the best remaining teams in the Western Conference bracket.
I watched with pride as they ruptured Minnesota’s vaunted defense with a dizzying series of Fox and Wemby pick-and-rolls that knocked them so off balance that they were left vulnerable to the battering drives of Stephon Castle and Keldon Johnson, who worked the interior like a boxer works the body to open up avenues to the face.
I beamed with vindication as Minnesota players twisted themselves into all kinds of shapes in their attempts to avoid San Antonio’s titan-tier rim protector, after so many comments about goal-tending and attacking the rim without fear, irrespective of his smothering presence.
I damn near levitated at the sight of Devin Vassell catching a perfect pass from the well-covered Julian Champagnie on the upswing of his jump shot, into the most beautiful almost-nothing-but-net conversion you could possibly imagine.
And I outright chuckled as I watched Champagnie, Barnes, and even Lindy Waters III start raining threes down on the Timberwolves’ last gasp at a comeback rhythm.
This was the vision that I’d had for this team all year. Even the year before, before all the parts were assembled.
In the previous two seasons something big would go wrong to affect the overall win total, and there I would be, insisting that there was more to this team than that. That I could see it. That the underlying metrics were hinting at it. That there was greatness being shrouded by the heavy veil of timing.
And then, for at least one night in the playoffs, almost every single thing went right. And everyone was seeing it with me at the same time. And no one in their right mind could deny it. This team is special. The most special kind of special. Maybe it won’t result in a title (yet), but it’s more than just untapped/unrealized potential.
Months later, one of the owners admitted to me that she knew exactly who I was talking about (who wouldn’t), after I caught her having a conversation with out pastel-garbed patron. He’d been coming there for years, but she thought it would be fun to pull my leg a little bit.
I sometimes wonder if the universe-at-large shares that same sense of humor.
Before the end of the game, I compared it to the clinching blowout of the Houston Rockets in Game 6 of the Western Conference Semifinals, without Tony Parker and the Nephew-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named.
It turns out I was just one point off when it came to margin of victory.
I have seen so many highs in my 30-ish years watching the Spurs play basketball, and have written about so many lows in the years after. And while there are certainly moments that stick out, so many more have blurred together. I confess that I’ve sometimes wondered what highs there are left for someone who’s seen so much undeviating victory.
But last night I saw The Copy Pimp. And so, I hope, did you.
Takeways
- There were a lot of (reasonable) questions about how to cover/scheme for Julius Randle defensively entering the series. And after more-or-less defending Randle straight up in Game 1, to less than desirable results, the Spurs opted to double him and force him to pass the ball. A smart strategy considering passing is sometimes not a thing he likes to do. But just as relevatory was the defense that Keldon Johnson played against him during his minutes on the court. Over the years Keldon has (deservedly) been taken to task for his defense, but one thing we haven’t talked about a lot here is how good his defense has been since the arrival of defensive guru Sean Sweeney. I don’t know what Sweeney slipped into Keldon’s Wheaties, but last night was arguably his most impressive performance of the season on that end, and his hard-fought rebounds were critical in the earlier portions of the game, before the Spurs sent the Wolves into a death spiral. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: even when Keldon’s shot isn’t falling, he finds a way to contribute meaningfully. If this team wins a title, I think he’s getting a jersey in the rafters.
- Last time I talked about my desire for Carter Bryant and Harrison Barnes to get into some kind of alternating rotation, and I don’t know if Mitch has been reading my articles, but it was great to see them splitting a kind of time-share in this one. Usually time shares are pretty scammy, but this one really profited the Spurs, as Bryant was able to use that youthful athleticism to make Randle life harder, and Barnes was able to go harder than usual with those legs getting some rest in spite of the challenging assignment. If only they could be combined into one player, because Bryant brings the youthful stamina, and Barnes has the shot he needs. They combined for 14 points and +18 each. More of that, please.
- Because we rarely see him, it’s easy to forget that Lindy Waters is the kind of player who can soak up real minutes without serving as a negative. He played heavier minutes in both Golden State and Oklahoma City, and he’d be within rights to feel like he’s deserving of more somewhere else. If that’s his mindset, though, no one has heard a peep about it, as he always seems ready to do his job when the time calls, which is knock down threes and play hard. He did both in equal measure last night, ensuring that the starters and heavy-minute backups could get a bit of extra rest without worrying about the lead. Those guys are important, and they’re on every team that has success. Goodness forbid that the Spurs suffer an injury that necessitates giving him more playing time, but it’s good to know he’s ready just in case. That’s classic Spurs behavior, and I you love to see it.
Playing You Out – The Theme Song of the Evening:
Damn It Feels Good to Be a Gangsta by Geto Boys
