A Spur Of Faith

@TheRinger: Markus Reinhart just dropped 35 & 11 in his NBA DEBUT. Against Luka. On national TV. What are we even watching anymore?

@statmuse: Only 3 players in NBA history have recorded 35+ points and 10+ assists in their debut:

Oscar Robertson

Isiah Thomas

Markus Reinhart That's the list. That's it.

@rachel__nichols: The Spurs might have found their next great point guard. That Reinhart-Wembanyama connection already looks special. Pop knows exactly what he has.

@BleacherReport: MARKUS REINHART ROOKIE DEBUT: 🔥 35 PTS 🔥 11 AST 🔥 13-21 FG 🔥 2 TO The Spurs got this kid with the 44th pick 💀

@espn_macmahon: Luka Dončić on Markus Reinhart postgame: "He doesn't play like a rookie. Very composed, great vision. Spurs have something special with him and Wemby."

@BallDontStop: yall gassing this kid up after ONE game lmaooo wait till teams get film on him 😂😂😂

@NBAGod: @BallDontStop bro did you watch the game? That stepback three on Luka was DISRESPECTFUL

@HoopsRice: The Markus Reinhart discourse is about to be exhausting isn't it

@NBACentral: Fred VanVleet on facing Markus Reinhart tomorrow: "He had a good game. We'll see how he handles someone getting up in him for 48 minutes."

—

The auxiliary gym at 6 AM felt like a furnace already cranked to medium. Markus' shoes squeaked against the hardwood as Chip Engelland checked him hard with a forearm, sending him stumbling back three steps. No whistle would come in here. No ref to complain to.

"That's what VanVleet's bringing tonight," Chip said, sweat already beading on his forehead despite the early hour. "Except he's got quicker hands than me and he's been doing this since you were in middle school."

Markus caught his breath, tasting salt from the sweat dripping off his upper lip. They'd been at this for forty minutes already—Chip playing the role of pest defender, grabbing, holding, bumping on every catch.

"Again," Chip commanded, no sympathy in his voice. "And this time don't let me dictate where you catch it. You're floating out there like you're afraid of contact."

They reset. Markus came off an imaginary screen, but this time he cut harder, threw his shoulder into Chip's chest as he caught the ball. The contact created just enough space to rise up. The shot rattled in.

"Better. But you're still thinking about it." Chip grabbed the ball, bounced it back hard. "KD doesn't think about creating space. He just does it. Natural as breathing. That's where you need to be."

The KD comparison had started two weeks ago when Chip noticed similarities in Markus's shooting mechanics—the high release, the way he could get his shot off from anywhere once he found that half-inch of daylight. But mechanics were one thing. Mentality was another.

"You've got the technique," Chip continued, pressing up again. "Hell, your footwork's already better than most ten-year players. But you're too nice with it. Too respectful."

He demonstrated by catching the ball himself, then violently ripping through with his elbows at head level.

"I'm not trying to hurt anybody," Markus said.

"And that's why crafty veterans are going to eat you alive." Chip's expression was deadly serious. "You don't have to hurt them. But they need to think you might. They need to know there's a consequence for crawling up in your jersey."

They went again. This time when Chip crowded him, Markus caught the ball and immediately ripped through low and hard. Chip had to jump back to avoid the contact. The space created was minimal but enough. Markus rose up, the shot pure.

"There it is!" Chip actually smiled. "See how I had to respect that? Now do it ten more times until it's automatic."

The next hour was hell. Chip grabbed jerseys, threw subtle elbows, stepped on feet—every dirty trick accumulated over decades of studying how defenders actually played versus how the rulebook said they should. And slowly, rep by rep, Markus learned to fight back within the legal boundaries.

"Your handle's too high when you're tired," Chip noted after Markus lost the ball on a spin move. "Watch."

He demonstrated in slow motion—the way fatigue made players unconsciously dribble an inch higher, giving defenders that extra moment to swipe down.

"Feel how low this is?" Chip dribbled with the ball barely coming off the ground. "That's where KD lives. That's where Kyrie lives. The ball's down here where only you can get it."

Markus nodded, processing. His jersey was soaked through, darker gray than when they started. His legs felt heavy but he kept pushing. Each session with Chip revealed another layer of what NBA basketball actually demanded.

"Alright, last segment," Chip said, checking his watch. "Houston's going to trap you every time you come off a screen. They did it twenty-three times to Maxey last week. So we're gonna work on that quick trigger."

He set up cones to simulate the trap. Markus would come off the screen, see two defenders converging, and have maybe a second to make a decision. Pass, shoot, or split.

The first few reps were ugly. The timing was different than anything he'd faced in college. NBA defenders covered ground so much faster.

"You're waiting too long," Chip critiqued. "By the time you see both guys, it's too late. You need to feel it coming. Read their body language before they commit."

Markus wiped sweat from his eyes, reset. This time he watched the imaginary defenders' positioning as he approached the screen. Saw the angle that telegraphed the trap. Released the pass a beat earlier to the corner.

"Better. But VanVleet's not gonna show you his cards that easy. He'll fake like he's going under then jump it at the last second. Show me that counter."

They worked through every scenario. Markus's shirt was so wet it looked like he'd jumped in a pool. His legs shook slightly on the last few reps. But his form never broke. The technique Hiroshi had drilled into him held up even through exhaustion.

"That's enough," Chip finally called. "Ice bath, then film at nine."

As Markus gathered his stuff, Chip added, "You've got the tools, kid. Best technique I've seen from a rookie. But this league will test whether you've got the dog in you to use them."

"I hear you."

"Do you? Because tonight Fred's gonna be in your shirt all game talking shit. Dillon Brooks is gonna try to get in your head. They're gonna make you uncomfortable. Question is whether you embrace it or let it throw you off."

Markus met his eyes. "I'll be ready."

"We'll see."

—

The cafeteria buzzed with the usual morning energy. Markus slumped into a chair across from Wembanyama, who was somehow already on his second breakfast despite it being only 8:30.

"You look like death," Victor observed, fork pausing midway to his mouth.

"Chip had me at six."

"Ah." Victor nodded knowingly. "The Chip special. He had me last week. I couldn't lift my arms for two hours after."

Vassell dropped into the seat beside them, phone in hand. "Y'all see Twitter going crazy about the Houston game? They're saying we about to get exposed."

"Twitter says a lot of things," Markus replied, forcing down a recovery shake that tasted like chalky fruit.

"Nah but for real, their fans are wild." Vassell scrolled through his mentions. "Somebody made a whole video about how VanVleet's gonna lock you up."

"Americans love predictions." Victor said with a shrug.

"Speaking of," Vassell turned to Markus, "you know Brooks is gonna try you, right? Dude lives for that villain shit."

"I'm not worried about Dillon Brooks."

"You should be. Man got ejected three times last year just for being annoying." Vassell laughed. "He's gonna be all up in your ear. 'Rookie this, rookie that.'"

Robinson walked by their table, caught the tail end. "Brooks tried that shit with me in New York. I just set a screen on him that had him picking his teeth up. Problem solved."

"See, that's what I'm talking about," Vassell pointed at Robinson. "Sometimes you gotta let motherfuckers know."

The conversation drifted to other topics—who was struggling with the new offensive sets, which assistant coach was the hardest on film review, whether the new training chef's meal prep was actually edible. Normal teammate things, the kind of bonding that happened organically when you spent sixty hours a week together.

"Y'all trying to hit that new spot on the River Walk after the game?" Vassell asked. "My boy says they got the best ribeye in the city."

"I'm down," Robinson said. "If we win."

"When we win," Victor corrected.

—

The film session was brutal in its honesty. Pop had spliced together every defensive mistake from the Dallas game, focusing particularly on the fourth quarter when fatigue had led to breakdowns.

"Right here," he paused the video. "Markus, you die on the screen. Just completely give up. That's tired legs, not tired mind. Unacceptable."

Markus watched himself on screen get hung up on a screen, allowing Luka an clean look at a three. He remembered the moment—legs feeling like concrete, just wanting the possession to end.

"Yes sir."

"OG, here you're supposed to be low man." Another clip. "Instead you're in no man's land. Mitchell has to rotate over, leaves his man, easy bucket."

They went through twenty minutes of failures. Not to demoralize but to educate. Each mistake a lesson for tonight.

"Houston's young and hungry," Pop concluded. "They're going to test us physically. They're going to run. If we match their energy and execute our stuff, we win. If we get caught up in their chaos, we lose. Simple as that."

—

By the time evening rolled around, AT&T Center was electric. The home opener energy hit different—fans who'd been waiting since April to see their team, curiosity about the new pieces, hope for what might be building.

Markus went through his routine, trying to ignore the extra media presence. ESPN had the national broadcast again, Wembanyama already must-see TV. He caught glimpses of the production—camera operators setting up angles, reporters doing standups, the whole circus that followed potential.

During warmups, he found his rhythm quickly. The morning session with Chip had actually helped—his body loose from the earlier work, muscle memory activated. Shots dropped with easy rotation.

"Feeling good?" Anunoby asked during a water break, man of few words as always.

"Yeah. You?"

"Ready to lock up."

That was OG's version of an emotional speech. Markus had learned to read his minimalist communication style. The forward would guard the opponent's best player without complaint, hit open threes, never demand touches. The perfect complementary piece.

The Rockets emerged from their tunnel with obvious energy. Young teams always played harder early in the season, before the grind wore them down.

Jalen Green bounced around during warmups like he'd mainlined espresso. Alperen Şengün practiced his post moves with extra flourish.

And there was VanVleet, the veteran presence in their young core.

"Let's get to our starting lineups here at the AT&T Center," Mike Breen's voice carried over the broadcast. "San Antonio fresh off that impressive opening night victory over Dallas. Houston looking to build on their young core..."

"I'm fascinated to see how Markus Reinhart handles Fred VanVleet's pressure," Doris Burke added. "VanVleet's one of the best at making young guards uncomfortable, getting them out of their rhythm."

"And he's got help," Jeff Van Gundy chimed in. "Dillon Brooks lives for these games. He's going to try to get under the rookie's skin early and often."

The pregame huddle was brief. Pop's message simple: "Execute. Communicate. Compete."

From the opening tip, Houston's approach was clear. VanVleet picked Markus up at three-quarters court, hands active, body pressed close. Not quite fouling but right on that edge.

"Welcome to the league, youngster," Fred murmured, close enough that Markus could smell his mouthguard.

Markus used his off-arm to create space, bringing the ball up with purpose. Called for a high screen from Wembanyama. As Chip predicted, Houston trapped hard—both defenders converging with aggressive hands.

But Markus had seen it coming. The quick pass to Robinson at the elbow came before the trap fully formed. Mitchell made the right read, finding Vassell relocating to the corner. The three splashed home.

"THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKING ABOUT!" Pop shouted from the sideline. Not his usual composed self—he wanted Houston to hear it, to know their strategy had been scouted.

On defense, Markus felt VanVleet's veteran craftiness immediately. The way he'd use his off-arm to hook and create space. How he'd accelerate just enough to get Markus leaning then pull back for the jumper. Little pushoffs the refs would never call.

"Too slow, rookie," VanVleet said after draining a pull-up jumper. "Gotta be quicker than that."

The back-and-forth continued through the first quarter. Markus found success attacking Houston's aggressive defense—they were so worried about Wembanyama rolling that they left shooters open. He hit OG in the corner twice, found Vassell on a beautiful backdoor cut.

But VanVleet was getting his too. Using his experience to manipulate angles, create shots Markus thought he'd contested well. The scoreboard stayed tight, neither team able to create separation.

Then Dillon Brooks checked in.

First possession, he switched onto Markus and immediately started chirping. "Oh I got the rookie now. This what I came for. You ain't ready for this smoke, promise you."

Markus said nothing, just executed the play. But Brooks stayed attached, hands grabbing jersey whenever the refs looked away, stepping into Markus' landing space on a jumper.

"That's all you got?" Brooks laughed after Markus missed. "I heard you was nice. Looking real average to me."

The irritation built slowly. Each possession Brooks found new ways to annoy—bumping him off his spots during dead balls, talking constantly, the kind of gamesmanship that bordered on disrespect.

Finally, midway through the second quarter, something snapped. Brooks had been handchecking all possession, finally reaching in for a steal. Instead of just protecting the ball, Markus ripped through violently with his elbows—exactly like Chip had taught him.

The contact caught Brooks square in the chest, sending him stumbling back. The whistle blew immediately.

"Offensive foul!" Brooks yelled, selling the contact. "You see that?"

But the ref signaled the other way—defensive foul on Brooks for the reach.

Markus stared at him for a beat before heading to the free throw line. Message sent.

The dynamic shifted slightly after that. Brooks still talked but gave a bit more space.

Markus started finding his spots more easily. A pull-up jumper in transition. A crafty finish in traffic where he used his body to shield defenders. His technique was so pure that even contested shots had a chance.

The half ended with San Antonio up four, but it felt tenuous. Houston's energy hadn't waned. Every possession was a battle.

The third quarter brought Houston's expected surge. Green caught fire, hitting tough shots. Şengün dominated the glass against Robinson. The Rockets built a seven-point lead as their crowd came alive.

Coming out of the timeout, they executed a reverse on the weak side. Wembanyama posted up, drew three defenders. Quick pass to Markus at the top, immediate swing to OG in the corner.

Wide open three.

Bucket.

"Great read!" Pop called out. "That's it!"

The game tightened again. Every possession mattered. The physicality increased—bodies hitting the floor, tempers flaring when Brooks gave Vassell an extra shove after a whistle.

With five minutes left and the game tied, Markus found himself in an isolation against VanVleet. The veteran had been in his ear all night, testing him, probing for weakness. Time to answer.

Markus sized him up, weight shifting subtly. He went left with two hard dribbles, VanVleet sliding to cut him off. But that's what Markus wanted. He planted hard on his left foot and spun back right—a move he'd practiced thousands of times with Hiroshi.

VanVleet was a beat late recovering. Markus rose up from seventeen feet, the mechanics perfect despite the fatigue in his legs. The ball dropped through softly.

The final minutes were a blur of crucial possessions. Markus orchestrated the offense with increasing confidence, finding the right play more often than not.

With thirty seconds left, San Antonio up two, Houston called timeout. Markus was exhausted—legs heavy, jersey soaked, but mind still sharp.

VanVleet brought it up, surveying options. The Spurs defense shifted perfectly, taking away his preferred angles. With the shot clock winding down, he had to give it up to Brooks in the corner.

The shot was contested by Anunoby's incredible closeout. It clanged off back rim. Robinson secured the rebound, immediately outlet to Markus.

Houston fouled. Two free throws to ice it.

Standing at the line, Markus felt the weight of the moment differently than in Dallas. This wasn't about proving he belonged anymore. This was about winning. About validating his teammates' trust.

Both free throws hit nothing but net.

Final: San Antonio 96, Houston 92.

….

In the postgame interview, the competitive fire that had always burned showed through more clearly.

"Fred's a tough cover," he said, still catching his breath. "Dillon too. They make you earn everything. But we knew that coming in. We prepared for it. And when they turned up the heat, we answered."

"What about that spin move on Fred in the fourth?" the reporter asked. "That seemed to be a turning point."

A small smile crossed Markus's face. "Yeah, that felt good. He'd been getting me all night with his veteran stuff. Nice to get one back."

"Two games, two wins. The connection with Wembanyama already looks special. How do you explain that chemistry so early?"

"We see the game similarly," Markus said. "Like, I know where he wants the ball before he knows it himself sometimes. And he knows where I'm going to be. It's hard to explain. It just clicks."

—

The next six games blurred together in a haze of airports, hotels, and hostile arenas. Each one its own test, its own lesson.

Los Angeles: The Lakers' star power overwhelming in the fourth quarter. LeBron orchestrating a masterclass, showing Markus levels of control and manipulation he hadn't reached yet. The way LeBron surveyed the court, processed information, made decisions—it was humbling. Loss, but educational.

Phoenix (Game 1): The Suns came out trying to embarrass the young Spurs. But San Antonio's ball movement carved up their aggressive defense. Markus finished with 19 and 13, finding shooters all night. Wembanyama protected the rim like a one-man wall. Victory through execution.

Phoenix (Game 2): Adjustments made, the Suns forced Markus into tougher reads. But he'd grown even in one game. Used his floater more when they went under screens. Found Robinson on quick slips when they overplayed Wembanyama. Another win, confidence building.

Toronto: The Raptors' length bothered everyone, but Markus had solved this puzzle before. Patient probing, using misdirection, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. 24 and 9, efficient and controlled. The team's execution in clutch moments showing real growth.

Indiana: Fatigue setting in. The Pacers' pace relentless, Haliburton putting on a show. San Antonio couldn't keep up, legs heavy by the fourth quarter. Markus battled but the team ran out of gas. Loss, but part of the learning curve.

New York: Madison Square Garden's energy was different. The Knicks' physicality, particularly from their frontcourt, exposed San Antonio's youth. Another loss, but another lesson about what playoff-intensity basketball demanded.

Standing at 5-3, they'd exceeded external expectations while falling short of their own standards. But something was building. You could feel it in practice, in the plane rides, in the way players had started deferring to Markus's basketball IQ despite his age.

—

The practice facility conference room had been transformed for the In-Season Tournament meeting. Banners displaying the NBA Cup hung from the walls.

Pop stood at the front, the entire team and coaching staff assembled.

"The league created this tournament to matter," Pop began, his tone serious. "To mean something. And here's the thing—it does. Not because of the trophy or the money, but because every team we face will bring playoff intensity in November."

He clicked through their group draw: Minnesota, Golden State, Sacramento and Oklahoma. Four games that would determine advancement, each one a test.

"We've made big changes to this roster," Pop continued. "Traded established players. Bet on youth. Some people think we're crazy. Starting a nineteen-year-old second-round pick at point guard? Building around two teenagers?"

His eyes found Markus, then Wembanyama.

"But we didn't make these moves to be competitive in three years. We made them because we believe this group can compete now. Maybe not for championships yet, but compete. Every night. Against anyone."

Brian Wright stepped forward with statistical projections and tournament scenarios. But the numbers mattered less than the message: This was a proving ground.

"What's our actual goal?" Vassell asked when Wright finished. "Just compete? Make Vegas? Win the whole thing?"

Pop considered the question. "Our goal is to show—to ourselves more than anyone—that we're not a cute story. Not a 'fun young team to watch.' But a group that can execute under pressure, protect each other, and make opponents earn everything."

As the meeting broke up, Markus studied the tournament bracket on the screen. Four games to prove the bet on acceleration was justified.