As ultimately derivative and deprecating as we are of Free Darko at our core, we (okay; it's just me) at Pearls of Mystery are aware of the cosmic irony of this pronouncement. Being about ten years Shoals' younger, we're not oblivious to the fact that Pearls of Mystery is ultimately destined for a still more farcical conclusion than anything we've published yet, or any interaction yet, be it with Shoals or RJ or Burl Ives or even with the gnawing belief that "maybe it's wrong the things I wrote there." Who knows how it will happen? How will Pearls of Mystery die? Well, no one knows. Who by water and who by fire? Who by sword? Who by beast?
Who by simultaneously vindicating and deconstructing happenings in the world of basketball? Enter Richard Jefferson and his amazing series against the Spurs, his former comrades. Frig. In 2:44 of Game 1 against the Spurs, Warrior Richard Jefferson put up a -14, and his only contribution statistically was to miss two free throws. In this void of meaningful basketball activity, the Spurs struck with an inspiring comeback, ultimately helping the Spurs to finish the Warriors off after a strong series. Granted, the entire series was not his fault, but the one time Jefferson did visibly play defense, he botched it so badly I had to laugh. In transition against Tony Parker, he either committed to the lane (but didn't actually help) or committed to the corner (but didn't actually cover the corner), giving the Spurs either an easy layup or an easy corner three. Even the Warriors that could have stopped one of the options were hurt by Jefferson's defense, as they assumed he'd be covering something. It was amazing, guys.
Look, I can't tell you how funny this is. This entire blog is devoted to essentially the comic premise that everything Richard Jefferson does on the court of basketball is wonderful, absurd, and its own variety of brilliant athletic achievement, so brilliant and so humbling is Jefferson's performance that it is deserving of its own category somewhere.
See, Jefferson isn't like JaVale McGee, who has ADHD and knows his exact limitations and literally chooses not to fix them because for him the joy is in the attempts. Or Boris Diaw, who has intense, almost indulgent vision, who would often rather seem to play the angles than play the games. No, Jefferson seems to:
(a) like the game,
(b) have had jaw-dropping athleticism for a long period of time,
(c) be intensely intelligent and reasonable and educated,
(d) have his entire value as a player conflated with his ostensible upside and "character" which are tied to (a) and (c), and
(e) be one of the naturally-least-competitive, least-attentive players in the league today.
Jefferson gives us a hypothetical that is hard and unsettling to shake: "Oh, man, what if you're really, really smart in terms of your IQ and education, and because of jaw-dropping athleticism you still manage to be a basketball player, but, despite all the aforementioned, you never become a particularly smart player? What's up with that?"
And then he goes further: He gives the best interviews in the league, eclipsing seasoned vets from practically the outset, because he has such an intensely practical and conversational view of every facet of his life imaginable. Jefferson went on Howard Stern and sounded as natural and in key with life as Louis CK or Bryan Cranston. Even while talking about leaving his fiancee at the altar. Amazing poise has Jefferson, on that stage. But he has a weirdly clumsy handle, poor court vision, and a hitch in his shot, all of these having been somewhat obscured by his leaping fast breaks with Jason Kidd and his genuinely-quite-above-average defensive positioning. He was never an All-Star but always seemed like he could break that mold. The one time he did, he got injured by Chauncey Billups quite early in the season and couldn't play. It's almost like Jefferson is pathologically in the right place at the right time on the court, earning inexplicably-lucrative contracts along the way, but just never good enough to make any sort of dent into basketball history. Sort of the essential forgotten observer in every civilization. RJ is the Horatio of basketball. He watched JR Smith dunk on Gary Neal. He was there for that. He watched Z-Bo dominate Tim Duncan, watched Antonio McDyess get the final tip-in against Lamar Odom. RJ watched Stephen Curry light up two consecutive teams before finally showing that he himself could not hold the torch for even a minute. RJ watched Duncan and Shaq in their primes, watched Shane Battier and Carlos Boozer dominate for Duke, watched Manu embarrass the U.S. team, watched the Pistons ascend and the Heat ascend, watched the Grizzlies transcend, and the Suns go for their final send-off, finally vanquishing the hated Spurs. RJ watched Pierce and Dirk fall, and finally, RJ saw the Spurs, led by his younger replacement, dominate his younger teammates. And the train station beckons him sadly, saying "You are not the one, and never were. It is time to go." Prufrockian, absurd bald face, sing another song, lose if you must, miss those free throws that were your only responsibility, shrug and give up visibly, overwhelmed by the sensation of every brilliant opposing possession endured.
Get up, Jefferson. Play out the string. Like all of us that clumsily appear on the grand stages without a particular acuity for the careful fastidiousness of a game well-constructed but with still a real enthusiasm, you give everyone hope that you'll figure it out, even though deep down you personally must know that's impossible. We've seen it all, except our own vindication. We're not suffering, but one of these days, we both know that there's one consummation, a championship, in sight. We can't build it but we can watch it, passing through hands, not to ours, not from ours, never passing to us, but close. We watch and we watch and we know we can do better than we did and close the distance, if we can just assemble more papers into a better configuration. If we can just have more time, if we can just apply our reason to more challenging problems, if we can be valued exactly as we are and actualized, we know we are champions.
Get up, Jefferson. Play out the string, and maybe play a little better this year. You know - have known, since the beginning - that it won't be forever. And you are not desperate. But no one lives forever, and, in the meantime, we can be calm and noble and competitive and maybe strike a minute before dawn instead of after and thereby reach another realm, formerly inaccessible.
I mean, frig, at least that's the theory, anyway.
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