At the end of many Toronto Raptors practices, assistant coach Jerry Stackhouse takes a small group of rookies and end-of-the-bench players aside for a scrimmage.
This is as close as the NBA gets to a grade-school playground – learning through fun. There's a lot of yelling, pointing and mock disgust. One gets the strong impression that it's one of the main reasons Stackhouse, 41, does the job he does – so that he can continue to test himself against pros on a daily basis.
After Game 1, it was a muted affair. More of a walk-through, really. In keeping with the funereal mood around the organization, no one wanted to make much noise, least of all the guys on the fringes.
On Tuesday, the volume had been turned back up to full blast. The giddy shrieking of Delon Wright, Bruno Caboclo et al. filled the Raptors practice gym. That's just one thing that winning Game 2 on Monday night did for the Raptors.
Coach Dwane Casey was trying hard to put on the macro-view dampeners – "We can't exhale. First thing you want to do is exhale, and you can't" – but it didn't feel like there were many takers. This wasn't a loosening, so much as a necessary untightening.
Beyond the win, everyone had reason to be in a good mood. It was hard to pick out a player who hadn't had a more-than-decent night.
Everyone except the man who is the tip of the offensive spear.
So far in the series, DeMar DeRozan is 10-for-37 and has taken only six free throws. On Monday, he didn't get to the line once – something that hadn't happened to him the entire year.
DeRozan has never had what, by his own standards, you would call a signature game in the postseason. He's occasionally gotten his points, but either the team has lost or he's had to chuck up a bucketload of shots to get them.
Afterward, DeRozan always makes a great effort to walk the line between apologetic and purposeful, but never looks defeated. He'd started to after Game 1.
Everyone in the game likes to talk about adversity – as if all these future professionals spent their childhoods being laughed off courts. DeRozan is no different. But he is not a player who seems particularly motivated by ill will or outside doubt. For a superstar, he has a pleasing plugger's attitude – win or lose, just keep on grinding.
So on one of those interminable off days in the playoffs, the only thing that seemed pressing was measuring DeRozan's current stress level. Absent a blood-pressure cuff, it seemed good. Better than good, actually.
He was the first man into the media room – generally a sign of optimism since that is when reporters have reached peak caffeination and are potentially most combative.
He was offered various options from the insert-an-excuse-here buffet – the officiating, the share-and-share-alike theory of superstar distribution, the Pacers specifically targeting him. He declined them all.
Eventually, as it must, the line of questioning went full describe-in-single-words-only-the-good-things-that-come-into-your-mind-about-your-mother: "Is there someone who's keeping you from getting frustrated over this?"
The night before, Casey had very specifically said that he would not be talking with DeRozan about his struggles, since "it's not the time of year for that." Who else might he be turning to for succour and emotional guidance? And if it's Kobe Bryant – oh God, please let it be Kobe Bryant – how fast can everyone type?
For the first time, DeRozan sounded exasperated.
"I feel like there's nothing to be frustrated about. I really do."
It wasn't said in the least bit angrily. He almost laughed.
"Just had two rough shooting nights. I don't think it's the end of the world. We still won. But once I get going, once the shots start falling and everything get to going, it's going to be a scary sight for whoever we play."
Well, this is new: DeMar DeRozan as a little bit of a cheeky showoff.
One of the most fetching off-court storylines over the past three seasons has been watching DeRozan come into himself. Not as a player, but as a person. Only a couple of years ago, he could not speak to a group without staring at his laces and mumbling incoherently. His ability was only outstripped by his reticence.
He's still shy, but he's no longer intimidated. Occasionally, he even seems to be enjoying the give-and-take.
But he has never – not to my memory – talked about himself in such (deservedly) grandiose terms. The important thing is that he's right – having never seen this team with DeRozan on a full tear in the playoffs, it's the sort of thing opponents will fear. Particularly the Pacers. Once DeRozan enters a Paul George-type zone, this series is over.
What has likely freed DeRozan to engage in this sort of superpolite, low-level gamesmanship is knowing he doesn't have to get there. It'd be much, much better, but he doesn't have to.
Asked if Toronto can still win with DeRozan not at his best, Casey let out a theatrically long, "Hmmmm …" Clearly, it's something he's thought about, but didn't want to seem as if he's thought about.
"You would hope you could, but it would be more difficult," Casey said. "If DeMar is a facilitator … then yes."
And just like – poof! – there goes the internal pressure.
There will many other sorts of pressure, not least of which is the weight DeRozan puts on himself. He isn't playing for his next contract, because he's getting a max number from someone no matter how this series goes.
But DeRozan wants to be thought of well. He would like to be feared. For the first time, he's willing to say it. Now for the next step.
Cathal Kelly