Layup lines don’t end. They dissolve, like rock-and-roll bands. One guy decides to go solo and get his own basketball, another takes a long three-pointer instead of a layup, another refuses to chase the bouncing ball, and without any obvious transition the layup drill becomes a shoot-around with everyone doing their own thing.
Everyone, that is, except Tim Duncan.
He goes to the ball rack and gets three basketballs, which he promptly dishes out to three teammates. He then stands underneath the basket and rebounds his teammates’ shots. They are all shooting, all the Spurs, except Duncan. He grabs a rebound, looks for a teammate without a ball, and passes it to him. Again. Again. You keep waiting for him to take his own shot, but he doesn’t. Duncan is joined in the lane by a ballboy and a Spurs attendant of some sort. Basketballs ricochet and carom and bounce around them like popping kernels of popcorn, and they chase. Of the three, Duncan is the most enthusiastic. He acts like it is his life’s dream to retrieve balls for his teammates.