By Devon Birdsong | Pounding The Rock (PtR), 2026-06-05 03:39:25
1861年7月21日的清晨，马车开始陆续抵达弗吉尼亚州的森特维尔 (Centreville)。
这里曾是一个繁华的贸易中心（后来新建的公路和铁路分流了它所依赖的交通流量），而当时镇上仅剩100多名居民。
镇上是否还有人拥有马车，这得去问比我更出色的历史学家，但你几乎可以肯定，绝对没有人拥有像那些正一辆接一辆驶入镇上的、雕刻精美且装饰华丽的四轮敞篷马车那样奢华的交通工具。
衣着考究的绅士和淑女们适时地从豪华座驾中走出来。他们的西装和胡须打理得一丝不苟，夏装裙熨烫得平整，长发卷成精致的卷儿，脸上带着一种让人很容易误以为是去观看体育赛事的猎奇神情。
华盛顿特区的富豪和精英们正倾巢而出，但他们此行究竟意欲何为？
我想消息很快就在镇上传开了。即使在它作为区域交通枢纽的鼎盛时期，这也会引起不小的轰动。参议员、蓝血贵族和仆人们在街上穿梭，打听消息、跑腿办事，而他们的询问也极其古怪。
“从这里哪个位置最适合观看战斗？”
战斗？为什么会有人想看战斗？野餐？！
没错，野餐。随着仆人们（以及那些没有或没带仆人的人）开始卸下仍在不断聚集的马车和轻便双轮马车上的物品，他们的意图变得昭然若揭。这绝非玩笑。
篮子、提包，以及各种茶罐、水壶和酒桶被从旅行储物箱中卸下或抬出，准备运往预先选定的最佳观战地点。
要知道，森特维尔建在高原上。虽然美洲原住民和英国定居者最初选择这里，主要是因为有各种溪流和水源流入牛奔河 (Bull Run)，并最终汇入奥科昆河 (Occoquan River)——但这里的视野同样极佳，可以俯瞰如今的多座国家公园，牛奔山脉清晰可见，蓝岭山脉则在更远处若隐若现。
而在此刻最重要的是，这里拥有极佳的全景视野，可以俯瞰位于铁路枢纽外围、起伏不平的马纳萨斯 (Manassas) 平原。
马纳萨斯枢纽距离南方邦联的新首都里士满 (Richmond) 以北仅100英里（靠近另一条通往谢南多厄河谷的铁路连接线），距离华盛顿特区以南仅30英里，这成为了人们议论的焦点。
联邦军（北军）和邦联军（南军）的将军们对该枢纽的战略重要性基本达成了共识。两军都希望利用这个车站运送部队，以便入侵对方的首都并保卫自己的首都。
于是，在仅仅训练了几个月后，两支军队便在河的两岸安营扎寨，中间只隔着平缓的山坡、零星的树林和草地，准备迎接美国内战中第一场真正意义上的野战。
这就是为什么富裕平民的到来让森特维尔的居民感到如此震惊。随着北军士兵在半夜撤离，居民们原本以为只会等来更多的军事后备力量，更不用说那些穿着考究的观众了——他们带着食物、毯子和歌剧望远镜来到高原边缘（甚至是一些更近的周边山丘），准备在战场可见的范围内进行一场欢快的午餐。
就在拂晓前，大炮已经开火。那些名流和国会议员们肯定也听到了消息。
然而，他们依然坐在那里，手里拿着去掉了面包皮的三明治，确信会迎来一场辉煌的胜利和一出精彩绝伦的好戏。
在这一周的大部分时间里，我脑子里全是这件事。在几乎每一个网络平台上，（相对）轻松取胜的预测不绝于耳。“马刺五场晋级！”“不，四场！”“不，尼克斯四场！最差也是五场！”
面对这一切，我有一种奇怪的感觉。不安、忧虑、隐隐的恐惧。不管你怎么称呼它，它就在那里，盘踞在我的心头。
这可是总决赛！我应该欣喜若狂！没人想到这一天会来得这么快！
但双方的球迷似乎都不明白对手有多强大，不明白这有多艰难，不明白胜利远非十拿九稳。
夺冠总是艰难的，但马刺球迷对季后赛底蕴的自豪与尼克斯球迷的极度渴望交织在一起，产生了一种灾难般的气氛。而其中的逻辑也显而易见。
尼克斯设法避开了东部的重量级球队。而且那些球队中，没有一支拥有类似于开拓者、森林狼或雷霆那样的防守特质。
毕竟，他们可是尼克斯，一支最近因其（以及他们老板）擅长在“胜利的边缘夺取失败”而闻名的球队。
他们不是洋基队，而是大都会队，一支表现出色时会让所有人（包括他们自己的球迷）感到震惊，而且似乎总是靠着某种偶然才变强的球队。
那马刺呢？好吧，你听说过文班吗？就是那个仅仅站在那里就能干扰对手出手的“人类电线杆”？
是的，马刺拥有那个家伙。尼克斯还没面对过那样的对手，或者说，他们根本没遇到过真正强硬的对手，不像马刺那样一路披荆斩棘。
更不用说马刺是自1977年开拓者以来最年轻的总决赛球队了。他们几乎没有季后赛经验。他们的表现超出了他们的年龄，以至于他们可能都无法理解自己所取得的成就，更不用说指望他们能一直保持下去了。
听着，我懂。我是一名马刺作者，也是一名马刺球迷。在经历了上一轮抢七大战那地狱般的折磨后，我极度渴望相信这会是一场轻松的旅程。但随着每一个轻松取胜的预测出现，我心头的那种不安感似乎就在加剧。
我甚至为此感到有些愤怒。
这些人都在想些什么？！难道他们不知道篮球之神是变幻莫测的吗？他们难道没读过希腊神话吗？他们难道没听说过那些敢于如此赤裸裸地展现傲慢的凡人会有什么下场吗？
至少我把所有的傲慢都藏在心里。这让我比他们所有人都要高明，甚至比神明还要高明。
而且我必须承认，尼克斯是我在NBA中真正情有独钟的两支球队之一。
多年前，为了准备一篇关于马刺和尼克斯常规赛对决的文章，我阅读了哈维·阿拉顿 (Harvey Araton) 撰写的关于20世纪70年代尼克斯的开创性纪实作品《当花园还是伊甸园 (When The Garden Was Eden)》，随后又阅读了查理·罗森 (Charley Rosen) 同样令人着迷的《关键赛季 (The Pivotal Season)》（他本人是尼克斯的终身球迷，也曾担任过尼克斯传奇球星菲尔·杰克逊 (Phil Jackson) 的助理教练）。我被那些纽约球队的故事深深吸引，以至于我认为他们是波波维奇治下马刺等球队的精神先驱。
（前NBA兼马刺主帅、波波维奇的导师拉里·布朗 (Larry Brown) 在纽约长大，是70年代尼克斯主帅雷德·霍尔兹曼 (Red Holtzman) 的超级拥趸）
当年的那些尼克斯队非常擅长分享球、明确自己的角色，并在关键时刻表现出色。他们的主教练在态度、战略天赋以及职业生涯/人生轨迹上，与圣安东尼奥的长期掌舵人如此相似，以至于你几乎会认为他们是复刻版。
在整个季后赛中，我在这支尼克斯身上看到了那些球队的影子，说实话，这真的让我感到无比恐惧。
“马刺抢七胜出，”我在第一场比赛前颤抖着预测道。
第一节的时候，我发现自己对之前的焦虑嗤之以鼻。也许我终究是想错了。也许写了这么多文章，已经让我失去了作为球迷的直觉。
也许我只是想得太多，以至于无法像以前在常规赛和季后赛中那样，感受到那种宿命般的感觉——那时我能从骨子里感觉到马刺会捧回奥布莱恩杯。
然后，比赛开始变得艰难。纽约像维多利亚时代的孤儿一样不断蚕食着领先优势。每个马刺球员似乎都变成了“黄油手”，而尼克斯那些本不该进的球却总能精准落入网窝。
四壁合围，我是对的，但这种对的滋味可真不好受。昨晚，我几乎从未像那一刻那样，如此渴望自己是错的。
这一定有些像温菲尔德·斯科特 (Winfield Scott) 将军当年的感受，当时亚伯拉罕·林肯 (Abraham Lincoln) 坚持要求这支刚刚扩编且几乎未受训练的北军直接进军里士满。
又或者，当他收到撤退的消息时，他们在这场战争中遭遇了首场败仗。他一定很清楚这场战争将持续数年，而不是总统所期望、民众所预期的区区几个月。
那真是一场溃败。由于未能占领枢纽，北军取得的任何进展都被南军通过火车源源不断运送援军的能力所挫败。
到了傍晚，他们的人数几乎以1比2落后，防线崩溃，撤退过程极其混乱且毫无组织，被当时的南方记者戏称为“大逃跑” (The Great Skedaddle)。
惊恐万状的蓝衣北军士兵丢下了武器装备、马车大炮以及各种物资，简直是夺路逃向山丘，却在不知不觉中直接冲向了仍坐在那里的猎奇野餐人群。
那些旁观者反应迟钝，当第一批骑兵疾驰而过时，有些人还坐在那里。另一些反应稍快的人已经争先恐后地奔向自己的马车，并在恐慌中堵塞了军队试图用来撤退的道路。
如果那些同样缺乏经验的南军士兵能再老练一点，或者他们的指挥官能再狂热一点，战争可能很快就会结束——撤退的军队会被彻底消灭，随后南军将直取美国首都。
幸好，由于斯科特远见卓识地坚持在哈珀斯费里 (Harper’s Ferry) 附近驻扎第二支1.8万人的部队，以防南军出其不意的袭击，这种过度谨慎避免了这场失败演变成彻底的灾难。
但温菲尔德·斯科特（以及前线指挥官欧文·麦克道尔 (Irvin McDowell) 将军）仍因这场灾难而受到指责，并于不久后辞职。林肯开始将他排除在关键会议之外，依然决心直接进军里士满，而不是采用斯科特更精明（尽管承认也更缓慢）的“蟒蛇计划” (Anaconda Plan) 来包围和分裂南方邦联各州，并切断所有的供应和交通路线。
然而，对于南方邦联来说，这场胜利也并非表面上看起来的那样。
不仅北方的公民确信战争会迅速结束。消息传到南方民众耳中后，他们更加确信自己在军事上的优越性。不幸的是（或者说，幸运的是），他们的许多政治领袖和指挥官也同样这么认为。
此后，许多历史学家都一致认为，这场一边倒的战役“被证明是南方邦联所遭遇的最大不幸”，因为它让南方产生了一种虚无的无敌感。
更致命的是，它几乎消除了所有的紧迫感。
由于在战争初期凭借军官素质等方面的优势取得了轻松的胜利，南方邦联满足于现状，未能充分利用其优势，也未能认识到这种优势的暂时性。
是的，北军当时还很稚嫩，但在战争后三分之二的大部分时间里，由于人口密度大，北军将拥有绝对的人数优势。
而且北军的补给也会更好，因为实力大打折扣的南方海军既无法封锁北方，也无法突破北方对他们的封锁，更不用说大部分工业和便利的交通（铁路）都存在于梅森-狄克逊线 (Mason-Dixon line) 以北。
南方希望对一支阵容更深厚、支持更充足的军队发动消耗战，却由于某种原因未能察觉到，随着时间的推移，他们的劣势只会越来越明显。
而在昨晚之后，尼克斯（当然还有他们的球迷）有可能会高估这场胜利的本质及其意义。
对于尼克斯球迷来说，昨晚展现了老将的优越性。出色的执行力、卓越的防守以及及时的投篮。
对于马刺球迷来说，这只是一场失常的比赛，因为马刺拥有更强的超级巨星、更深厚的阵容深度和整体更高的上限。这很可能是年轻球员面对这一重大时刻的紧张反应，以及上一轮残酷系列赛带来的持续疲惫所致。
现在尼克斯重新回到了赛场（而且他们自己也有些伤病），休息优势将会减弱。年轻人的畏惧感也不可能持久。
系列赛拉得越长，就越有利于更年轻的球队（如果再次出现抢七，他们还拥有主场优势），他们的阵容深度也越能支撑他们。
尼克斯必须尽快赢下比赛。他们的夺冠窗口很小，这本身就是一种压力。而马刺的窗口在未来很长一段时间内几乎肯定都会敞开。
纽约市是一个充满绝望和“你最近为我做了什么”态度的压力锅。
而圣安东尼奥则为他们的球员提供了一个舒适的避风港。
更大的负担显然落在尼克斯身上——他们必须将胜利转化为最终的胜势。
他们可能还没有意识到这一点，但即使他们意识到了，系列赛也远未结束。
双方的平民曾深信内战可以在一场战役中结束。然而战争却拖了整整四年，最终以曾经伟大的温菲尔德·斯科特将军所预料和策划的方式结束。
尽管这需要一位聪明且行事低调的尤利西斯·S·格兰特 (Ulysses S. Grant) 将军来执行（与林肯之前选择的许多人不同，格兰特认可斯科特的才华，并在自己的计划中融入了斯科特的设想），但斯科特在有生之年看到了自己被证明是正确的。
他在战争结束一年后去世，享年79岁（在当时是非常高寿的年龄），他的历史地位得以确立。
他曾将自己刚完成的回忆录送给格兰特（他曾在1862年建议林肯任命格兰特为陆军总司令），并在上面写下了一句充满感激与谦逊的赠言：“赠予最伟大的将军，来自最年长的将军。”
马刺抢七胜出。Go, Spurs, Go。
关键启示
- 在关键时刻，有几次似乎没有人能拿稳球或做出正确的决定。当然，除了德文·瓦塞尔 (Devin Vassell)。虽然在季后赛中所有的马刺球员都容易出现起伏，但即使在投篮手感平平的夜晚，瓦塞尔也从未停止付出最大的努力并用脑子打球。尤为关键的是最后阶段的一次进攻，瓦塞尔注意到自己在内线被包夹，他意识到由于文班被防守的方式，给维克托 (Victor)（他占据了位置和身高优势）传一个空中接力几乎肯定会造成犯规。在那次聪明的即兴发挥以及随后的罚球之后，一切开始失控，但这并不是瓦塞尔的错。他像捕鼠夹一样死死缠住杰伦·布伦森 (Jalen Brunson)，只是布伦森在手感上有些运气（尽管如此，瓦塞尔还是协防限制得布伦森只有31投12中）。我知道他的合同还有一段时间，但如果马刺尝试以（相对）折扣价提前续约他，我并不会反对。在马刺这段不可思议的征程中，他大半时间里都扮演着一锤定音的角色。
- 在马刺可怕的三分起伏露出狰狞面目的夜晚，他们浪费了朱利安·尚帕尼 (Julian Champagnie) 又一次稳健的投篮表现。我们知道，马刺在外线投射方面其实只有两种模式：要么是连绵不断的干旱，要么是毁灭性的洪水，但在常规赛中这更容易让人接受。他们在这场比赛中出手的三分球甚至比热衷于三分的尼克斯还要多，这几乎让人想起了2018年火箭对阵勇士那场噩梦般的抢七大战，而且实际上也相差无几。他们比那支火箭队少出手了一次三分，也仅仅多投进了四个。因此，虽然马刺确实应该稍微减少一些三分出手，但令人欣慰的是，他们是在遭遇了近乎历史级的霉运之后才输掉比赛的。我不认为这种糟糕的手感会一直持续下去。
- 尽管人们对迪伦·哈珀 (Dylan Harper) 在关键时刻的缺阵议论纷纷，但卡特·布莱恩特 (Carter Bryant) 的使用同样值得关注，因为他只获得了四分钟的上场时间，却被分配去防守极其滑溜的布伦森。让他去对付唐斯 (Towns)、阿奴诺比 (Anunoby)，甚至在面对那些每次马刺试图拉开比分时都成为心头大患的替补射手时给他一些上场时间，或许是个更好的主意。我明白他是个新秀，但在季后赛的这个阶段，几乎所有的策略都应该摆在桌面上，而且尼克斯绝对也会做出他们自己的调整。希望米奇·约翰逊 (Mitch Johnson) 现在只是把布莱恩特当作一张底牌。
今日谢幕曲——今晚的主题歌：
丹·福格伯格 (Dan Fogelberg) 的《计划的一部分 (Part of the Plan)》
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 Finals loss to the Knicks
What we learned from the Spurs Game 1 Finals loss to the Knicks
In the morning hours of July 21, 1861, the carriages began to arrive in Centreville, Virginia.
Once a bustling center of trade (before newer roads and railroads diverted the traffic it depended on), it was then home to little more than 100 people.
Whether there was anyone left in the village who owned a carriage is a question for a better historian than I, but you can be almost certain that no one owned any form of transportation as ornately decorated and carved as the beautifully hewn landaus and barouches that were filtering into the town, one by one.
Nattily attired men and women emerged in due time from the interiors of their luxurious conveyances, suits and mustaches neatly brushed, summer dresses pressed and long hair ringleted, with an air of curiosity one might rightly confuse with that of those attending a sporting event.
Washington, D.C.’s wealthy and elite were arriving in force, but to what end?
I imagine word migrated rather quickly around the village. Even in its heyday as a regional thoroughfare, this would have been more than a minor sensation. Senators, and blue-bloods, and servants were milling about the street making inquiries and running errands, and the inquiries were of the strangest sort.
Where might one best view the battle from this location?
The battle? Why would anyone want to watch a battle? A picnic?!
Yes, a picnic. As servants (and those who did not have/bring servants) began to unpack the still-accumulating coaches and buggies, the intent became crystal clear. It was no jest.
Baskets, and bags, and a variety of caddies, canteens, and casks were lowered down or lifted out of traveling storage to be toted off to a predetermined place of best possible spectation.
You see, Centreville had been built on a plateau. And while it had largely been chosen by both Native Americans and English settlers for the various creeks and water sources that flow into Bull Run, and eventually, the Occoquan River — the vista is also outstanding, looking out over what are now multiple national parks, with the Bull Run Mountains in clear view, and the Blue Ridge Mountains just beyond them.
And, most importantly in this instance, an outstanding panoramic view of the rolling plains of Manassas, located just outside of a railroad junction.
That Manassas Junction was located just 100 miles north of the new Confederate capital of Richmond (near another rail connection to the Shenandoah Valley) and a mere 30 miles south of Washington, D.C was a matter of much conversation.
The strategic importance of said junction had been more or less agreed upon by generals of both the Union Army and the Confederacy. Both armies hoped to use the depot to transport their troops for the invasion of the opposition’s capital city and in defense of their own.
And so it was that after just months of training, the two armies found themselves camped on the opposite sides of the river, with nothing but gentle slopes, scattered woods, and grassland between them, preparing for the first real stretch of open battle of the American Civil War.
Which is why the arrival of affluent civilians had been so shocking to the people of Centreville, who with the exit of Union soldiers in the middle of the night had expected nothing beyond further military reserves, much less smartly-dressed spectators toting meals, and blankets, and opera glasses to the edge of the plateau (and even into some of the closer surrounding hills) to conduct a jolly luncheon within sight of the battlefield.
Cannons had already fired, just before dawn. The socialites and congressmen had surely been told that.
And yet there they sat, sandwiches in hand, crusts probably cut off, certain of glorious victory and a dammed good show.
And for most of the week, that’s all I could think about. In almost every online avenue predictions of (relatively) easy victory rang out. Spurs in five! No, in four! No, Knicks in four! Five at worst!
It was a strange sensation to be confronted with. Uneasiness. Apprehension. A vague sense of dread. Whatever you want to call it, it was there, in the pit of my stomach.
It’s the Finals! I should be elated! No one thought this would happen so soon!
But neither group of fans seemed to understand how good the other team was. How hard this was going to be. How so far from assured it was.
Titles are always hard to win, but the postseason pedigree of Spurs fans and the desperation of Knicks fans was combining in a way that felt catastrophic. And it was easy to see the reasoning.
The Knicks had managed to avoid the heavyweights of their conference. And none of those teams had a defensive character resembling that of the Blazers, Timberwolves, or Thunder.
And they are, after all, the Knicks, a team most recently renowned for their (and their owner’s) talent for snatching defeat from the Jaws of victory.
They’re not the Yankees, they’re the Mets, a team that astounds everyone when they’re good (including their own fans) and always seems to become so by near happenstance.
And the Spurs? Well, have you heard of Wemby? You know, the human telephone pole who suppresses shot attempts just by existing?
Yeah, they have that guy. The Knicks haven’t’ faced that guy. Or anyone tough, really. Not like the Spurs have.
Never mind that they’re the youngest Finalists since the ‘77 Trail Blazers. That they have precious little postseason experience. That they’ve been playing beyond their years to such an extent that they can’t possible comprehend what they’ve done, much less be expected to maintain it.
Look, I get it. I’m a Spurs writer, and a Spurs fan. And I desperately wanted to believe that this would be a cakewalk after the seven game hall of horrors that the last series walked us through. But with every breezy prediction, that pit in my stomach seemed to grow.
I was almost angry about it.
What are these people thinking?! Don’t they know the basketball gods are fickle? Have they never read a single Greek myth? Have they never heard of what happens to the mortals who dare to display their hubris so nakedly.
At least I keep all of my hubris inside. Which makes me better than all of them. And also the gods.
And I have to admit, the Knicks are one of the two NBA teams I truly have a soft spot for.
Years ago, in preparation for an article about a Spurs and Knicks regular season contest, I read Harvey Araton’s seminal 1970’s Knicks chronicle When The Garden Was Eden followed by Charley Rosen’s equally enthralling The Pivotal Season (he himself being a lifelong Knicks fans and onetime assistant coach to former Knicks legend Phil Jackson) and I was enthralled by the tales of those New York teams to such an extent that I consider them a spiritual predecessor to the Popovich Spurs, among others.
(Former NBA + Spurs coach and Pop mentor Larry Brown grew up in New York as a massive fan of 70’s Knicks coach Red Holtzman)
Those Knicks teams were great at sharing the ball, and knowing their role, and excelling in the clutch, and were coordinated by a coach so similar in attitude, strategic genius, and career/life arc to San Antonio’s longtime skipper that you’d almost think they were carbon copies.
And all postseason I’ve seen flashes of those teams in these Knicks, and to be perfectly honest, it scares the absolute daylights out of me.
“Spurs in 7”, I predicted shakily before Game 1.
I found myself snorting at my trepidation in the first quarter. Maybe I’d had the wrong end of it after all. Maybe all this writing had made me lose touch with the gut feelings that a fan has.
Maybe I’ve just gotten so in my head that I’m not as connected to the sense of inevitability that I used to get in the regular season and the postseason, when I could feel in my bones that the Spurs were coming home with O’Brien.
And then it stopped being easy. And New York kept slapping away leads like a Victorian orphan. And every Spur seemed to have a case of the butterfingers, while balls that shouldn’t have gone in for the Knicks unerringly found the bottom of the net.
The walls were closing in, and I was right, but boy did being right feel bad. Rarely have I more wanted to be wrong in the moment than last night.
It must have resembled some minute version of how General Winfield Scott felt when Abraham Lincoln insisted that the newly expanded and barely trained Union Army march directly on Richmond.
Or when he received news of retreat after they were handed their first defeat in a war that he must have known would rage on for years, as opposed to the mere months the President had hoped for, and that the populace had expected.
And what a retreat it was. Having failed to take the junction, any progress the Union forces had made was thwarted by the Confederates’ ability to continue bringing in reinforcements by train.
By the late afternoon, they were outnumbered almost 2-1, and their lines broke and withdrew in a mass so chaotic and without leadership that it was dubbed ‘The Great Skedaddle’ by southern journalists of the time.
Leaving behind their arms and equipment, and wagons and artillery, and all manner of supplies, the terrified blue-clad soldiers quite literally headed for the hills, unknowingly aimed directly at the cavalcade of voyeuristic picnickers still seated there.
Slow to realize what was happening, some of the onlookers were still seated when the first of the troops who were on horseback came galloping through. Others, being somewhat more aware, had already scrambled for their carriages and, in their panic, were now clogging the road that the army was trying to use to retreat.
Had the almost equally inexperienced Confederate soldiers been a bit more seasoned, or their commanders a bit more zealous, the war might have ended soon after, with the complete destruction of the retreating forces and a subsequent advance on the U.S. capital.
Thankfully, an overabundance of caution (due to Scott’s prescient insistence that a second force of 18,000 men be stationed near Harper’s Ferry in the event of a rogue Confederate incursion) kept the defeat from resulting in total disaster.
But Winfield Scott was blamed (in addition to commanding General Irvin McDowell) for the catastrophe and resigned shortly after, as Lincoln began to omit him from critical meetings, still determined to advance directly on Richmond rather than adopting Scott’s shrewder (though admittedly, slower) ‘Anaconda Plan’ to surround and divide the Confederate states, and cut off all supply and transportation routes.
The victory was not quite what it seemed, though, for the Confederacy.
It was not just citizens of the Union who had been convinced that the war would be quickly ended. Once news reached the southern populace, they became even more convinced of their military superiority, and so, unfortunately (or rather, fortunately) did many of their political leaders and commanders.
Many historians have since agreed that the one-sided nature of the battle “proved the greatest misfortune that would have befallen the Confederacy” having imbued the South with a false sense of invincibility.
Much more fatally, it removed almost all sense of urgency.
Content with easy victories at the start of the war, due to (among other things) an edge in the quality of their officers, the Confederacy failed to fully exploit their advantage, or recognize its temporary nature.
Yes, the Union Army was green, but for much of the latter two-thirds of the war, it would have the superior numbers, due to population density.
And it would also be better supplied, since the greatly inferior Confederate Navy could neither blockade the North, nor break free of the blockade imposed upon them, even without taking into account that the majority of industry and advantageous transportation (railways) existed north of the Mason-Dixon line.
The South hoped to wage a war of attrition against a deeper, better-supported army, for some reason unable to discern that their disadvantage would only grow as time wore on.
And after last night, there’s a chance that the Knicks (and certainly their fans) may overestimate the nature of their victory and what it signifies.
For Knicks fans, last night was a display of veteran superiority. Of superior execution, outstanding defense, and timely shooting.
For Spurs fans, it was the result of an off-night for the team with the greater Superstar, superior depth, and overall higher ceiling, likely brought on by a youthful reaction to the significance of the moment, and lingering exhaustion from a brutal previous series.
The rest advantage will be less now that the Knicks are back on the court (and getting a little banged-up themselves). The youthful trepidation is unlikely to last.
The longer the series goes on, the more it plays into the favor of the more youthful team (who also have home-court advantage in the event of another Game 7 ), and the more their depth will sustain them.
The Knicks must win as quickly as possible. Their window is small. And that is its own kind of pressure. The Spurs’ window will almost certainly be open for some time.
New York City is a pressure cooker of desperation and a ‘what have you done for me lately’ attitude.
San Antonio offers a comfortable respite for their players.
The greater burden is squarely on the Knicks — to capitalize on their victory.
It’s possible that they haven’t realized that yet, but even if they do/have the series is far from over.
Both civilian populations were convinced that the Civil War could be ended in a single battle. It dragged on for four long years, ending as the once-great General Winfield Scott had anticipated and strategized.
And though it took an intelligent and otherwise unassuming General Ulysses S. Grant to execute it (who, unlike many of Lincoln’s previous selections recognized Scott’s genius, and adapted his own plans to include it), Scott lived to see himself vindicated.
He died a year after the war ended, at the (then) very ripe old age of 79, his legacy secure.
He had sent a copy of his recently completed memoirs to Grant (whom he had advised Lincoln to appoint Commander-in-Chief of the Army in 1862), inscribed with a single sentence of gratitude and humility: “From the oldest General, to the greatest General.”
Spurs in 7. Go, Spurs, Go.
Takeways
- There were several moments in crunch time when no one seemed to be able to hold onto the ball or make the right decision. Everyone except for Devin Vassell, that is. While all of the Spurs have been prone to bouts of inconsistency in the playoffs, even on a meh shooting night, Vassell never stopped giving his best effort and using his head. Particularly critical was a late position, where, noticing that he was boxed in the paint, Vassell recognized that an alley-oop to Victor (who had position and reach) would almost certainly draw a foul due to the way that Wemby was being guarded. Everything started slipping away after that canny bit of improvisation and the ensuing free throws, but it wasn’t Vassell’s fault, who stuck to Jalen Brunson like a rodent trap and was just on the bad side of some shooting luck from Brunson (who he otherwise helped hassle into a 12-31 shooting performance). I know he’s still got some time on his contract, but I wouldn’t hate it if the Spurs tried to early extend him at a (relative) discount. He’s been a coffin-nail for the better part of this incredible run from the Spurs.
- The Spurs wasted another solid shooting performance from Julian Champagnie on a night where their dreaded three-point variance reared its ugly head. We know that the Spurs have really only have two modes when it comes to downtown conversion: unrelenting drought or annihilating flood, but it’s easier to embrace that in the regular season. That they actually shot more threes than the three-happy Knicks almost made it feel like that nightmare of a Game 7 that the Rockets had against the Warriors back in 2018, and it actually wasn’t far off. They took one less bomb than those Rockets, and only made four more shots. So, while the Spurs should definitely drop the attempts a bit, it’s good to know that it took approaching historical misfortune for them to lose the way they did. I wouldn’t bet on that holding up.
- Much has been made of Dylan Harper’s absence in crunch time, but Carter Bryant’s utilization should also be a point of interest, as he got only four minutes of court time and was assigned the far-too-slippery Brunson as an assignment. It might be a better idea to try him on Towns, Anunoby, or even give him some minutes against the bench shooters, who were a thorn in San Antonio’s side every time they tried to pull away. I understand that he’s a rookie, but almost everything has to be on the table at this stage of the postseason, and the Knicks are absolutely going to make adjustments of their own. Hopefully, Mitch Johnson is just keeping Bryant in his back pocket for now.
Playing You Out – The Theme Song of the Evening:
Part of the Plan by Dan Fogelberg
By Devon Birdsong, via Pounding The Rock