I guess it’s a useful exercise, as we tiptoe ever closer to the promised land, to take one more quick glance at the abyss.
A Victor Wembanyama injury, short term, long term, chronic, you name it, is the proverbial other shoe waiting to drop. It’s not an anchor that weighs the franchise down, and it’s not an albatross slung around its neck. It’s just something that’s there. Existing in the space. A situation that every single person associated with this franchise is keenly aware of, and knows we might
eventually have to reckon with.
The availability of our tall Frenchman isn’t just a variable, it’s the variable. It changes everything about everything. When he is at full strength, the world of possibilities is completely open to us. Every game is winnable. Every season could end in a title. I watched Victor Wembanyama for the first time in person last year and immediately came here and wrote a column about how the Spurs franchise might someday rival Real Madrid as a global brand. Like, right? That’s crazy. But look me in the eyes and tell me Victor isn’t going to try to get it there. The point is, when we have access to a generational beam of light like Victor, our kingdom simply becomes everything the light touches.
But that’s not really how best laid plans work, is it?
When Victor isn’t part of the equation, everything shifts a little. The possibilities on the map start to shrink. That confident “every game is winnable” feeling gets quietly replaced by something more like “okay, let’s see.” You stop thinking about winning titles and start thinking about making playoff runs. Putting up a good fight. Things become a bit less lofty. More grounded. More real. Maybe we aren’t the next Real Madrid, just the same plucky small-market underdogs we’ve always been. It’s fine. Good. Nice, even. Things don’t become dark, but there’s more shade than there used to be.
The broadcast kept replaying the collision over and over, and I couldn’t help but sit with that feeling for a moment. Really let it burrow into my brain and hang out there. It’s a jarring thing to be confronted with, you know? The fun. The party. The wins. The expectations. This freight train we’re all riding right now, this new era of Spurs basketball barreling toward something real, can get derailed so very quickly.
And as I sat there in my funk, confronting my own mortality, plotting which British WWI poem would serve as a nice opener for this column, a funny thing continued to play out on the court.
The Spurs didn’t really skip a beat. They made the necessary adjustments to accommodate the 7’6″ hole in the lineup and then continued to do what they’ve done all season. They played hard and pushed the pace. They were physical. They moved the ball and found the open man. Stephon Castle went from tossing lobs to Wemby to tossing the same lobs to Luke Kornet with such nonchalance that I almost wondered if he even knew about the injury that was causing my entire worldview to come crashing down.
It was fun. I had fun watching them just keep the Sixers at bay. Keldon getting in the paint like a bull in a china shop, howling after a layup. Dylan Harper quietly morphing into an assassin from three, never mind the wrong-foot finishes at the rim like he’s been doing it for a decade. Fox filling every hole. Castle being a superstar. Devin providing runs exactly when we need them.
You can’t help but marvel. The performance we saw in the second half was from as complete a team as we’ve seen grace the court in San Antonio in a long, long time. Which is a funny thing to say about a team that was missing its best player.
We don’t say it out loud very often, because obviously. But there are going to be stretches without him. Maybe a playoff game. Maybe a season. Maybe more? That’s just a reality of how the league works. How life works. It’s not something you plan for, it’s an impact you brace for once the sirens go off.
And yet. He is everything to this franchise. He has to be. You can’t play scared when it comes to building around someone like Victor. When he’s out there, he blots out the sun. He bends the whole operation toward himself just by existing on the floor. Every defensive scheme in the league has to account for him. Every possession has an extra dimension. The ceiling becomes genuinely limitless in a way that it isn’t for almost any other team on the planet.
Maybe I’m high off the good vibes from a win. Maybe this season has rocked me out of my pessimism cave just enough to see the light. Maybe I’m just getting old. But last night was a crystal clear demonstration of something important.
Victor might be everything, but he can’t literally be everything.
The Spurs being this good without him on the floor isn’t some consolation prize. It’s a result of the work that’s been put in. It’s the foundation those best laid plans actually built. It’s what happens when you keep pounding on that rock. He’s only everything because everything else works. He needs all of it as much as it needs him. He’s not everything despite the team.
He’s everything because of it.
Takeaways
- Hey, 60 wins! How about that?
- Stephon Castle turning into a triple-double machine is such an interesting development this season. It makes sense, his game has always been about doing all the little things, but man, I didn’t dare to dream he’d be doing all of them at this level. I expect him to find the open man. I expect him to grab that board. I expect those soft little mid-range jumpers to fall. The only thing I don’t know is what I’m supposed to expect next.
- I almost don’t want to talk about Dylan Harper too much because I don’t want to jinx it. That said, it was fun watching him go toe to toe with VJ Edgecombe last night. Edgecombe is a blast. Still pretty glad we’ve got Dylan.
- I’ve read enough about Joel Embiid to have a deep well of sympathy for him as a person. There’s a version of his career that reads as one of the more tragic arcs in league history. I mean, we talk about existential stress around the health and availability of our superstar big man, and what we’re describing is basically the Joel Embiid experience. I feel for him. I feel for Sixers fans. Truly.
- I absolutely abhor watching him play basketball.
- If you caught the broadcast, you heard them mention it, but just in case you didn’t, Spurs play-by-play man Jacob Tobey performed the national anthem before the game on Native American Heritage Night. It was a pretty cool moment. We’re racking up cool moments down here in San Antonio this year! It’s our whole thing!
WWL Post Game Press Conference
What British WWI poems do you think you were circling before the Spurs brought you back into the light?
Oh, I don’t know. There’s so many to choose from when you’re trying to find something about the bleakness of existence within the walls we’ve constructed around us.
Of course. That totally normal feeling we all get watching basketball.
Right. I had a whole plan where I was going to try and recreate “Break of Day in the Trenches” by Isaac Rosenberg and see if maybe the bitter irony of our haunting reality might translate into the Modern NBA landscape.
Isn’t that the one where the soldier talks to a rat?
Yeah, and like, the rat doesn’t care if we’re British or German, Spurs fan or Sixer fan. He sees us for what we are. Meat. Bones. A future home for the poppies.
And this is what you felt, watching Victor walk off the court holding his ribs.
Pretty close, yeah. War is hell. The slog of the NBA season? Not far from it. We spend it down here in the trenches, alive, but just so. We’re showered with indignities and horrors constantly, the false hope of a new dawn only serving to remind us that to be alive only means we haven’t managed to escape.
Wow, uh, thank god the Spurs played well in the second half I guess.
Yeah, maybe I’ll save poetry corner for the off season.
