About halfway through the second quarter of Sunday’s summer league game between the Toronto Raptors and the Minnesota Timberwolves, as I furiously typed out notes and kept switching tabs to see who the heck these Timberwolves were, I looked over and saw my wife, sitting outside on our patio on a beautiful Toronto afternoon, kicking back and drinking an iced tea (a just reward since she’d spent all morning cleaning said patio). As I went back to doing some incredibly dispiriting math in my head (let’s see, if the Timberwolves missed 12 straight shots, and the Raptors were 1-for-8, that’s.