Serge Ibaka stuffing Tim Duncan was too real a metaphor

It’s unfortunate that Tim Duncan’s most painful Game 6 moment resembled Melisandre’s plight in the first episode of this season’s Game of Thrones.

In the episode’s final scene, the red woman is alone in her room readying for bed. She takes off her clothes and stares at herself naked in the mirror. As she takes off her signature ruby necklace, the mirror shows a nearly bald, old, ancient woman in place of the once-young one. She stares at herself in sadness and contemplates her decrepit body for a few seconds before slowly making her way to the bed and crawling under the blankets.

Whatever magic kept Duncan young and effective for so long, including through this year’s superlative regular season at the age of 40, was violently yanked from him by the Oklahoma City Thunder.

And it was Serge Ibaka that administered the final tug. Ibaka didn’t even allow Duncan the dignity of taking off the ruby necklace on his own. He stripped it off the greatest power forward of all time and forced Duncan to face his mortality and his wrecked body in public.

It was sad. So sad.

Worse, it shut down what could be Duncan’s last stand. After falling behind by 28, the Spurs composed themselves and chipped away at the deficit. They got the Thunder’s lead all the way down to just 11 points. That’s the exact moment Duncan received a bounce pass and surged to the rim.

Duncan’s performance in the previous five games of the series had been awful. Awful in the way that the truth is awful: not shocking, not because the player failed to exert himself, but a confirmation of an unfortunate reality. Just because we know that time comes for everyone doesn’t make it any less disheartening to see. Duncan was old and these young Thunder players were bullying him. Before Game 6, he averaged three points a game while shooting 28 percent.

But in this contest, he fought back. He started off slow as the Thunder took a huge lead, but came alive one more time during this near-comeback. He hit shots, he ran hard and put the Spurs on the brink of an amazing rally. Somehow, it looked like San Antonio might again win the impossible battle against Father Time.

Then, Duncan took off and ran into Ibaka. They collided in midair, and perhaps a younger Duncan might have powered through the spindly Thunder shot-blocker. Instead, Ibaka easily blocked Duncan’s attempt with his left hand. As Duncan crumbled to the ground, the Thunder ran to the other end and scored to put the game beyond the Spurs.

Duncan stood up, stared out into the abyss, sighed and put his head down. There was nothing left. Gregg Popovich called a timeout and his greatest player, or the husk of him, walked to the sidelines dejected.

This piece was supposed to be an ode to the blocked dunk, the ultimate hater play in basketball. It’s the ironic twin of the dunk itself. Both are a display of dominance through physicality, a way for the athlete to assert that they are superior and the other man at the peak is their lesser. This truth is driven home through embarrassment. How dare you, they say, as they stare you down while the crowd roars in disbelief.

While the dunk is the unstoppable force manifested, the block is the immovable object. It’s rejection of the highest order. It’s the “you can’t sit with us” of basketball plays.

It also appeals to my hater sensibilities. Nothing is sweeter than seeing an ambitious player attempt to help his team, only to have that opportunity smacked off the backboard or tossed into the audience. Or, worse, the ball is grabbed clean out of the air as if it was a rebound. That’s as sad as it gets.

So, as a hater, I should have squealed in happiness when Ibaka swatted Duncan. I should have been happy that someone finally made a statement against a player that has been starring since Ecko jeans were in style.

But I couldn’t summon that joy. I should have taken some small delight in the fact that he was blocked, fell and accepted his ancient body in one of the most poignant ways possible. Instead, I felt remorseful. I was sorry for him.

The block is great when the blocker and the blockee are both engaged into an intense battle between themselves. In that situation, hope rises up and sees a brighter future, and the ancient order smacks into row Z. That’s fun.

But watching a gray-bearded Tim Duncan slammed on his butt only made me feel bad. Even a hater like me has a heart, and that heart broke when Duncan sighed and put his head down in resignation. I wanted to put a hand on his shoulder and tell him that it’s not his fault. Tim, it’s not your fault. It’s not your fault. It’s not your fault.

Given my sensibilities, I was supposed to enjoy seeing Duncan revealed as the old man he is by a great block attempt. Yet, all I could think of was Walt Whitman’s famous poem:

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up -- for you the flag is flung -- for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths -- for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

Here Captain! dear father!

This arm beneath your head!

It is some dream that on the deck,

You’ve fallen cold and dead.