Ah, what is there to write about in the NBA? Nothing, it seems. At present there are four series presenting themselves. First found Kevin Durant having to go it alone against the Memphis Grizzlies, in the wake of Russell Westbrook's injury! Second, we have the Knicks and Pacers deciding whether they would grind it out or would shoot the ball; in other words, who would win the series. Third, we have the Heat looking to sweep the Bulls without Rose, and the Bulls - on whom Nate Robinson is literally the best offensive player - were looking to... not get swept? And finally we have the Spurs in the second round of the playoffs. Ho hum. But what is this? They would be facing Richard Jefferson-led Golden State Warriors? This I have to cover.
Alright, let's back up. Just like RJ, not a starter. He is a back-up. I lied about that leadership thing. At 32 or 33, Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds the oldest and most experienced player of the young Warriors, and simultaneously their best and worst role model imaginable. He is definitely not their leader. Richard Jefferson is by leaps and bounds not the Warriors' leader.
But, carrying himself with class and dignity, the not-so-young Jefferson conducts every interview trying to root out all things he cannot possibly be held accountable for, and then apologizes for each of them in turn. "Do you feel they were giving the other team cheap fouls?" he'd be asked, and without hesitation would respond, "You know who gets cheap fouls? Savvy vets. I don't care if I wasn't on the floor, you know, I failed to teach these younger guys how to draw and avoid cheap fouls. It's on me." Savvy of him to note - he takes a burden of fault off the young players and places upon himself, while still putting that burden on them in the future. Savvy of him to note also because it reinforces that he has some reason to exist. And, really, he does. He genuinely tries his best to teach the young players, not just about being savvy but about the subtle margins and compensations every player must make in order to succeed. Jefferson notes with a laugh that he has one of the biggest hitches in his shot in the league, and one of the worst handles. He openly admits it because he doesn't expect to join another team. Even the Spurs he kept this information from, but now, he laughs about it. His punchline: "I never got into a conversation that would end in HORSE or a one-on-one. I avoided those conversations with wily cleverness. I got into a lot of dunk contests, though, haha."
Ultimately it's this air of reasonable calm, amusing observation, and accountability that sets Jefferson apart from many players in the league - sure, who'd been conditioned to say all the right things, but really, had monstrous egos that drove their insane workout sessions and their irrational confidence. Jefferson's reasonable nature has also carried an eternal downside: You see, Jefferson is literally too reasonable to believe that he deserves to win if he executes his game-plan, even at the occasional close match when the whole match would come down to a proverbial coin-flip, an equiprobable chance event. When it was 50-50, most players believe - in that momentary essence of competition! - that some basic force (not even God, not the devil, but almost the sheer force of their individual will made manifest upon the world) that they are entitled to win the 50-50 call or event, the game that hangs on the perfectly-balanced ledger of human deeds having been accumulated. If you think about it, it's the most hubristic thing in the world to believe this. So Jefferson has no such beliefs, and in a strange, game-theoretic way this almost by force assigns him to second-tier status historically. That entitlement and confidence - irrational on its face - is the cut-throat margins of all the great competitors; count not Jefferson among them.
The Warriors try to pick and choose what they can from Jefferson, respecting him immensely as a person and recognizing that his expressive pronouncements about what you can't control are probably right. They also recognize their harm, and steadfastly avoid him during these pronouncements, gleefully mimicking his humorous, galloping press-conference tone to acknowledge him. Steph Curry, just off the top of my head, does a dead-on impression. "You know, like, it doesn't matter if you win, because, you know, it's pretty reasonable to get paid money for losing games, but, I mean, of course, you don't want to lose if you can, and it's much better, you know, to get paid and known for winning games. So, you know, you know how you have to play? Your hardest, you know, but some things you just can't control."
I meet Richard Jefferson jumping over file cabinets in the oversized room outside the gym to show he can.
"I still got it," the aging Jefferson opines to me, "I can still jump a file cabinet." Arms akimbo, wearing a block-letter tattoo of his initials on his shoulder, Jefferson leaps once again over the file cabinet, Jefferson asks, "What'cha need, John?"
"You know that file cabinet is a foot shorter than the one they had in San Antonio, right, RJ? You know, the one you jumped over when you were younger? Trust me, I measured." I hadn't, but it was an amusing jab regardless, and Jefferson smiled.
"Such is the price of age, you know, and I'm just trying to contribute where I can. Heh. Also, no way you measured both of them. You're not that sharp, a, and b, you couldn't have known I would jump both of these."
"Frig." I said. He was right on all counts.
Jefferson continued, "It's actually 15 inches shorter than in San Antonio, John. But I'm alright with that. The aging process, you know, even death, sometime. I'm gonna retire and then I'm going to die, eventually. I have faith, and life has treated me fine so far. And I can still dunk the ball!"
"Or get to the line." I decide to jab at his 1-4 playoffs mark from the line.
"Haha, it's just harder when you're not shooting it every day. Coach Jackson said I gotta work on that, though."
"Damn, RJ, do you ever get cheesed off? You really seem pretty chill about this all."
"Well, what can you do, John? Honestly, short of going to the Suns, which seems pretty sad as an option, I can't really do much, like... I'm not gonna use steroids, haha. I might become, you know, a marginal star for a few years, turn back the clock, and cause endless suspicion among my rivals and cause endless doubt among my supporters, my family, my college. For years after I play, man! I can't do that to them, and I'm not so committed to winning that I'm going to risk whatever side effects there might be to that stuff."
"But... don't you ever feel like you should... well... "Do Not Go Gentle Into That Goodnight"?"
"Well, why not go gentle? You think people that hang on three years too long before they rupture something permanently are happy? Do you want me to go on crutches for two years just to prove I can play two years before that?"
"I mean, what about the killer instinct? Don't you need to win, like, as a man? As a... as just a person, committed to maximizing your resources, animalistically? Just seems such a basic impulse to me..."
"Okay, John. You're about 18 now, and look, I don't care how competitive you are, that is a false reality constructed by a part of your brain that we sometimes make ourselves monsters to satisfy. It makes a lot more sense to younger guys, I don't know why. I mean, yeah, you always gotta compete. You do. But there's more to life. Just because I went to the NBA doesn't mean I'm obligated to be a pathological freak of competition. I don't know why we all have agreed that you do, but I love to play the game. I'm not the best, but I try a lot and I have professional dignity. Not sure what else you can ask. I'm not fundamentally differently built than, say, Tim Duncan. I think he's just a little bit more strongly-wired towards competition, but he's also wired to pay attention supernaturally well. He has an amazing memory, and he always acts as he should. He's not a freak of competition; he's just a gifted person on more than one front. And really, the whole point of team sports is that it's not just about competing on your own level; it's taking that competition and shoving it aside when it's hurting the team, at least as long as you need to. That's half the battle, at least if you got the talent."
"Oh."
"I mean, it's the simple truth."
"I don't know, but I can at least feel that, RJ," I tell him diplomatically. But truthfully I don't buy in at all. So I probe a bit. "I also think it's probably why you've not won a title."
"Discretion," Richard says, "is the better part of valor. No, really. I wish I'd had more positive discretion, to know when to take over. I really do. But I had the right kind of negative discretion. I always healed up. I never played injured. I never forced the issue, because I have a life after basketball, and I'm not going to jeopardize it so that some kid can look up to me in 20 years, and meet me, hobbled, on the threshold of some airline, only 53, but having brought misfortune upon myself. I'd rather that kid not know me, John, I'd rather... if I don't have to be hobbled, I'd rather win. But come on, 50 years to bear the miseries of a single moment, and the media has the audacity to judge you for that choice?"
"Look, I get where you're coming from. But don't you feel that pull? Don't you feel the pull to really take all the accountability you claim to take in the interviews?"
"I do, of course I do," Richard says, "But I also feel the impulse to go gambling, to drink, to eat junk food, to lie about, to lie, to do all sorts of crappy things. I want to solve all my problems, sometimes, in a single day, and problems just don't work like that. I want to be the perfect athlete. I want to be a great player. But it's a sick road you travel to get there. Believe me. I made this choice against all my impulses, except that of being reasonable. I had to go with that. Being unreasonable is for people with unreasonable talents and an unreasonable sense of proportions. And these people can do it. But mainly, I can jump over a file cabinet, John. That's just what I do. In the end my skillset is to hit some shots, stay in front of my guy on defense, make a backdoor cut here and there, leak out in transition, dunk the ball, and rebound. I wasn't given a reserve of athletic brilliance, you know, to really get above my peers, and I'm fine with what I've accomplished."
"Fine," I said, silently praying that, as a writer, I would never have to make this kind of choice that would reveal the frailty of my ambitions and the mediocrity of my talent.
END PART I
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