There is an episode of “Sam & Cat” — the Nickelodeon spin-off of “iCarly” and “Victorious” — where the abrasive Sam Puckett (Jennette McCurdy) and her delightfully dazed business partner Cat Valentine (Ariana Grande) are dealt 14 scathing reviews of their Super Rockin’ Fun Time Babysitting Service. The duo confront their libel-liable competition and discover an unlikely scheme: an illegal toddler rock-climbing gambling ring.

Since 2013, I’ve assumed toddler — climbing or crawling — competitions were fictitious Nickelodeon gags, but they’re real. It turns out, I was wrong about a couple of things. First, McCurdy and Sabrina Carpenter are not the same person. Second, baby races are legit, and apparently, New Orleans has quite the crawler. 

The Big Easy is home to the hardwood’s new GOAT, and no, it’s certainly not Zion Williamson. During the Pelicans’ Sunday contest against the Victor Wembanyama-less San Antonio Spurs, Smoothie King Center hosted its annual baby crawl race at halftime. This year, some baby between 9 and 11 months old — nicknamed “New Bawlins” — cleared his competitors with the most dominant cross-court scurry on record. 

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Typically, I’d rather throw on National Geographic to watch a pod of pelicans bicker over a herring than sit through a Pelicans game. It’s nearly March and New Orleans has 14 wins. That’s bad. The Pelicans are bad. But this weekend? I was genuinely inspirited. Crawling … it’s hard!

It’s an awkward, uncomfortable and exhausting act that hardly resembles walking. There are untold methods to carrying it, or yourself, out: the butt scoot, the roll, New Bawlins’ aerodynamic one-strong-arm-out-then-the-opposite-always-bent-leg technique, or my personal favorite, the army crawl.

Although none possess elegance, they all effectively lead you forward. Crawling exists in an awkward liminal space between the abandonment of absolute dependence and the first steps toward independence. It’s cumbersome and humbling, but it’s also a diligent declaration: I am going where I please.

I am still learning how to crawl, metaphorically. Still assembling the courage to haul myself toward goals that feel out of reach. There’s something comforting about this parallel: When you’re mid-crawl, efficiency takes a backseat to determination. And when it works — when you’re awkwardly zooming or goofily flailing with purpose — there is praise, progress and if the Pelicans are desperate enough, maybe an NBA roster spot.

Halftime, in a way, is the prelude to a crawl. By then, many of the game’s variables have known values; your capabilities are exposed. There’s time to revise the game plan, but adhering to the ideal would be ludicrous. You take what you’ve got, and you crawl. Sometimes it’s a grand, undaunted push forward. Sometimes you face-plant, burning your chin against the floor, and after a tiny wince, you get back up to try again. Either way, you move. 

We need more moments of humiliation and gnarly-looking traction en route to victory. Like, the butt fumble, remember that? Stefano does. New York still lost that game, but that didn’t stop Mark Sanchez from being the “best” Jets quarterback in recent history. Or recall Los Angeles’ 112-96 win over the Seattle SuperSonics in 1974 when the Lakers committed a near record-setting 43 turnovers.

Also, unrelated but pressing: I want a baby.

Anyway, at halftime, when we can control it, I crave more chaos. Chuck bananas in the stands. Hand the band kids mics and let them rip dad jokes. I don’t need Alex Rodriguez hitting half-court shots to pay off student loans — I need struggle. Give me giggles and second-hand embarrassment. I want to see someone crawl their way toward something that matters, even if it’s just the other side of the court.

Leila MacKenzie is a junior writing about minor details in sports in her column, “Little Things,” which runs every other Wednesday. She is also the data editor at the Daily Trojan.