As a Chicago-born observer raised on jazz and streetball, I watched this game not as stats—but as a symphony of broken rhythms. Thunder’s 42-64 halftime deficit wasn’t just poor shooting; it was the weight of unspoken pressure, zero steals echoing like empty streets, 12 turnovers screaming in the quiet. This isn’t failure—it’s grief dressed in orange and chrome. I write this for those who still listen between the buzzer and the silence.