Walking through the leafy streets of my central Jersey town, I came across an uncle of mine—colloquially, he’s really just a friend of my father. He, as immigrant uncles love to do, starts by asking me the obvious “out for a walk?” and then homes in on the one subject we might have in common: basketball. While home for break I often pick my father up from the train station, giving the “uncle” a ride. We talk basketball during this twenty-minute car ride, exploring the minutiae of Knicks basketball. We talk KAT, and Jalen Brunson’s heroics. We even bring up Villanova; I applied to the university after watching Josh Hart, Mikal Bridges, and the aforementioned Brunson win two chips in three years.
My uncle eventually asked if I’d be watching the game that night. Game seven, the Oklahoma City Thunder playing the San Antonio Spurs. Any reasonable fan might immediately think “boy, are those two small markets!” and that would be right-on. I can’t imagine wanting to live or play in either city, but alas! Both happen to be the best-run organizations in basketball, their respective general managers prioritizing continuity over consultant-esque organizational shakeups. Why doesn’t everyone just do that?
I told the uncle I’d be watching the game and rooting for the Spurs.
Ernie Barnes
“I just can’t stand the Thunder. All they do is foul-bait, you know?” I said, miming a particularly egregious flop from Thunder superstar Shai Gilgeous-Alexander (SGA). “When he drives to the basket his eyes leave the rim and focus on his defender’s shoulder, waiting and watching for the perfect moment to dive into his shoulder and fall, aghast. What kind of basketball is that?”
Basketball is often watched purely out of spite, I’ve come to realize. This current Western Conference finals is, in fact, the most viewed Western Conference Finals in history (even accounting for population growth, etc). People love a villain, love the clash between whatever they think is Good and Bad. This is also the reason for the enduring popularity of Marvel movies—everyone loves a simple dichotomy. Grey is out of fashion—give us clear, unadulterated black and white.
“White” for this series is undoubtedly Victor Wembanyama, “Wemby”. Standing an otherworldly 7’5 without shoes—and some say he’s even taller—Wemby, sporting the moniker “Alien” is everything right about NBA basketball. Despite his height, he handles the ball like a six-foot point guard, passes like a darker Nikola Jokic, and shoots three-pointers like a skinny white guy out of Duke. He’s French, but not annoyingly so (his father is from the Congo). Above all things he simply plays the right way, with heart and intensity we haven’t seen since Jordan in the ‘90s.
Wembanyama guarded by Thunder all-star wing Jalen Williams, courtesy of SI
Let’s return to the hate-watch. The casual NBA fan—myself included—has no real attachment to the Spurs outside of respect for their players and front office. My chief tie to them is that their legendary former head coach was, prior to the Spurs’ ascension, the head coach of my Division III liberal arts college. We have a mural and a plaque for him, the only basketball name to come out of our little town.
What the casual NBA fan, like myself, has is a healthy amount of vitriol pointed towards the Oklahoma City Thunder. They foul-bait, their team is unfairly stacked, they play visually unappealing basketball, they themselves are visually unappealing…
There’s more, of course. Half the roster seems more interested in making TikTok dances than practicing their jump shot, the team is ridiculously corny (as any sports fan knows, the greatest of all sins), they live, for God’s sake, in Oklahoma City which is a shithole city in a shithole state… do I even need to go on? I will go on.
They have not one, but two players named some variation of “Jaylen Williams”, both spelled incorrectly (Jalen and Jaylin). They won their first championship on the back of an injured Tyrese Haliburton, one of the most electric stars the Eastern Conference has seen in a decade. Their backup point guard goes by the nickname “the Bald Mamba” and still chooses to wear a headband. They’ve fleeced the Los Angeles Clippers in so many deals the Clippers somehow still owe them first-round draft picks (in fairness this might be more the Clippers’ atrocious management).
Ernie Barnes
When I put the game on that night, my dad came to my room to watch it with me. We threw out our TV when I was eleven—crunchy parents—so we watch basketball on the monitor I used for online school during COVID. He asks why I’m rooting for the Spurs and I remind him I’m not, “I’d rather have them than the Thunder, is all” and he’s confused but only until SGA draws his first shooting foul falling headfirst into Spurs point guard Stephon Castle. Castle is visibly frustrated, pleads with the ref to no avail. He begs his coach to challenge the call—“no, trust me, we’ll need the challenge later” and finally lines up sullenly to rebound in case of a missed free throw. He need not have bothered, SGA’s other nickname being “FTA” (Free Throw Attempt). He sinks both, and the Spurs race out of the gates, their star center calling for the ball at the top of the key.
Two and a half hours later, the game finally comes to an end. My illegal stream is buffering and I tell my dad not to look the score up on his phone, I want to see the conclusion. Spurs point guard Dylan Harper—son of NBA Champion Ron Harper—knocks down a three-pointer over Shai, puts the game to rest. The Thunder walk off the court, nonchalant as always. They manage to avoid the trophy presentation, avoid Wemby and his team crying with joy.
“This is ethical basketball,” I tell my dad. “How could you ever hate these guys?” We both know within the year Wemby will be outed as a fraud himself. He shoots too many threes, why can’t he score around the rim? He’s 7’5, for God’s sake. And what’s with all the emotion? Corny, we will say. Another challenger will arise, attempt to topple the already-aging Spurs.
“Get them out of here,” we’ll say.
Ernie Barnes