A Spur Of Faith

The Miami game came and went like a fever dream. Final score: Heat 112, Spurs 103.

Without OG's defensive versatility, Jimmy Butler carved them up in the fourth quarter with that brilliance he saved for games that mattered.

Markus finished with 26 and 8, but the loss stung deeper than the stats suggested. They were in tournament period. Every loss felt magnified.

In the locker room afterward, nobody spoke much. Just the sound of ice bags being filled, tape being cut.

They'd let one slip away. While that may have been permissable in the Spur's squad a year back—it wasn't now.

And Pop didn't need to say anything. The message was clear in what he didn't say.

Two days later, the practice facility hummed with different energy. Oklahoma City was coming to town for the second group stage game, and something had shifted in Markus's demeanor. Not arrogance—he'd never been that guy—but a crystallizing focus that made his movements sharper, his passes crisper, his presence more commanding.

"You good?" Vassell asked during a water break, noticing the change.

Markus wiped sweat from his face, considering the question.

Was he good? The Miami loss had lit something inside him, not anger exactly but... determination? The tournament format meant every game carried weight. Win and stay alive. Lose and watch your chances slip away.

"I'm locked in," he said finally.

Vassell nodded, understanding. They'd all felt it—the shift from regular season basketball to more urgent basketball.

The tournament had given November games March intensity, and some players thrived under that pressure while others wilted.

Markus was learning which type he was.

—

Game night arrived with palpable tension. The Thunder rolled into San Antonio young, hungry, and dangerous. Shai Gilgeous-Alexander, another under the radar player turned MVP candidate, was the center of attention.

His herky-jerky drives and mid-range mastery creating problems nobody in the league had fully solved. Around him, Oklahoma City had built a defensive monster—long, athletic, relentless.

During warmups, Markus moved with far more fluidity that he'd noticed increasing game after game.

No wasted motion, no energy spent on anything but preparation. The ball felt right in his hands, rotation perfect on every shot, his body finally adjusted to the NBA's physicality after weeks of Troy's program.

The opening minutes unfolded like a complicated game. How else would it?

Both teams probed for advantages, testing defensive schemes, measuring intensity levels. Shai got his points with typical efficiency—a floater here, a pull-up there, the scoring coming so smoothly it seemed effortless.

But Markus matched him possession for possession. A crafty finish through contact. A step-back three over Lu Dort's suffocating defense. The controlled aggression had indicated he'd crossed some invisible threshold from prospect to player.

The game stayed tight through three quarters, neither team able to create real separation. Every bucket was earned, every stop contested. The crowd stood for entire possessions, that beautiful tension of meaningful basketball in November.

With 1:47 left and the Thunder up two, everything condensed to a series of crucial possessions. Markus brought the ball up, the noise in AT&T Center reaching painful levels. Oklahoma City's defense was set, disciplined, exactly what you'd expect from a Mark Daigneault-coached team.

The play developed slowly—Wembanyama screening, Robinson relocating, movement designed to create confusion. But the Thunder switched everything cleanly, maintaining their shell, forcing the Spurs to create against set defense.

With the shot clock winding down, Markus found himself isolated against Shai on the left wing. The matchup everyone wanted to see—ascending star versus vs ascending star, future versus future. Time slowed as options crystallized.

Markus began his sequence—right, left, between the legs, the dribble lower than low, exactly how Chip had drilled into him. Shai stayed attached, those long arms disrupting passing lanes, forcing Markus to create for himself.

The crossover came suddenly—left to right with violence, his whole body selling the drive. Shai bit just enough, his weight shifting. But instead of pulling up, Markus kept going, accelerating past with a burst that surprised everyone including himself.

Chet Holmgren rotated over, all seven feet of him rising to challenge. Markus absorbed the contact, body control keeping him balanced despite the collision. The floater came off his fingertips soft as silk, arcing over Chet's outstretched hand.

The ball kissed off glass and dropped through. Tie game. 42 seconds left.

"COLD-BLOODED!" Doris Burke exclaimed. "The rookie showing no fear against two of the league's best defenders!"

Oklahoma City called timeout, but momentum had shifted. You could feel it in how the Spurs walked to their bench, see it in how the Thunder's body language had tightened. One play, but one play was often enough.

The Thunder came out of the timeout looking for Shai, clearing the left side for him to operate. He worked methodically, probing for angles, the clock bleeding down. With eight seconds left, he made his move—a devastating combination of hesitations and misdirection that created just enough space for a pull-up.

The shot looked good, felt good, but iron has no mercy. The ball clanged off back rim, Wembanyama securing the rebound with both hands.

Four seconds. Timeout San Antonio.

Coming out of the timeout, Oklahoma City had two defenders ready to jump Markus the moment he used a screen.

But this is what made Pop a genius. During timeout he called a motion play that would be designed to exploit their aggressiveness.

Vassell set a fake screen and slipped immediately, drawing attention. Robinson set the real screen from the opposite angle, forcing the Thunder to make a choice. They chose wrong.

Markus came off Robinson's screen with a full head of steam, only Dort able to recover in time. But Dort was giving up four inches and had momentum working against him. Markus rose up from nineteen feet, the defender's contest late and desperate.

Time stopped. Twenty thousand people held their breath. The ball rotated through space that felt thick as molasses, the arena lights catching its spin, everything condensing to this single moment.

Nothing but net.

The arena exploded. Markus allowed himself one scream, one moment of pure release, before his teammates mobbed him.

On the Thunder's bench, Shai nodded with respect.

Game recognized game.

Final: San Antonio 89, Oklahoma City 87.

—

Three days later, Sacramento came to town carrying their own playoff aspirations. De'Aaron Fox had taken another leap, Domantas Sabonis was a walking triple-double, and their pace-and-space system created problems for teams that couldn't match their energy.

But this wasn't the same Spurs team that had sleepwalked through the Miami loss. Something had crystallized after the Oklahoma City win—a belief that they belonged in these moments, that youth was a fact but not an excuse.

The game was over by halftime.

Not literally—the score read 67-49 Spurs—but spiritually, competitively, in all the ways that mattered. Wembanyama had decided to remind everyone why he was generational, not just special. He had 18 points, 9 rebounds, and 5 blocks in the first half alone, turning the paint into his personal kingdom where peasants entered at their own risk.

"This is insane," Malik Monk said to Fox during a free throw, loud enough for courtside mics to catch. "Everything we throw up there, he's swatting. Everything."

But it wasn't just Wembanyama. The entire team had locked in defensively, executing Pop's scheme with precision that belied their youth. Markus of course was ever present, he orchestrated the offense like a conductor, finding the perfect pass at the perfect moment, his 11 first-half assists creating a highlight reel of team basketball.

The third quarter was a victory lap disguised as competition. Markus threw an alley-oop to Wembanyama that brought the crowd to its feet. Robinson dunked so hard on Sabonis that the Lithuanian actually smiled and nodded appreciation. Vassell couldn't miss, drilling threes like the rim had a gravitational pull on his shots.

With five minutes left and the Spurs up 28, Pop emptied his bench. The starters had done their job, made their statement. As Markus checked out to a standing ovation, he caught the scoreboard: 102-74.

After the Miami loss, after the narrow Oklahoma City win, they'd needed this—a statement that when they were locked in, they could demolish good teams.

Final: San Antonio 120, Sacramento 87.

Spurs were on top of their Tournament group and in the Western Conference overall, the Spurs sat at 8-4, exceeding every projection, challenging assumptions about timelines and patience. The tournament had accelerated everything.

—

The next week blurred past in a haze of flights and defeats. OG returned from his ankle injury just in time for a brutal three-game road trip. Memphis handled them with veteran savvy, 108-99. The Lakers, riding LeBron's mastery and AD's dominance, took both games of a back-to-back—116-102 and 114-98.

Three losses in four games. The shine wearing off slightly. Reality asserting itself.

But none of that mattered now. Not with Golden State coming to town for the final group stage game. Win and advance to the knockout rounds. Lose and go home. Simple math with complex implications.

—

The morning of the Warriors game, Markus arrived at the arena four hours early. Not unusual—he'd always been first in, last out—but today felt different. The empty arena had a cathedral quality, morning light slanting through high windows, dust motes floating like incense smoke.

He started with basic dribbling drills at center court. Nothing fancy, just reconnecting with fundamentals. Right hand, left hand, between the legs, behind the back. The rhythm soothing, meditative, grounding him in the present moment.

"Getting after it early."

Markus turned to find Steph Curry walking onto the court, already in his practice gear despite the game being eight hours away. The Warriors superstar moved with that easy confidence that came from a decade of dominance, but his eyes carried genuine warmth.

"Mind if I get some work in?" Steph asked, though they both knew the court was big enough for fifty players.

"All yours," Markus said, continuing his routine.

They worked in comfortable silence for a while, each lost in their own preparation. The only sounds were bouncing balls and squeaking shoes, that beautiful percussion of basketball labor. Gradually, almost unconsciously, they drifted closer until they were sharing the same basket.

"Heard you've been working with Chip," Steph said between shots. "Best in the business. He helped me fixed my mechanics back in 2013 actually."

Markus, was surpised yet not startled.

"He's been great," He replied, drilling a three from the wing. "Really demanding, but great."

Steph rebounded Markus' make and held the ball for a moment. "Can I tell you something? And I'm not trying to big-time you or whatever."

Markus nodded, curious.

"You remind me a lot of myself at your age," Steph continued, passing the ball back. "Not the game—. but the pressure you're under. Second-round pick trying to prove you belong. Team betting everything on you being ready before you should be."

He paused, gathering thoughts. "I was the seventh pick and still felt like I was drowning some nights. Can't imagine doing it from where you got drafted."

"It's just basketball," Markus said, the response automatic.

Steph laughed—not mockingly, but with recognition. "Yeah, I used to say that too. Defense mechanism, right? Make it smaller so it can't crush you."

The accuracy of the observation caught Markus off-guard. He'd been saying "it's just basketball" since draft night, a mantra to manage expectations, to stay grounded. But Steph was right—it was also armor, a way to pretend the pressure wasn't real.

"The thing is," Steph continued, taking another shot, "it's not just basketball. It's your life, your career, your teammates counting on you. And that's okay. It's supposed to feel heavy sometimes."

They kept shooting, the conversation flowing naturally between makes and misses.

"You've got the same thing I had though," Steph said. "Same thing Luka has, Kyrie has, Bron has. You see the game in slow motion. That's your superpower. Trust it, even when everything else feels too fast."

He dribbled between his legs a few times, then looked at Markus with a grin. "Plus you've got my archetype now. The torch has been passed once again."

Markus actually laughed at that. "The shooter archetype?"

"The 'make defenses lose their minds from thirty feet' archetype," Steph corrected, drilling a deep three to emphasize the point. "Use it. Teams are already scared of you shooting from range. Make them pay for that fear."

They shot for another twenty minutes, the conversation drifting to lighter topics— the weirdness of playing on Christmas, how Draymond was actually a teddy bear off the court…

"Make it a goal to ensure Draymond doesn't find out you know he wears a onesies at night…"

As other players began arriving for morning shootaround, Steph grabbed his bag to head to the visitors' locker room. "Hey, good luck tonight. I mean, I'm still gonna try to rip your heart out, but... you know."

"Likewise," Markus said, meaning it.

"That's what I like to hear." Steph gave him a quick shoulder bump and headed out. "See you tonight, young fella. Bring your A-game."

—

By evening, AT&T Center crackled with winner-take-all energy. The tournament had delivered exactly what the NBA hoped.

Both teams at the top of their group, first and second respectively, they needed this win to advance. Both believed they deserved it.

During warmups, Markus felt different than previous games. Locked in still, but it felt different each game.

Fully enchanted by the moment. His shots fell with easy rotation, his movement fluid, his mind clear. The morning conversation with Steph had shifted something, given him permission to embrace the weight rather than deflect it.

The Warriors came out in championship mode. Their motion offense flowed like water, constant movement creating constant advantages.

But the Spurs were ready. Pop had them switching aggressively, making Golden State work for every clean look. On offense, Markus probed deliberately, using the shot-making gravity Steph had mentioned to create driving lanes.

The first quarter featured basketball at its highest level. No sloppy possessions, no easy buckets, just two well-coached teams executing their philosophies. Markus found himself matched up with Steph frequently, a challenge he embraced rather than avoided.

"That's good defense," Steph said after making a ridiculous off-balance three over Markus's perfect contest. "But when it comes to me good defense gets scored on."

The education continued throughout the half. Watching Steph up close—the way he used angles, created space with subtle movements, manipulated defenders with his eyes—was like attending a masterclass. Markus absorbed every lesson while competing fiercely.

Midway through the second quarter came the Draymond moment everyone knew was coming. Markus drove hard to the rim, using his improved strength to create contact. As he went up, Draymond's arm came down hard—not quite flagrant, but definitely extra.

Markus hit the deck hard, more surprised than hurt. But as he got up, something flared inside him. Not the contact itself, but the dismissive way Draymond turned away, like swatting a fly not worth acknowledging.

"Yo," Markus said, stepping directly into Draymond's space. "Don't play with me like that."

Draymond turned back. "What you say?"

"You heard me." Markus held his ground, Detroit bleeding through his usual composure.

For a moment, tension crackled between them. Then Draymond smiled and walked off before refs could intervene.

The third quarter brought playoff-level intensity. Bodies hit the floor on loose balls. Coaches worked refs constantly. Every possession felt magnified. Through it all, Markus' physical development showed—he absorbed contact better, finished through traffic with strength he hadn't possessed in October.

With five minutes left in the fourth, Golden State led by seven. Their championship DNA showing, executing in crunch time while the young Spurs showed cracks. A bad Sochan turnover. A missed rotation leading to a Klay three. The knockout rounds slipping away.

Pop called timeout, gathering his team with calm urgency. "We're playing tight. Afraid to lose instead of trying to win. Markus, we need you to be aggressive. Everyone else, trust our stuff. We've prepared for this."

Coming out of the timeout, Markus took the message to heart. He attacked Steph off the dribble, using his strength advantage to create space for a pull-up jumper. On the next possession, he found Wembanyama with a perfect lob for a momentum-shifting dunk.

The arena came alive. The Spurs fed off the energy, their youth becoming an advantage as Warriors legs showed fatigue. Robinson's offensive rebound led to a Vassell three. Anunoby's defense forced a shot clock violation.

With ninety seconds left, Markus brought the ball up with the game tied. The crowd stood as one, noise cascading down from the rafters. This was why they'd accelerated the timeline, why they'd bet on youth, why they'd believed when others doubted.

Markus surveyed the floor with preternatural calm. The Warriors switched everything, taking away primary actions. But switching created mismatches, and mismatches created opportunities.

He waved Wembanyama up to set a screen, forcing Draymond to switch onto him. The Warriors legend crouched low, ready for the drive. But Markus had learned from their earlier exchange. Instead of challenging Draymond's strength, he used technique.

A series of hesitation dribbles got Draymond leaning. Then came the move Chip had beaten into him through countless repetitions—the hesi-pull, selling drive with everything before creating space with the pullback.

Draymond contested desperately but couldn't close the gap. The shot felt perfect leaving Markus's hands, rotation true, arc optimal. The net barely moved as the ball passed through.

Spurs by two. One minute left.

The Warriors came down needing a bucket. Their motion offense created a decent look for Thompson, but fatigue affected his legs. The shot fell short, Wembanyama securing the rebound.

Golden State fouled immediately. Markus calmly sank both free throws. Four-point lead, forty seconds remaining.

Steph answered with a trademark three, using a screen to create just enough daylight. One-point game, twenty-eight seconds left. The tournament's knockout rounds hanging in the balance.

Markus brought it up against token pressure, bleeding clock. The Warriors couldn't foul, needing a stop. With the shot clock winding down, everything condensed to one possession, one decision, one moment.

The play broke down. Golden State's switching disrupted every action. With three seconds on the shot clock, Markus found himself isolated against Andre Iguodala thirty feet from the basket. No good options, time expiring, season-defining moment arriving.

He made the only choice that made sense. Rising up from beyond NBA range, Markus let it fly with Iguodala's hand in his face. The ball arced through the air as twenty thousand people held their breath.

The shot rattled home as the shot clock expired. Markus pumped his fist once before immediately getting back on defense. Four-point lead, eight seconds left.

Steph pushed it quickly, looking for a quick three to extend the game. But the Spurs' defense held firm, forcing him to give it up to Thompson. Klay's desperation three was contested by Anunoby's incredible closeout.

The ball clanged off iron. Game over. San Antonio had survived.

Final: San Antonio 98, Golden State 94.

As the final buzzer sounded, confirming the Spurs' advancement to the knockout rounds, Markus felt the weight of what they'd accomplished. Not just winning, but growing. Not just surviving, but thriving when everything said they shouldn't.

Steph found him in the handshake line. "That's big-time shot-making," he said with genuine respect. "You're gonna be a problem for a long time."

"Learned from watching the best," Markus replied.

"Nah," Steph shook his head. "That's all you. Keep working. Next time we play, I'm getting you back for that deep three."

As the Warriors filed off and the Spurs celebrated their tournament advancement, the arena screens showed the updated bracket. First knockout round opponent: Phoenix Suns. The journey would only get harder from here.

But standing on their home court, confetti falling for the group stage championship, Markus felt ready for whatever came next.