With shoulders so broad for his frame, when he brought the ball up the court like a point guard, he teeter-tottered. He smiled a lot when he played, and with the sweaty bald head, he actually shined.
And yet for a 6-foot-10 point forward, he was beautifully predictable, almost always driving to his left, his long gait loping him through the lane, his broad shoulders providing extra protection, his impossibly long arms swooping so that his soft hands could drop the ball in the bucket—usually past the reach of the defender.
He made it look so easy, and it was almost like he felt guilty, like he knew it, and he’d appear bashful after a basket when so many others, the greats (hell, even the mediocre players scraping on low talent), they’d celebrate their momentary dominance.