The Thunder Deliver Their Most Convincing Playoff Statement Yet

A small, nearly imperceptible gesture from Oklahoma City Thunder head coach Mark Daigneault set into motion the most important shot of Shai Gilgeous-Alexander's charmed NBA career. It came with a little over four minutes remaining in Monday night's high-octane rock fight of a Game 4 between the Oklahoma City Thunder and the Dallas Mavericks. Gilgeous-Alexander secured a rebound and was bringing the ball into the half court, and Daigneault proffered his signal just as rookie guard Cason Wallace darted past the coach. Clap, clap. In an instant, Wallace cut back, setting a double screen with fellow rookie Chet Holmgren, each player flanking Mavericks big P.J. Washington—who had been a thorn in OKC's side all series long. The action accomplished its intended result: dragging rim-protecting behemoth Dereck Lively away from the painted area, with Holmgren popping out at the top of the arc, and forcing the physical Washington to switch off SGA.

All the Thunder needed, then, was for the MVP runner-up to do what he does best: create space in a vacuum, convert the improbable into something rote and mundane, and find angles that only a privileged few in the league are able to access. He delivered.

Steve Nash's raspy voice echoed in my head as I watched Gilgeous-Alexander work miracles in the midrange down the stretch of Game 4, a 100-96 Thunder win that evened their second-round series and will go down as OKC's most convincing playoff moment yet. I'd talked to Nash earlier this year about the experience of watching SGA and the ineffable qualities of his game and demeanor. I could hear Nash's incredulous laugh of resignation on behalf of the defenses tasked with stopping Gilgeous-Alexander—I imagine there were more than a few of those made at the American Airlines Center on Monday night. "I mean, he's got you in jail," Nash told me in January. "So what do you do if you're a defender? You play too tight, he can go by you. You try to stay tight enough and strong enough that you can absorb the stepback—now he can go and draw fouls because you're overplaying him. He's got you in a position where however you decide to guard him, he has a counter."

And even when you have him pinned along the baseline with nowhere to go, he finds a way. A lateral bump. A hanging midair fade that seems to pull him backward and off to the side, simultaneously—creating just enough space away from the defending Tim Hardaway Jr. A shot from behind the backboard, as if to use the environment to shield himself from the outstretched arms of Dallas's long-levered defenders, who plagued the Thunder offense all night. "It's the dexterity, the problem-solving," Nash said. "The amount of ways he can find a good look with accuracy is super impressive."

All Hardaway could do was sulk, with shoulders slumped and arms suddenly slack and swaying, as the ball fell through the net at such an impossible angle. ("That [shot] was ill advised," Gilgeous-Alexander said after the game, laughing.) It was merely a game-tying bucket with four minutes remaining on the game clock, but it felt like the reversal of fortune, a change in the wind. The Thunder entered the game with an enormous burden of proof, one that weighed on them mightily. But they managed. They persevered. They chipped away, little by little. And then, suddenly, there was a lightness. The burden had swung to the other side of the divide.

But it was hard to reconcile in the moment. The gravity of the situation created optical illusions, of mountains and molehills. An eight-point Mavericks lead felt like 16. A four-point deficit felt like 10. Teams aren't supposed to win games shooting 38 percent from the field and less than 26 percent from 3, much less on the road. The difference seemed apparent: Dallas is led by Luka Doncic, who played raucous, pressure-packed championship games as a teenager; it's led by Kyrie Irving, who has reached the mountaintop before. Oklahoma City was out of sorts, out of place. For more than 40 minutes, the Mavericks had cast into reality a nightmare scenario for OKC. In good times, the Thunder take on the irresistibly dumb charm of a boyish fraternity; for most of Monday, however, their offense had been reduced to something akin to an overmatched mid-major college team in way over its head. The shot clock bled possession after possession without any advantages created to tilt the Mavericks' defense in any way. The Thunder were a step slow, downright avoidant around the rim (and for good reason—they converted only 35 percent of their shots in the restricted area), and hesitant beyond the 3-point line, continually passing up shots they'd normally take in search of better options that would never arrive.

The Mavericks defense was outrageous: Lively and Daniel Gafford were game-wrecking sentinels, Washington and Derrick Jones Jr. were absolute erasers, and both Doncic and Irving were hyper-attentive and made highlight-worthy stops. It was a complete team effort on that end of the floor, so impressive that you'd be forgiven for dreaming ahead. A commanding 3-1 lead over the youngest team in the playoffs, a roster that matches up well against the likes of Denver or Minnesota. Finally, a team making good on the promise of the Doncic era.

But the Thunder defense—punctuated by their rookies Holmgren and Wallace—was just as impressive: Holmgren played with a physicality that belies his rail-thin frame, and Wallace attached to Irving like a remora to a shark. OKC never let go of the rope, holding on long enough for the team's two brightest creators to guide it home. Gilgeous-Alexander and rising star Jalen Williams (who had been struggling to find his footing all series) accounted for 27 points, including assists, in the final six minutes and 40 seconds.

It was the worst possible way to lose for Dallas; it was the best possible way to win for Oklahoma City, a team that didn't need to win convincingly as much as it needed to convince the world it could win when facing true playoff adversity. Gilgeous-Alexander may not be the most demonstrative leader, but his aura is a guiding light for the team nonetheless—there are few players in the world more patient, more visibly unflappable. And in the game's most pivotal moments, SGA, as he does, took what the Dallas defense gave him. Eight straight points in less than two minutes to tie the game and set the conditions for a series-shifting upset win. He repeatedly executed from midrange—a zone that has defined some of the greatest players in the greatest postseason moments of their careers. A zone that Gilgeous-Alexander has, for years, tirelessly worked within, as if in training for these very moments when there is nothing else left to burn.

He hit 10 of his 14 midrange attempts on Monday night, in a game when every player not named Shai or Chet shot 26.8 percent from the field. "Subjecting yourself to vigorous training is more for the sake of forging a resolute spirit that can vanquish the self than it is for developing a strong body," the Kyokushin karate master Mas Oyama once said. SGA's on-ball aesthetics, delicate and elegant by design, conceal the true nature of his style: a martial art form that leverages discipline and resolve to stunning results.

The Thunder have spent all season defying the NBA's natural order of operations. Game 4 was the latest and greatest pressure test yet, a direct response to those who were dubious about how such a young team might handle its first real taste of adversity. "This is probably the most meaningful game I've played in my career," Gilgeous-Alexander said afterward. OKC has proved it can win ugly. For much of the series, the Mavericks have played like the better team, but the Thunder have shown the ability to get the ball out of Kyrie's hands and continue to wear out the tread on Luka's balding tires. The Thunder are making a bet that the Dallas supporting cast will fall off eventually. The Mavs have all the tools to continue walling off the restricted area and making difficult decisions from behind the arc. Oklahoma City's path forward lies in the space between—firmly in the domain of its irrepressible star, built for this very moment.