Quantum Mechanics, in an NBA Playoff Series

So lately I've been consuming plenty of "pop science" dealing with quantum mechanics, and its implications for real-world applications and technologies (e.g. Neil Degrasse Tyson's "Inexplicable Universe" series, or this not-so-new article about a "quantum computer").  The trouble with reading pop science about something as mathematically/experimentally dense as quantum physics is that the subject matter invariably gets distilled to an explanation that is simpler than is sufficient for true understanding.  Take, for example, Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, which was seared into the pop culture psyche by the inimitable Walter White (and which sparked, to some extent, such intrigue).  This principle, which defines the limit to which an observer can know certain properties of a particle simultaneously (such as position and momentum), is often conflated in circles of pop-scientific understanding with the more basic, intuitive concept of the observer effect, i.e. the observer, or instruments used by the observer, can have a material impact on the phenomenon being observed.  The idea of "quantum computing" hinges on the notion, supported by experiments in quantum mechanics, that a particle (or wave) can exist in distinct, separate states simultaneously (which apparently isn't without its detractors).
What does any of this have to do with the NBA playoffs?  Well, I recently read this article about the Wizards' playoff run, and my knee-jerk response was:  "WHAT UNIVERSE IS THIS?"
First things first:  I read Andrew Sharp pretty regularly.  I "get" his #HotSportsTakes, which (to the uninitiated) are none-too-subtle spoofs of the fawning cliche-casseroles characterized by the writing of Ricky Reilly and rest of the "old guard" of sportswriters - and I usually find them hilarious.  I usually enjoy his exuberant musings on how fun sports can be, usually operating in some way on the hypothesis of  "here's why [sporting event/story X] was awesome, and here's how social media/technology made it better." This is true of the Wizards article as well.  In short:  I didn't "not get" Sharp's article (I did not get, however, Mrs. O'Rourke's lesson on double negatives in seventh grade;) ).  I will also add that I watched somewhere between "some" and "most" of the series Sharp is covering.  I loved watching John Wall fly around the court at breakneck speeds, vacillating between unstoppable and uncontrollable.  As a Georgetown alum, I loved seeing Roy Hibbert rediscover at least some of his basketball identity; as a corollary, seeing this well-rounded but enigmatic Pacers team find its juju again was at least somewhat interesting.  So when I read Sharp's article, I was disquieted to be asking myself the question:  "what fucking series is he talking about?
Sharp makes his intentions as a Wizards fan/homer clear early on:
"If you don’t care about the Wizards, you should probably just go read another article about the actual playoffs."
Which is why my intention is not to refute anything Sharp says.  My point is:  Andrew Sharp, because of his observational position as a fanatic, experienced a completely different Wizards-Pacers series than I did.  I wasn't nearly invested enough to follow anything related to his series on twitter.  I only poked around Grantland once or twice to check in on Zach Lowe's coverage.  My consumption of this series was essentially limited to the actual game broadcasts, and the occasional ESPN or Deadspin homepage coverage.  I got a kick out of Marcin Gortat's performance, but I must have missed the story about his dad. I didn't "[spend] three weeks watching Marcin Gortat become the cult hero of the NBA."  I watched him have a pretty good/pretty entertaining series.  From my purview, I had no idea "Marcin Gortat took over the internet," - and in that stretch of time, I spent a respectable amount of time on the internet; I didn't watch  "Bradley Beal [turn] into the best young shooting guard in the NBA," I watched him outplay the best young shooting guard in the NBA (in Paul George).
But again, Andrew Sharp isn't wrong.  To him, the series unfolded exactly as he saw it (as an aside: I would agree with the claim that Sharp's experience, enjoyed collaboratively with other Wizards/basketball fans, and rewarded by further scrutiny of the games, was the more enriching sporting experience) Which brings me back to my point: the quantum theory of two-state systems (that's my point!).  Experiments in quantum mechanics have, quite counter-intuitively, concluded that a particle can exist in two separate states simultaneously.  For the non-particle-physicists out there (myself included), it's hard to wrap one's brain around this phenomenon.  It's hard to imagine, based on an understanding of "classical" physics, a chair existing simultaneously "here" and "there," but that is precisely what the mathematicians tell us happen to particles in these "quantum" situations. My hope is that the Pacers-Wizards series demonstrates the phenomenon in an understandable way:  the series existed, simultaneously, in two utterly separate states - one which was all-consuming and all-entertaining to the devotee, and another which was an unimportant distraction to a casual fan.  There's no news in saying that a game changes when you're more invested in the team; I'm just trying to draw a simple analogy to help someone understand a complicated idea.  Either that, or I am distilling this totally important, revolutionary concept to an oversimplification that actually obfuscates the concept I am trying to put into manageable terms.  Any NBA veterans with PhD's in particle physics that care to weigh in?   

Requiem for a Princess

The Stephens family hadn't always been dog people.  In fact, Lauren and I were more the "can you put the dog in the other room?" kind of kids - because we were mildly allergic, and because we were kind of wusses.  When our parents brought Killian home, this changed overnight.  We fell in love with her immediately, and quickly became "dog people" in the broader sense.  What I had once considered onerous tasks like walking her in the rain, or cleaning up her messes - things I told myself I would not deign to do upon her first arrival - became simple favors done out of love for a fellow family member.  I remember a marked shift in the way Chris Fleming's golden retriever, Max, greeted me after I had spent a month or two rolling around the floor with Killian: instead of being leered at as an intrusive outsider, I was tackled by a familiar old friend.  Killian's budding personality both infected and educated us - we were eager to learn what she was going to learn next.  Everyone who visited and had her jump up into their lap saw why we were smitten.
Killian was (at least ostensibly) brought in to keep my brother Eric company while his older siblings were away at school, and Dad was wary of how the "dog thing" would play out - would she be properly trained?  Mom saw to that.  Would she be walked and fed and cared for each day?  Mom set the routine, and everyone eventually climbed on board.  Somewhere along the line, however, Killian developed a unique kinship with her patriarch, my Dad, one that benefited both of them: she became a second daughter for him to dote upon.  With a once-bustling nest slowly emptying, Killian became the perfect activity (and, just as importantly, inactivity) partner: she would vigilantly "guard" the backyard from rogue wildlife (her utter inability to scare even the smallest rodent notwithstanding) as he swam or tended his backyard landscape; she would silently critique or endorse his latest canine culinary offering; he would come to oversee her care for her ailments, which would eventually include arthritis and (if you believe it, which I'm not sure if I do) anxiety. Far from Felix and Oscar, they simply became another happy case of dog-owner and dog.
There was a time when it seemed dubious to me that the personalities of dogs and their owners are reflections of one another; now I'm certain that Killian was as much a Stephens as any of the rest of us. Anyone who witnessed her race to individually greet each person who walked through the door knew she was a social butterfly, like us; anyone who saw her drop her bone on the tile to spring free the last morsel of cheese saw that she was a problem solver (not to mention an epicurean), like us; anyone who felt her nudge and bark her way into your farewell hug couldn't deny that she was endlessly affectionate, just like us. It's fitting that in her final days, Dad found himself jumping through hoops for her that a decade prior he might have called insane: sparing no expense for the finest veterinary care he could find; spending nights by her side in hopes that she might ask for a drink; chopping up the finest meats and cheeses to make her finals meals unforgettable (OK - he'd done that one for years).  Never one to perform many tricks, it was her last and finest as a Stephens: the salesman had been sold.
Killian survived a scary case of internal bleeding caused by the tumors that were then discovered all over her body.  She bounced back and was able to spend her last days in relative comfort and happiness with her family, her tail wagging at her adoring visitors to the very end.  She will be missed and never forgotten.