The Spurs are a tired old gunslinger and we're finally the kid with steady hands, so we're walking out of San Antonio with our heads up for once in what feels like a geological epoch.

Listen, we're up seven in San Antonio with Brunson running the show and the Spurs looking like they're playing in molasses, so I'm already planning my parade route down Broadway—what could possibly go wrong.

We're down three to the Spurs in San Antonio and I've been hurt enough times to know that hope is just pain wearing a different jersey.

The Spurs are playing like they've seen this movie before and we're still in the credits, which means my liver is about to get a workout it didn't sign up for.

I've been hurt too many times to trust eight points in the fourth, but Brunson doesn't play like he knows how to break my heart.

The Knicks are walking into the AT&T Center where Pop's ghost still haunts the pick-and-roll and Wemby's about to remind New York why they should've drafted him instead of whatever they did.

Seven points in a quarter means nothing when you've got a generational talent learning the system and Pop's been building dynasties since before the Knicks last won anything, so frankly I'd be shocked if we're not up 15 by halftime.

The Knicks came to the Frost Bank Center thinking they'd find something other than disciplined, fundamental basketball—they were wrong, and they're about to learn why San Antonio's built three decades of dominance on nights exactly like this.

Look, the Knicks are about to learn what happens when you wake up a sleeping giant in the fourth quarter—Victor's about to put on a clinic and we're winning by 12.