And so we begin, with exultation, confusion, and a tone of both contest and determination. Wrapped in a newer context we’re not entirely convinced of, there exists the same elements we know. The same characters we’ve come to know and love or hate, depending on the colors we wear on our backs. The Cyrano De Bergerac, Manu Ginobili, complete with distended nose, slicing and dicing, but seemingly left wanting by the body’s inability to compensate (or in this instance, close out). The shrouded monk, Tim Duncan, simply forcing the story along by sheer exposition of the plot: slow and steady Spurs vs. rampant and intense Suns.
And then there is Nash. 30 points, 10 assists. An allusion? How about the Count of Monte Cristo? Driven by revenge, even as he publicly plays the braggard count simply indulging in luxury and refinement. Nash said prior to the game repeatedly that it was a failure on our part to invent new stories that creates the questions of this non-rivalry or rivalry or whatever it is.
But what did we see?
We saw Nash, drive, as we haven’t seen him this year drive. Attacking the basket relentlessly, endlessly, fiercely, with singular focus. PUSH THEM BACK. And let them know that the Suns have not come meekly to surrender again, but with full intention of mindlessly attacking as if there were not just another series, nor a desperate fight against an unbeatable foe, but a death match upon which our survival hangs. Because honestly, there’s no other approach.
Richardson is described as the barometer, but really, he’s fate in this instance. If he fires, and it drops, if he’s plugged in and successful, the Gods have shown favor. If the threes rim out, if the dunks don’t drop, if his first step to cut off Parker or Ginobili is a half-step short versus a half-step long, the Suns are doomed, as doomed as they’ve ever been.
If I were to tell you that our heroes depend on the new breed, on Dudley recognizing from the film he’s covered to snake out and cut off the baseline wrap-around pass by Hill or Parker, on Frye swinging for the fences at both ends, for Amundson bull rushing to close out in a way you never see from the Suns, that would be part of it. But it’s not. Their survival is dependent on Nash doing what he did tonight, holding no quarter, not thinking, not considering, not smiling or enjoying it. He has to remove all the things that make his life fun for those few hours and he’s got to kill them with the same silent monstrosity they’ve brought his brilliant seasons to an end time after time. And Amar’e's got to keep rebounding the f*cking ball.
Is this wankery? Of course. But that’s because Suns-Spurs has become our opera. It’s the only familiar battle we have. Spurs-Lakers? The commencement ceremony at the end of the school year. Dramatic, with nice music and clothes and you can appreciate the care that goes into it but it’s just a formality. And while its conclusion is more in the air than Suns-Spurs, even now, even after Game 1, Suns-Spurs still fulfills our need for drama. Spurs fans may not think it’s a rivalry, and they may be right. But they want to keep it not a rivalry. They may 100% believe that even after tonight, with all the favorable odds of a team after winning Game 1, they have this in the bag. But they want to maintain that domination. They want to be able to look a Suns fan in the eye and say “SCOREBOARD.” And Suns fans? Three more wins, three more performances just like tonight and they will have had as good a season as they can hope for. They could be wiped from the face of the playoffs like the Egyptians by God’s Lakers in the WCF and be happy as a clam. Because their last game would still be later than that of the citizens of San Antonio.
There are warning signs littered throughout this game. The way Parker did what he’s always done, made Nash completely incapable of responding on defense, which puts him out of position in transition on offense and tires him out. The way Antonio McDyess was able to squeeze in through the cracks. The way Tim Duncan was a few more things going his way from dropping one of those games where you just shrug and ask the Fates how they could invest so much power in one tree trunk. The way Ginobili was in full effect. Lunging out of bounds, often running completely through players and not only avoiding a reach-in, but gaining possession. Dropping like a sack of bricks as soon as he was touched on defense. Slicing up and through to the other side if no one attacked the ball on the perimeter. The Suns seemed to be half-successful, half-not against Ginobili. What I mean by that is sometimes on defense, you get lucky because the guy just can’t make shots. The Suns? They devoted themselves to running him off on offensive-rebound-scramble-dish threes and occasionally doubling him hard on the perimeter. It kick started the Spurs rotation, but the funny thing? Their shooters are not great at catch and shoot, like Bowen and Finely were. They hesitate, consider, reset, and waste clock. Which enables the Suns to regroup. It’s the best of both worlds. Force the ball from Ginobili’s hands and recover. They only have to do that for four more games and withstand Popovich’s numerous adjustments including what I can assure you will be several more pick and pops with Antonio McDyess and they’re home free.
But the Suns won. They have the series lead. For a day, a few days, a few hours. And at least now they can remember something they haven’t known since the exact second Horry brought that hip into Nash. The Spurs for all their greatness and legacy, are still human. They will still bleed, they will still get tired, and if you attack them, they will still recoil. But you must not let them understand they are your superior. Once they believe, the series is already over and the confetti hasn’t even dropped.
George Hill was a factor in round one. He’s a liability now, unable to stay with Nash’s moves and lacking the shot that blessed him in Dallas.
There was a Suns run late in the third quarter, where every miss fueled the crowd, and Nash, sensing the moment, pushed as hard as he could. The euphoria on every made three pointer as the Suns rattled off an 18-6 run was astounding. It was like a church tent revival. The crowd could have been screaming in tongues. We were one more made three from Beatlemania. It was basketball at its apex. The Suns touched the ceiling tonight, for the first time since 07. Let’s pray the landing is at least softer than it was that season, even if it’s not in the clouds.