A closely contested NBA playoff game is an insanity device. Every turnover is a rake across the brain, every missed free throw a boil on the soul. Each second of game time that passes is designed to pull the contents of your guts closer and closer to the edge of your throat. If that is what it feels like to watch it, I can't imagine what it must be like on the court.
None of this applies to Kawhi Leonard. Despite his close proximity to the action, I spent most of Monday night's Game 2 clash between the Nuggets and Clippers wishing I could trade places with him. Even when he had the ball in his hands with under a minute left, readying himself to take what would be the deciding shot in L.A.'s 105-102 victory, it was impossible to imagine anyone, anywhere, more at peace than Kawhi Leonard.
Leonard hit that last shot, of course, just like he did almost all of his previous attempts. He made his first six shots to start the game, missed one, and then made his next six. When it was all over he had scored 39 points on 15-of-19 shooting, turned the ball over just once, and hit all five of his free throws.
The numbers themselves are a manifestation of how Leonard carried himself through the game, which was as a boat sailing effortlessly through a squall. Everything happening around Leonard was chaos, and outside of his efforts this was a game defined by mistakes, missed opportunities, and nerve-shredding pressure that routinely overwhelmed players on both teams. Leonard was one of just two Clippers who shot over 43 percent from the floor; the Nuggets missed eight free throws and turned the ball over 20 times; and even Nikola Jokic, the steadiest hand there is, went under the waves. He finished with a 26-12-10, but he also missed four free throws and committed seven key turnovers. Both teams spent the game in a state of total desperation and agitation, and every play, good or bad, only served to up the intensity.
All of that was happening around Leonard, but none of it was happening to him. While everyone else was playing with their nerves exposed, Leonard seemed to navigate the game in a state of total indifference. It is perhaps the best word, indifferent, to describe Leonard's game. When he is playing at his best, it never seems to matter what the other nine players on the court are doing, because nothing's going to prevent Leonard from getting to his spot and snapping off a line-drive jumper for another two points. Last night it felt as though Aaron Gordon could have leapt onto Leonard's back while Christian Braun tied himself around his ankles, and Leonard still would have gotten to the elbow and raised up for a clean 15-footer.
When Leonard plays like this, it's hard not to think about everything that did and did not come before. It's been 11 years since he won his first title with the Spurs, and six since his second with the Raptors. The seasons since have been marked by so much disappointment—the formation and dissolution of a super team, a litany of season-ruining injuries—that it is easy for Leonard to become an afterthought of each NBA season. That's life for a 33-year-old for whom playing 50 games is an achievement, but there is still a top-five NBA player housed between those big shoulders of his, and the nights when he floats back into our lives shouldn't be taken for granted.
During his postgame press conference, Leonard was asked to consider the past a few times. Reporters asked him if he draws on his previous playoff experiences to get through games like this, if this is the best he's felt physically in years, and if he's grown to become a better player than he was in previous seasons. Each time, Leonard batted away the question, choosing to only focus on the present. "It's a different day. I'm not going to play like I was before. I could be playing better, I could be playing worse, it doesn't matter. I'm just focused on the now," he said. "It's a different team in every situation and game. I'm just taking what's in front of me and playing hard, and like I said having fun and just living with the results."
