The Beautifully Angry Russell Westbrook
The power of individual force runs strong in Oklahoma City’s marauder.
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As the San Antonio Spurs closed in on their fifth NBA Title last June, much of the credit for their success was given to their sharing, unselfish approach to play. It was called “The Beautiful Game,” and that designation continues to aptly describe their pass-happy, team-first mentality.
What other word but “beautiful” would you use to encapsulate the whirling, breathtaking display of ball movement and “good to great” offensive philosophy that head coach Gregg Popovich has long preached?
This season, longtime Spurs’ assistant coach Mike Budenholzer took that philosophy and applied it to his young Atlanta Hawks team—and the early results have been spectacular. The Hawks currently have the NBA’s best record and sent four good, but previously nondescript, players to play in February’s All Star Game. On the opposite coast, the Steve Kerr-led Golden State Warriors are taking the same approach, leading the NBA in assists per game. And it’s not even close—the Dubs dish out over an assist and a half more than the Hawks, their closest rivals.
But lost in our renewed—and well-deserved—reverence for the collective mindset is a proper appreciation for the power of the individual. Looking around the landscape of today’s NBA, there seem to be few individuals willing (or able) to carry the mantle. Kobe Bryant is slowly, painfully fading into the night. LeBron James relentlessly pursues the right play, on and off the court, yet draws nothing but inexplicable criticism for it. Kevin Durant is cursed with preternatural goodness and James Harden, while spectacular, seems content to play the role of company man, fitting ever so snugly into the Moreyball ethos.
Thankfully there is one man still willing to buck conventional wisdom. There is one man who earnestly believes that by the sheer force of his individual willpower a championship can—nay, will—be won. Unfortunately, Dion Waiters just can’t get enough playing time to make the magic happen.
So it is left to Russell Westbrook, and he is hell-bent on reminding us of the awe-inspiring spectacle that is the one-man show.
Midway through the 2nd quarter in Portland on February 27, Westbrook cut to the right just past half-court and waited for Anthony Morrow. Morrow darted right and set a screen for Westbrook near the three-point line. The screen gave Westbrook a few steps on Damian Lillard, who was also knocked off his path by Mitch McGary near the top of the key. Meyers Leonard left McGary to pick up Westbrook as he took a pass from Kyle Singler above the three-point line near the sideline.
Now with the ball, Westbrook exploded toward the basket on the left-hand side of the lane and after one dribble launched toward the rim. Leonard, overmatched and a step behind, fouled Westbrook who had turned in mid-air to get off a right-handed shot with legs splayed, Jordan style. The ball banked softly off the glass and in. Westbrook let out his now familiar primal scream and scowled at no one— and everyone—at the same time while storming around the baseline for a few seconds before retreating to the foul line.
In the grand scheme of things, it was a play indistinguishable from a sea of others like it. But look beneath the surface, and you’ll notice how this play is a perfect example of Westbrook’s game at-large. Nobody in the NBA today approaches every play with such fearlessness; such reckless abandon—and yet, finds so much success. Westbrook fights for every shot, every loose ball, every pass, every steal, every rebound — every second he’s on the court. He wins a lot more of those battles than he loses. And still, he plays with a chip on his shoulder, night in and night out.
Players like Tim Duncan and James Harden are masters of subterfuge, of blending into the background. Both give off the impression that they’d rather have their noses buried in a comic book, making a minimum of noise as they slink about the court. Then when you least expect it—they cut out your heart with a dull knife and matter-of-factly invite you to examine it, as you crumple to the floor in a heap.
Westbrook is a different animal. There’s an almost theatrical quality about him. He seems to relish playing the villain. He stomps around the court, yelling and frowning and violently holstering his imaginary guns, enraging opposing fans at every turn. But there’s nothing they can do, because seconds later—before anyone even notices anything is happening—he’s back at it. Maybe he’s exploding to the rim, or pulling up from ten feet out to drain another jumper. Competing night after night against the greatest athletes on earth, Westbrook always looks like he’s two steps ahead.
Last December, Sports Illustrated’s Lee Jenkins profiled New Orleans Pelicans’ phenom Anthony Davis. Included inside the superb piece was a sentence so strikingly descriptive that I instantly jotted it down in my notebook.
He is the invention of a God who already built Kevin Durant and decided to get more creative.
In explaining Westbrook, I’d suggest that he is the invention of a God who created Durant, then decided to get a little bit dangerous.
Westbrook’s surly demeanor has long been debated. Damian Lillard recently described him as a guy that wants to steal your lunch. And much was made about his exchange with The Oklahoman’s Berry Tramel last January. The two questions most common when contemplating the Thunder seem to be, “What’s wrong with Kevin’s foot,” and “Why is Russell so angry?”
But his approach to the game and his apparent disdain for the media that cover it, overshadow the charitable work he does in and around Oklahoma City. And his critics are quick to point out that even with Westbrook’s recent, historic four game stretch, the Thunder have a record of 1–3. “He can fill a stat sheet but not carry his team to a win,” they say, as if to imply that the Thunder lost a game specifically because Westbrook messed around and got a triple double.
It’s natural to assume that this attitude plays a role in Westbrook’s continuing surliness. He leaves everything on the court in a desperate attempt to win, only to be questioned about his motives as soon as he’s off of it. But perhaps that’s where Westbrook’s godliness lies; inside his devilishness, inside his dangerousness.
And to finish Jenkins’ line of reasoning: perhaps Westbrook’s godliness lies inside the beauty of that most human emotion—raw, furious anger.
