At around 3 o’clock on Wednesday afternoon, I peeked out the sixth floor window of my office building, to a sheet of rain clouds that had settled over South Texas since what feels like mid-July, drew my shoulder blades back, and let out the kind of jowly yawn that’s only socially acceptable in the few moments after you wake up. It was completely involuntary, not terribly gratifying, and prompted someone passing by to make a chilling comment about it being Hump Day. And then I yawned again.
I was, thus, able to relate more than I’d have liked to the Spurs’ dispirited performance later that night.