By Devon Birdsong | Pounding The Rock (PtR), 2026-04-20 23:45:00
在1971年版的《欢乐糖果屋》（Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory，这一版远比后来的版本出色）中，有这样一个精彩瞬间：查理·巴克特 (Charlie Bucket) 刚在隔壁买了一些巧克力，就从报摊周围嘈杂的人群中听说，之前声称发现的一张金色奖券已被证实是伪造的。
从音乐角度看，这一幕堪称完美。真相大白的瞬间，伴随着一声时机恰到好处、余音缭绕的钟声。当查理转身离去时，钟声化作了木管乐器调皮的颤音（我潜意识里总觉得约翰·威廉姆斯 (John Williams) 在《哈利·波特》的配乐中借用了这一段），以及急促、令人心跳加速的短笛式跑动。就在查理打开最后一块旺卡巧克力棒时，这些声音戛然而止，取而代之的是逐渐增强、充满胜利感的号角和弦乐，因为他发现了最后一张金色奖券。
这是这部电影原本压抑的开篇中，第一次真正让人感受到魔力的时刻。尽管后来的翻拍版拥有更先进的技术，但这一版依然能传递出更多的奇迹感，而这主要是通过声音来实现的。
可以说，它为整部电影奠定了基调（Set the tone）。
我必须承认，小时候我对这个短语在体育语境下的用法感到困惑。出于某种原因，我最初对这个词的理解是音乐性的、旋律性的、交响乐式的。在马刺队的语境下，我无法理解它的含义，于是当我陪祖母观看大卫·罗宾逊 (David Robinson) 在最后一支由查尔斯·巴克利 (Charles Barkley) 率领的太阳队阵中横冲直撞时（这是我记忆中第一次坐下来陪她看完整场季后赛系列赛），我向她表达了这种困惑。
“好吧，那你一定没在认真听，”她实事求是地说，“每项运动都有它的声音。下次他（‘海军上将’）得分时，你仔细听。”
不到三十秒后，大卫·罗宾逊 (David Robinson) 顶着查尔斯·巴克利 (Charles Barkley) 占据了有利位置，通过一个漂亮的变向，直接越过他在篮板上点球入筐，拿下了他当晚的最后分（也是第40分）。
即便通过我祖父母在80年代初购买的电视机扬声器，观众席爆发出的欢呼声依然震耳欲聋。
“看到了吗？有时候他们用篮球谱曲，有时他们拨动观众的心弦。”
“就像演奏乐器一样？”
“嗯哼，如果那是一群很棒的观众的话。”
昨晚，我们拥有了一群非常、非常棒的观众。而维克托·文班亚马 (Victor Wembanyama) 就像一位管弦乐团指挥一样调动着他们，同时他和队友们为整个系列赛奠定了基调。
并不是说圣安东尼奥的季后赛观众以前不好，而是长期的缺席似乎让这种氛围拥有了属于自己的生命力。在经历了数十年将季后赛视为理所当然的日子后，这些年像查理·巴克特一样的等待，让现场那种由迷幻的粉色、橙色和蓝色交织而成的狂热达到了顶峰。
似乎每一位球迷都身着嘉年华（Fiesta）配色球衣，决心充分利用这一时刻，这与场上那支充满活力的年轻球队交相辉映。在很长一段时间里，马刺队的球迷和球员们第一次仅仅因为能站在那里就感到无比幸福。
但这丝毫没有干扰他们的决心。比赛一开始，开拓者队就立即表现出要给马刺队一点颜色看看的意图（比喻意义上的，也有点字面意义上的）。
得益于第一节（以及上半场大部分时间）裁判偏向性的哨音，波特兰的球员们立即加强了身体对抗，同时还上演了一些令人印象深刻的“苦肉计”。这感觉有点像看着弟弟打了哥哥一拳，然后在哥哥还手之前赶紧跑去找家长告状。
无论这种策略的预期效果是什么，结果都适得其反。马刺队被激怒了，文班亚马开始带着复仇的怒火攻击开拓者的防线，三分球和扣篮如雨点般落在对手头上，仿佛一位从千年沉睡中苏醒的泰坦巨人。
下半场有一次，他扣篮未中，但力量之大，让人感觉他试图撕裂宇宙的结构，仿佛要永远让波特兰现在和未来的所有观众闭嘴。
文班在肋骨伤势尚未痊愈的情况下承受了预料之中的冲击，但他拒绝下场。当尘埃落定时，他已经将马刺队史最伟大的“基本功先生”从占据已久的圣安东尼奥季后赛首秀得分榜榜首位置上拉了下来。
与此同时，他的队友们利用了他创造的每一寸空间，创下了队史半场三分球命中数纪录。随着裁判终于停止了他们的“睁眼瞎”表演，马刺队在罚球线上用毅力换来了回报，最终让波特兰的频繁犯规付出了代价。
全场观众始终保持着存在感，他们的惊叹声、欢呼声、口号声和嘘声交织在一起，如同格里高利圣咏般和谐统一。这是属于体育迷的贝多芬，属于圣安东尼奥信徒的巴赫，属于经历了漫长银黑寒冬后终于迎来春天的维瓦尔第。
我之所以认为1971年版的罗尔德·达尔 (Roald Dahl) 经典童话优于后续版本，原因之一是它赢得了属于自己的快乐。原著中有一种黑暗色彩，适合最高级的黑色幽默，但那部电影避开了幽默，直面处境的凄凉。
作为一部极具时代感的电影，它毫不费力地唤起了20世纪70年代的经济困境——滞胀、对制度和人的信心丧失。它将孩子的热情与生活中长辈那种心知肚明的恐惧并列在一起。
那位对自己生活失去乐观、却为儿子的快乐而活的母亲；那位拼命想在唯一的孙子身上保留童年奇迹般理想主义的祖父。那种即便在信念萎缩中依然存在的、非常成年人的希望，弥漫在身体健全者和卧病在床者的世界里。
如果没有先经历这一切，查理找到金色奖券那一刻的所有音乐都将失去意义。
我还要坦白一件事（此处插入 Foo Fighters 的笑话）：我从未写过季后赛战报。
圣安东尼奥对阵丹佛的那轮系列赛发生在我加入 PTR 的第一年，当时我在作者资历排名中（可以理解地）排得很靠后。我唯一一次与季后赛沾边的写作是在2022年，当时马刺队打进了附加赛（然后迅速出局）。
和你们一样，我也为这一刻等待了许久。在没有季后赛的战壕里写作多年后，我意识到连我也曾将其视为理所当然。我的年纪还不足以记住大卫·罗宾逊到来之前的时光。现在，我比以往任何时候都更能理解1999年那个冠军对马刺球迷的意义。
在文班成为选秀热门的那一年，我就像那些卧病在床的祖父母一样，不敢抱有希望，唯恐希望落空。
然后，当抽签结果倒向圣安东尼奥时，我感觉自己就像乔爷爷从床上爬起来一样。
昨晚，我感觉自己就像进入工厂的查理·巴克特。我拿到了一张金色奖券。我们都拿到了一张金色奖券。他的名字叫维克托·文班亚马。
我不知道工厂里会发生什么，但我已经准备好见证一个又一个奇迹。
我能听到音乐，旋律令人欣喜若狂。我想，这是我们应得的。
赛后总结
- 我必须承认，斯蒂芬·卡斯尔 (Stephon Castle) 和迪伦·哈珀 (Dylan Harper) 在上半场看起来有些紧张。他们合计出现了5次失误，突破和远投都没有发挥出来。他们在下半场找回了状态，但我真的很庆幸我们中没人管理圣安东尼奥的管理层，因为主要是德阿隆·福克斯 (De’Aaron Fox) 稳住了局面。他整场比赛都在冷静（且极具侵略性）地寻找机会，找到空位队友，并喂球给那个横冲直撞的怪兽——维克托·文班亚马。我要冒昧建议一下：让这家伙多留一段时间。他看起来很会打球。
- 作为报道过2022年附加赛的人，看到德文·瓦塞尔 (Devin Vassell) 从比赛一开始就完全不露怯、挺身而出，我一点也不感到意外。这是一个后来被稍微忽视的细节，但在那场比赛中，是瓦塞尔（而不是德章泰·穆雷）领衔全队得分（以及几乎所有其他方面）。昨晚，当开拓者队竭尽全力缩小差距时，他在关键时刻多次挺身而出。马刺队在大部分时间里都能与对手保持距离，但如果没有瓦塞尔在攻防两端的勤勉表现，这将会是一场完全不同的比赛。
- 朱利安·尚帕尼 (Julian Champagnie) 继续他那令人信服的“丹尼·格林”模仿秀，我甚至开始怀疑是不是发生了“灵魂交换”。技术统计无法体现他多少次帮助外线防守免于在开拓者面前崩溃，波特兰人拒绝放弃，一直在寻找任何可能的漏洞。他的两记三分球时机都掌握得很好，但看到对手真的竭尽全力想把他在马刺的进攻体系中剔除，总是很有趣，因为他们（理所当然地）害怕给他空位投篮的机会。不过，我不知道他们能坚持多久，因为他的无球跑动实在太狡猾了，以至于对手多次跟丢了他。如果斯蒂芬·卡斯尔当时的心态不那么紧张，我敢肯定他会更多地利用这些防守疏忽。
- 天哪，卢克·科内特 (Luke Kornet) 昨晚看起来状态真好。我承认波特兰的大个子轮换阵容并不出色，但科内特在防守端造成的麻烦几乎和文班一样多，而且他总能找到空间在进攻端完成扣篮。在满眼年轻球员的情况下，人们很容易忘记圣安东尼奥确实拥有具备夺冠经验的老将，而科内特在对阵开拓者的比赛中完美完成了他的任务。如果他们能得到更多这个版本的科内特，这将会是一个短暂的系列赛。
离场曲目——今晚的主题曲：
Foo Fighters 的《Best of You》
由生成式人工智能翻译，译文内容可能不准确或不完整，以原文为准。
点击查看原文：What we learned from the Spurs Game 1 win over the Trail Blazers
What we learned from the Spurs Game 1 win over the Trail Blazers
There’s this great moment in the (vastly superior) 1971 version of Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory where, immediately after purchasing some chocolate next door, Charlie Bucket overhears from the hubbub of a crowd surrounding a newsstand that one of the claimed golden tickets has been proven a fraud.
Musically, it’s perfection. The moment of revelation is met with a marvelously-timed reverberating bell-like tone that hangs in the air as Charlie turns to walk away, which turns into the mischievous trilling of woodwinds (that some part of my subconscious swears John Williams repurposed in the Harry Potter score) and sharp, heart-pumping piccolo-esque runs that pick up just as Charlie opens his final Wonka bar, before being replaced by the building of triumphant horns and strings as he discovers the last golden ticket.
It’s the first real sense of magic in the downtrodden opening of a film that still manages more wonder than a series of successors made with unquestionably superior technology, and it conveys it primarily through sound.
It sets the tone, so to speak, for the rest of the film.
I must confess that the usage of that phrase in the context of sport baffled me as a child. For whatever reason, my introduction to that word was initially musical, melodic, symphonic. It didn’t make sense to me in the context of the Spurs, which I expressed to my grandmother as we watched David Robinson run amok on the last iteration of the Charles Barkley Suns (the first time I can recall sitting down and watching an entire playoff series with her).
“Well, you must not be listening very well,” she said matter-of-factly. “Every sport has its sounds. Listen closely the next time he (The Admiral) scores.”
Not even a full thirty seconds later, Robinson was able to establish position against Barkley, and with a nifty change of direction, went right over him and off the glass for his final (and 40th) points of the night.
And even through the speakers of the television set my grandparents had purchased in the early-80s, the eruption from the crowd was cacophonous.
“You see? Sometimes they make music with the basketball. And sometimes they play the crowd.”
“Like an instrument?”
“Mhmm, if it’s a good crowd.”
Well, last night featured a very, very good crowd. And Victor Wembanyama played them like an orchestral conductor while he and his teammates set the tone of the series.
Not that San Antonio playoff crowds haven’t always been good, but the extended absence seemed to make it take on a life of its own. The years of feeling like Charlie Bucket, after decades of taking the postseason for granted, added to the fever pitch of pseudo-hallucinogenic pinks, and oranges, and blues.
Seemingly every fan was Fiesta-clad, determined to make the most of the moment, mirroring the spirited young team on the court. For the first time in a long time, Spurs fans and players were just happy to be there.
Not that that interfered with their sense of determination at all. As play began, the Trail Blazers immediately announced their intention to kick the Spurs in the teeth (figuratively, and somewhat literally).
Benefiting from a friendly whistle in the first quarter (and most of the first half) Portland players immediately got physical while staging some impressive melodramas of their own. It felt a bit like watching a younger sibling punch an older sibling in the face and then run to a parent before the offense could be repaid in full.
Whatever the intended effect, it resulted in the exact opposite, as the Spurs woke up and Victor Wembanyama began to attack the Blazers defense with a vengeance, raining three-pointers and dunks down on the opposition like a Titan awoken from a thousand-year slumber.
At one point in the second half he missed a dunk with such force that it felt like he was attempting to tear at the very fabric of the universe, as if trying to silence all Portland crowds both present and future in perpetuity.
Wemby took the predictable shots to the still-healing ribs, refused to be pulled, and when the dust had settled, had unseated the most fundamental Spur who ever lived from his long-standing perch atop the San Antonio playoff debut leader-board.
All the while, his teammates took advantage of every inch of space that he gave them, setting the franchise record for most threes made in a half and finally capitalizing on all of Portland’s contact as the officials abandoned their Mr. Magoo act and rewarded them for their perseverance at the free-throw line.
All the while the crowd made themselves known, ooing and aahing and chanting and booing in equal measure with the unity and harmony of a Gregorian cantorum. It was Beethoven for the sporting obsessed. Bach for the San Antonio faithful. Vivaldi for a long silver-and-black winter that had finally turned to spring.
One of the reasons I consider the 1971 version of Roald Dahl’s beloved children’s tale to be superior to the versions that followed, is that it earns its joy. There’s a darkness in the book that lends itself to black comedy of the highest order, but that film leans away from the comedy and into the bleakness of the situation.
Very much a film of its time, it almost effortlessly evokes the financial difficulties of the 1970’s — the stagflation, the loss of faith in institutions and in people. It juxtaposes the enthusiasms of a child against the knowing fear of the grown-ups in his life.
The mother who has lost optimism for her own life, but lives for the joy of her son. The grandfather desperately trying to preserve the miraculous idealism of childhood in his only grandchild. The very adult hope that exists in the atrophy of faith permeates the landscape of both the bodily able and the bedridden.
All the music of the moment that Charlie finds his golden ticket means less without all of these things first.
I’ve got another confession to make (insert Foo Fighters joke here): I’ve never written about a playoff game.
San Antonio’s series against Denver took place during my rookie year at PTR, and I was (understandably) pretty far down the line of writers with seniority. My only postseason-adjacent bit of writing was back in 2022, when the Spurs made (and immediately flamed out of) the Play-in.
I’ve been waiting for this moment for a while now, like the rest of you. And after years writing in the postseason-less trenches, I can see that even I took it for granted. I am not old enough to remember the times before David Robinson arrived. I understand now, more than ever, what that 1999 title meant to Spurs fans.
I felt like one of those bedridden grandparents the year the Wemby was on the table, unwilling to engage with hope for fear of the alternative.
And then I felt like Grandpa Joe climbing out of bed when the lottery went San Antonio’s way.
Last night I felt like Charlie Bucket entering the factory. I’ve got a golden ticket. We all have a golden ticket. His name is Victor Wembanyama.
And I don’t know what’s going to happen in the factory, but I’m prepared to see wonder after wonder.
I can hear the music, and the melody is euphoric. I think we’ve all earned that.
Takeaways
- I have to admit, Stephon Castle and Dylan Harper looked a little shaky in the first half. They combined for five turnovers, and the penetration and long-distance shooting just was not there. They picked it up in the 2nd half, but boy am I glad that none of us run San Antonio’s front office, because it was largely De’Aaron Fox steadying the ship, and he spent most of the game picking his spots carefully (yet aggressively), finding the open man, and feeding the rampaging monster that was Victor Wembanyama. I’m gonna go out on a limb here and recommend that we keep that guy around for a little while longer. He seems good at basketball.
- Having been one of those who covered the 2022 play-in game, I was 0% surprised to see Devin Vassell completely unshaken and rising to the moment from the onset of the game. It’s a detail that’s been a bit neglected since, but it was Vassell (not Dejounte Murray) who led the team in scoring (and pretty much every other way) in that contest, and he came in clutch on several occasions as the Trail Blazers did their level best to close the gap. The Spurs were able to keep them at arm’s length for most of the contest, but it would have been a very different game without Vassell doing yeoman’s work on both ends.
- Julian Champagnie continued his Danny Green impersonation so convincingly, that I’m starting to suspect a body-swapping scenario. The box score isn’t going to do justice to how often he helped keep the perimeter from collapsing against a Portland team that refused to give up the ghost and were looking to take advantage of any and every opening. Both of his threes were well-timed, but it’s always amusing to see teams really do their best to scheme him out of San Antonio’s offense because of how much they (justifiably) fear giving him an open shot. I don’t know how well they’re going to be able to keep that up, though, because he is just incredibly slippery off-ball, to the point that they lost track of him on a number of occasions. If Castle had been in a less jittery headspace, I’m reasonably certain he would have capitalized more on those lapses.
- Boy howdy did Luke Kornet look *healthy* last night. I recognize that Portland’s big-man rotation is less than stellar, but Kornet was almost as much trouble as Wemby on the defensive end, and he kept finding space to throw it down on the other end. With all of the collected youth, it’s easy to forget that San Antonio does have vets with title-winning experience, and Kornet did exactly what he was brought here to do against the Trail Blazers. If they get more of that version of Kornet, this is going to be a quick series.
Playing You Out – The Theme Song of the Evening:
Best of You by Foo Fighters
By Devon Birdsong, via Pounding The Rock