There is a comforting familiarity that washes over me whenever I enter the place. The friendly smiles from ticket takers and ushers, the sounds of drums and clapping and barely contained excitement, and the pleasant smells that contradict what the place was built to showcase. This place is for large, fluid men, fine-tuned to jump and sweat and exert physicality that the rest of us can only dream of. Their feats are on display for hours, ten men at a time, running and stopping and then running again. And yet the entire place smells like money and popcorn. It makes no sense.
Looking at the little things as the Spurs change
