A Spur Of Faith

The weight room at 5:30 AM felt different now. Six weeks into Troy's program, Markus could see the changes in the mirror—shoulders broader, legs thicker, that wiry frame filling out with functional muscle. The bar loaded with 380 pounds would have seemed impossible in July.

Now it was Tuesday.

"Hips back, chest up," Troy coached as Markus set his grip. "This is where we separate good from great."

The pull came from deep within—not just muscles but intention, every fiber recruited in sequence. The bar rose steadily, Markus's face contorting with effort, veins prominent in his neck. At the top, he held it for a beat before controlling the descent.

"That's it!" Troy slapped the platform. "You just pulled double bodyweight for reps. That's NBA strength."

Markus racked the bar, breathing hard. His hands tingled from the effort, calluses earned through thousands of reps protecting his palms. The physical transformation was undeniable—he'd added twelve pounds of lean mass while somehow maintaining his quickness. His shirts fit differently. His presence on the court had weight behind it now.

"Core circuit, then we're done," Troy said, already setting up the next station. "Tournament starts Friday. Time to show what we've built."

The medicine ball slams came in violent bursts—explosive power channeled through his core, the same muscles that helped him finish through contact. Between sets, Markus' mind drifted to the tournament format that had the entire league buzzing.

The NBA's grand experiment: an in-season tournament with real stakes. Five hundred thousand per player and staff for the winners. A trophy that meant something because everyone would be trying. No load management, no coasting. November basketball with March intensity.

Group C looked like a gauntlet—Sacramento, Golden State, Minnesota, Oklahoma City, and San Antonio. Every team capable of beating anyone on a given night. The oddsmakers had San Antonio finishing last, maybe stealing one home game if lucky. The disrespect fueled something primal in Markus' competitive core.

"You're thinking too much," Troy observed. "Finish the workout, then think."

The final circuit pushed into that space where fatigue met determination. Hanging leg raises until his abs screamed. Russian twists with a forty-five-pound plate. Plank variations that made seconds feel like minutes. By the end, Markus lay on the mat, every muscle fiber exhausted, sweat pooling beneath him.

"Good work," Troy said, making notes on his tablet. "Recovery protocol, then skills at nine. Big week ahead."

—

The skills session with Chip had evolved from teaching to refining. They worked on advanced counters now—the moves that separated good players from unguardable ones. Today's focus: the hesi-pull that Chip had noticed in Markus'game but hadn't fully developed.

"You've got the handle for it," Chip explained, demonstrating in slow motion. "But you telegraph it with your shoulders. Watch—sell the drive with everything, then pull."

They worked through it repeatedly. The timing had to be perfect—too early and defenders recovered, too late and you traveled. But when it hit right, it created the kind of space that made contested jumpers look like shooting practice.

"Think about Edwards," Chip said, referencing Minnesota's explosive guard they'd face Friday. "He's got one of the best first steps in the league. You'll need counters to keep him honest."

Markus nodded, filing the information away. He'd watched hours of film on Edwards already—the way he exploded to the rim, his improved jumper, the confidence that bordered on irrational but somehow worked. Different challenge than crafty veterans like VanVleet. Raw athleticism channeled through skill.

After an hour of shot repetition, Chip called it. "You're ready. Trust your preparation."

—

Friday arrived with the kind of energy that made the air feel electric. The In-Season Tournament had captured imagination in ways the league hadn't anticipated. Even morning shootaround carried extra intensity, players moving with purpose that usually didn't appear until January.

The Spurs had transformed their court for the occasion—the Tower of the Americas dominating center court, "Viva Spurs" scripted along the sidelines in bold lettering, the whole design popping with colors that made it feel like a special event. Which it was.

"League sent out a memo," Vassell mentioned during stretching. "Every game counts for tournament standings and regular season. Points differential matters for tiebreakers. They want us running up scores."

"That's not very Spurs-like," Robinson noted.

"Nothing about this season is very Spurs-like," Vassell countered. "Starting two nineteen-year-olds? Trading for win-now pieces? Might as well embrace it."

Pop's message at shootaround was typically direct: "Minnesota's going to play fast. They've got athletes who can punish mistakes in transition. We control tempo, we control the game. Let them run into our defense, not through it."

—

By evening, AT&T Center hummed with anticipation. The special court design looked even better under the lights, colors vibrant enough to make everything feel heightened. Players noticed it during warmups—the way the different surface caught their eyes, made routine shots feel somehow more significant.

The music thumped louder than usual, bass reverberating through the floorboards. Markus went through his routine, trying to treat it like any other game while knowing it wasn't. Around him, both teams worked through their progressions with focused energy.

Anthony Edwards commanded attention even in warmups. The way he moved—explosive bursts followed by casual strolls, dunking without effort then laughing with teammates. Pure joy channeled through elite athleticism. Markus watched without staring, cataloging tendencies, reading body language.

The crowd filled in early, tournament games drawing curious fans who might usually skip November basketball. The atmosphere built steadily—chants starting spontaneously, energy feeding on itself. By the time player introductions began, the arena felt like playoffs.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the inaugural NBA In-Season Tournament!"

The announcement triggered a roar that surprised even veteran players. This mattered to fans too, apparently. The experiment was working before a single ball was tipped.

Pop's final instructions were brief: "They want to turn this into a track meet. We dictate terms. Make them play basketball, not just athletics."

The game began with Minnesota's intentions clear. Edwards brought the ball up at three-quarter speed, probing immediately. His first step was everything advertised—zero to sixty in a blink, acceleration that made angles obsolete.

But San Antonio's defense held firm. Wembanyama lurking as the last line, Robinson bodying up Gobert, wings staying home on shooters. Minnesota's first possession ended in a contested fadeaway that clanged off iron.

Markus brought it back deliberately, feeling Mike Conley's veteran pressure. The crafty guard knew every trick, but Markus had weight behind him now. When Conley tried to body him, Markus held his ground, using his off-arm to maintain space without fouling.

The first set developed slowly—Wembanyama screening, Robinson relocating, movement with purpose. Minnesota's defense was sound but aggressive, gambling on deflections. Markus saw the tell in Karl-Anthony Towns' positioning, how he cheated toward Victor's roll a beat early.

The skip pass to Anunoby came right on time. OG's three barely disturbed the net.

"Let's go!" Pop clapped from the sideline. "That's execution!"

Back and forth it went, neither team able to create separation. Edwards got loose for a spectacular dunk that brought Minnesota's bench to their feet. Vassell answered with a pull-up three in transition. The pace quickened despite San Antonio's efforts to control it.

Midway through the first quarter, Markus experienced tournament basketball's intensity firsthand. Coming off a screen, he found three Timberwolves converging—Conley fighting over, Towns showing hard, Jaden McDaniels rotating from the weak side. A triple team in November.

Time slowed as options materialized. The obvious pass to Robinson's roll. The skip to the corner. Or...

Markus saw the space behind the chaos, where Vassell would be in exactly two seconds if he read the situation correctly.

Markus held his dribble alive, letting the defense fully commit, bodies crowding him near the sideline. At the last possible moment, he threaded a one-handed bounce pass through traffic to where Vassell was just arriving. The shooting guard caught and fired in one motion.

Splash.

Minnesota called timeout, Chris Finch animated in the huddle. The early strategy of overwhelming Markus with bodies had backfired twice already.

"They showing you respect," Vassell said as they walked to the bench. "Triple team in game nine? That's wild."

The first quarter ended with San Antonio up five, but the pace had been relentless. Both teams were already rotating deeper into their benches, tournament intensity demanding more recovery time.

The second quarter brought adjustments. Minnesota spread the floor wider, letting Edwards attack in space. His combination of speed and strength created problems—when Markus cut off driving angles, Edwards simply powered through contact for tough finishes.

"Stay solid!" Pop instructed during a free throw. "Make him make tough shots. Don't bail him out with fouls."

Easier said than done. Edwards was feeling it now, talking after each bucket, feeding off the crowd's energy when he scored. His confidence was contagious—Minnesota started pressing defensively, turning defense into offense.

A lazy pass from Sochan became a McDaniels steal and dunk. Robinson got stripped going up weak, leading to an Edwards transition three. Suddenly Minnesota led by seven and AT&T Center felt nervous energy replacing confident excitement.

Markus walked the ball up, reading the shift in momentum. This was where young teams often spiraled—trying to match athleticism with athleticism, playing the opponent's game. He caught Wembanyama's eye, a brief nod communicating intent.

Instead of calling a play, Markus waved everyone through, isolating against Conley on the left wing. The crowd sensed something coming, noise building. Conley crouched low, reputation on the line against the rookie.

Markus began his dribble sequence—right, left, through the legs, selling movement with his shoulders. Conley stayed attached, instincts keeping him balanced. But Markus had been working on this exact counter with Chip all week.

The hesitation came mid-dribble, so subtle most missed it. Just enough to get Conley thinking drive. Then Markus pulled back into his shot motion in one explosive movement, creating three feet of space where none existed before.

The ball was already rotating perfectly as Conley's late contest arrived. Nothing but net from twenty-three feet.

The bucket stemmed Minnesota's run, but the game remained a knife fight. Every possession featured playoff-level physicality. Bodies hit the floor. Whistles came sporadically as refs let them play. The tournament format had delivered exactly what the league wanted—meaningful basketball when snow hadn't even fallen yet.

Halftime arrived with Minnesota up two, both teams having emptied their tanks for twenty-four minutes. In the locker room, ice bags were distributed like Halloween candy. Everyone nursed something—a bruise here, a strain there, the accumulated toll of treating November like May.

The third quarter opened with both teams trading haymakers. Edwards got loose for another rim-rocking dunk. Markus answered with a three off a screen. Towns posted up successfully twice. Wembanyama blocked Gobert at the rim, starting a fast break that ended with Vassell's layup.

Neither team led by more than five, the game hanging in perfect balance. The crowd stood for entire possessions, voices hoarse from cheering, that beautiful chaos of meaningful basketball washing over everyone.

With two minutes left in the third, the play that changed everything developed from nothing. Markus had been probing all night, testing Minnesota's rotations, filing away information. He noticed McDaniels had started cheating off Anunoby in the corner, gambling that OG wouldn't hurt them from distance.

Coming off a high screen, Markus sold the drive hard, getting two feet into the paint before jump-stopping. The defense collapsed—they'd been conditioned by three quarters of his paint touches creating problems. But instead of the floater or dump-off they expected, Markus whipped a crosscourt laser to OG in the corner.

The rotation came late. Anunoby's form was perfect, the ball sailing through crisp night air. But as he released, Edwards came flying from nowhere, his otherworldly athleticism allowing him to contest what should have been uncontestable.

The collision was inadvertent but violent. Edwards' momentum carried him into Anunoby's landing space. OG's ankle turned sickeningly as he came down on Edwards' foot. He crumpled immediately, the ball somehow still dropping through the net as he fell.

"Oh no," Vassell said, the words carrying dread everyone felt.

The arena went silent as medical staff rushed out. Anunoby writhed on the court, hands clutching his ankle, face contorted in pain. His teammates surrounded him, offering support while fearing the worst.

After several minutes, they helped him to his feet. He couldn't put weight on the ankle, hopping to the bench with arms draped over trainers' shoulders. The crowd applauded respectfully, but the energy had shifted.

"Next man up," Pop said simply in the huddle. "That's what depth is for. Jeremy, you're in. Know your spots, trust your preparation."

Sochan nodded, trying to hide his nerves. This was different than garbage time minutes. This was tournament basketball with the game in balance and a starter down.

Minnesota smelled blood. They attacked Sochan immediately, forcing him into tough rotations, testing whether he belonged. To his credit, the second-year forward competed. His shot wasn't falling but his defense stayed solid, his energy never wavering.

The fourth quarter became a war of attrition. Without Anunoby's shooting and defensive versatility, San Antonio had to grind differently. Markus orchestrated with increasing desperation—probing for cracks, demanding execution, trying to hold together a rotation missing a crucial piece.

With five minutes left, Minnesota led by eight. Their crowd sensing victory, Edwards talking louder, momentum tilting decisively. In the huddle, exhausted faces looked to Pop for salvation.

"We're not done," he said firmly. "Eight points is four possessions. We get stops, we execute, we give ourselves a chance. That's all we can ask."

They clawed back. Markus hit a three off a broken play. Robinson's offensive rebound led to Vassell's and-one. The defense locked in with desperation, forcing tough shots, battling on the glass. With ninety seconds left, they'd cut it to two.

Minnesota called timeout. The arena was deafening, everyone standing, that beautiful chaos of crunch time enveloping everything. Markus's legs felt like concrete but his mind stayed sharp, processing options, calculating possibilities.

"They're going to Edwards," Pop predicted. "Load to his side but don't forget the shooters. One stop, then we execute."

Sure enough, Edwards got the ball on the right wing, isolating against Vassell. He jabbed, crossed, created space for his jumper. But Vassell, playing the game of his life, stayed attached. The shot was contested, difficult, exactly what San Antonio wanted.

It went in anyway. Edwards backpedaled, screaming toward his bench, feeding off the moment. Sometimes great players made tough shots. Nothing you could do but respond.

Fifty-eight seconds. Down four. Markus brought it up quickly, not wanting Minnesota to set their defense. He found Wembanyama posting hard, a mismatch with Gobert on the bench. The entry pass was perfect, Victor turning immediately for his hook shot.

The ball hung in the air forever before dropping through. Two-point game. Forty-one seconds left.

Minnesota pushed it, trying to catch San Antonio scrambling. But the Spurs' transition defense held firm, forcing them into a halfcourt possession. Edwards, feeling invincible, pulled up for a heat-check three.

This time it missed, clanging off back iron. Robinson secured the rebound with both hands, immediately finding Markus sprinting up court.

Twenty-two seconds. Tie game. Timeout San Antonio.

Coming out of the timeout, Minnesota showed a different defensive look—a soft zone, daring San Antonio to shoot over it. They'd scouted well, knowing the Spurs preferred to attack the rim late in games.

Markus surveyed from the top of the key. The clock ticked down. Fifteen seconds. Twelve. The zone shifted with each pass but maintained its shape, no clear advantages developing.

With eight seconds left, Markus made his decision. He waved Sochan through, clearing the left side. This was his moment to seize or shrink from. The rookie who'd been thrown into the fire stepped up to set a screen on the zone's edge.

Markus came off it hard, the zone forced to account for his drive. That created the sliver he needed—just enough space as McDaniels closed out late. The shot came from twenty-seven feet, deeper than comfortable, but Markus had been preparing for exactly this moment his entire life.

Time slowed as the ball arced through the air. The arena held its breath collectively. Even Edwards stopped talking, watching the shot's flight.

The ball caught back rim, bounced high off the front, then somehow dropped through. AT&T Center exploded. Markus allowed himself one fist pump before immediately getting back on defense. Two seconds remained.

Minnesota's desperation heave never had a chance. The buzzer sounded with San Antonio ahead 94-92.

But wait—the refs were conferring.

The clock showed 0.8 seconds. They were reviewing whether Markus' shot beat the buzzer, whether Minnesota would get one more chance.

After an eternity, the verdict came: Shot was good, but the clock operator had stopped it early. Minnesota would inbound with 0.8 seconds.

The crowd booed lustily but Markus gathered his teammates. "One more stop. Lock in."

Finch drew up a lob play for Edwards, banking on his athleticism to create something from nothing. The inbounds came, Edwards elevated, but Wembanyama read it perfectly. His fingertips grazed the ball, altering its trajectory just enough.

Time expired. San Antonio had survived.

But the overtime signal sounded. In the chaos, no one had noticed the foul called on Wembanyama's contest. Edwards would shoot two free throws with no time on the clock.

The arena went from euphoria to agony in seconds. Markus felt the emotional whiplash but stayed composed. This was the tournament. Everything magnified, every moment carrying weight.

Edwards, ice in his veins, made both free throws. Overtime.

In the extra period, both teams ran on fumes and will. The basketball was ugly but compelling—missed shots, turnovers, sheer determination keeping bodies moving when muscles screamed for rest.

With two minutes left in overtime, the score tied at 101, Markus found himself in familiar territory. The game slowing down despite his exhaustion, patterns emerging from chaos. He noticed Minnesota's help defense had gotten lazy, players too tired to make multiple rotations.

He called for a clear-out, waving everyone to the weak side. McDaniels picked him up at halfcourt, trying to use his length to discourage anything ambitious. But Markus had been here before in his mind, visualized this moment during countless solitary gym sessions.

The dribble sequence was pure muscle memory—right, left, between the legs, selling the drive to the rim. McDaniels bit just enough, his weight shifting forward. Markus planted and pulled back, but instead of the mid-range jumper everyone expected, he kept retreating.

One dribble. Two. Three. He was at the logo now, thirty-five feet from the basket, McDaniels scrambling to recover.

The shot shouldn't have been there, shouldn't have been attempted. But Markus had earned this green light through nine games of smart decisions.

He let it fly.

The ball seemed to hang in the air forever, rotation perfect, trajectory true. Even before it reached the rim, Markus knew. The sound of the net snapping was drowned out by the crowd's eruption, but he heard it in his soul.

Logo three. In overtime. In the tournament opener.

Minnesota called timeout but the damage was done. They managed one more bucket but couldn't get the stop they needed. Final score: San Antonio 108, Minnesota 105.

Markus finished with 31 points, 12 assists, and 5 rebounds, but the numbers barely told the story. He'd authored the kind of moment that lived forever in franchise lore, the kind that announced arrivals rather than potential.

—

Inside the NBA's studio crackled with post-game energy. The crew had been watching on monitors, their reactions authentic as the game unfolded. Now they had to make sense of what they'd witnessed.

"Alright, alright, alright," Charles began, his voice carrying that mixture of disbelief and excitement. "We need to talk about what we just saw. Because Markus Reinhart just hit a LOGO THREE in OVERTIME of his first tournament game!"

"Chuck, you've been hating on this kid since draft night," Kenny interjected. "What you got to say now?"

Charles held up his hands in surrender. "I'll admit when I'm wrong. I said they were crazy for trading Tre Jones. I said it was too much too soon for a second-round rookie. But this young man..." he paused, shaking his head. "He's special. Nine games in and he's averaging 23 and 10 on 48% shooting. That's All-Star numbers."

"And it's not just the stats," Shaq added. "Watch how he controls the game. Old head on young shoulders."

"Speaking of which," Ernie pulled up the highlight. "Let's look at this shot one more time."

They watched the logo three again, the studio erupting with the crowd noise from the broadcast.

"That's confidence," Kenny analyzed. "But smart confidence. He'd made good decisions all game, earned the right to take that shot."

"Can we talk about his stroke though?" Charles leaned forward. "I mean, this young man has got a mean stroke. It's pure as water."

Shaq stifled a laugh, his shoulders shaking.

"What? What'd I say?" Charles looked confused.

"Nothing, Chuck," Shaq managed. "Just... phrasing."

"Aw, come on!" Charles protested as the others laughed. "Y'all know what I meant! His jump shot! The form!"

"We know what you meant," Ernie said diplomatically. "Let's talk about the bigger picture. This Spurs team was supposed to be tanking for another lottery pick. Instead they're 6-3 and just beat a good Minnesota team without OG Anunoby for most of the second half."

"That's what I'm saying," Charles recovered, getting serious. "Nobody expected this. We all thought they'd bottom out again, get another high draft pick, keep building. But you put Reinhart with Wembanyama, add the pieces they got, and suddenly they're dangerous."

"Wemby had 24 and 13 with 5 blocks," Kenny noted. "Vassell gave them 20. Mitchell Robinson's protecting the rim. This isn't a cute story anymore. This is a team that can beat anybody on a given night."

"And they're FUN," Shaq emphasized. "That's what the tournament's about. Making these games matter. You see the crowd? That felt like playoffs in November."

"The West is brutal though," Ernie pointed out, pulling up the tournament standings. "Every game matters for advancement."

"But that's perfect for a young team," Charles argued. "Meaningful games, playoff atmosphere, learning how to win when it matters. This is exactly what San Antonio needs for their development."

"Can we talk about Pop for a second?" Kenny interjected. "The man's 74 years old and he's got as much energy as ever. You can see he loves coaching this group."

"Because they listen," Charles said. "They execute. They play the right way. And now they've got a point guard who can create when the play breaks down."

"The scary part," Shaq leaned back in his chair, "is they're only gonna get better. Reinhart's 19. Wemby's 19. Vassell's 23. In three years? Man..."

"IF they stay healthy," Charles added. "That's always the big if. But yeah, San Antonio got something brewing."

"And they shut me up," he continued. "I'll eat my words. I was wrong about the kid."

"Plus he's clutch," Kenny added. "That's unteachable. You either got it or you don't."

"He got it," Charles confirmed. "That young man got it all. Mean stroke and everything."

The studio erupted in laughter again as they went to commercial.