Every once in a while, Steph Curry will try to explain what makes him the greatest shooter in the history of the NBA.
"Everybody shoots differently … I'm more, like, finesse," Curry says in one clip. A bunch of pasty mopes stand around, nodding seriously, having no real idea what he's talking about. "If you go waist-down, everybody shoots the same. As long as you have a good foundation, good balance, your consistency and your accuracy goes higher. A good arc – and no matter if you make it or you miss it, you always look good."
Well, that's … unhelpful.
While I'm sure he worked very hard at his craft, Curry has more in common with Mozart than Rick Barry. He's a savant and has a savant's ability as an instructor – which is to say, none. He makes shots that should not be made – stepbacks, under pressure, off-balance, at bizarre angles. Other players make those shots, too.
What makes Curry unique is that he seems to prefer taking them that way. He's a pro athlete with the soul of a carnival performer.
Owing to this unusual skill set, a nice smile and a can't-be-manufactured charm, Curry is on the cusp of returning the NBA to a cultural pedestal it hasn't occupied in decades.
The skinny mope who got taken seventh in the 2009 draft is about to make basketball matter again to people who don't care much about basketball.
The NBA final starts on Thursday night in Oakland – Golden State against Cleveland. In the great scheme of things, the result doesn't matter. What matters is laying a historical foundation. This is the beginning of the binary ascent of Curry, of the Warriors and of the Cavaliers' LeBron James.
James has been the best player in the game for nearly a decade, and will remain so for the foreseeable future. However, he's never truly transcended the game's boundaries – at least, not for good reasons.
He may be the most physically impressive human alive. The first time you get near him, you feel a perverse sense of pride on behalf of the entire species – "We made this!" Once he opens his mouth, that impression begins to fade. James is a nice enough guy, but he has no natural charisma. Everything he says, even the most off-hand remarks, feels as if he's reading off a cue card.
Worse than that, he seems intensely calculating – an impression cemented in the public mind with the 'taking my talents to South Beach' disaster. People have been trying to get a piece of him since middle school. You can hardly blame the guy. But it still makes him hard to love.
James has begun to understand that being thought of as the greatest of all time is not just a function of rings. You need a story. A story needs a protagonist and an antagonist.
Without a foil, James is in danger of becoming Michael Jordan. And look where Jordan's on his way to – nowhere.
For now, Jordan is still thought of as the greatest, but without any real feeling or genuine interest. It's just a fact, like gravity. He exists now as a reason to sell sneakers.
People tell stories about Larry Bird v. Magic Johnson. They fell in love with the idea of two guys who could build something more intense than friendship from what started as mutual hate and misunderstanding.
Nobody tells stories about Michael Jordan, partly because he doesn't seem like a very nice guy, and partly because he was too good. There's no romance in a man who never misses.
Jordan never got his Johnson or Bird. And so, he will eventually become Ted Williams or Jerry Rice: A guy who tops every list, and is never talked about otherwise. For that level of athlete, it's a sort of death.
At 30, James is starting to understand his Jordan problem. The NBA has done so for years. They've spent James's entire career trying to set him up against someone – anyone – who sets off and highlights his best characteristics. None of them – Kobe Bryant or Kevin Durant or Paul Pierce – worked. They're all too like James, but diminished.
Curry is the perfect yang. He has nothing in common with James – not in his backstory or personality or style of play or physical appearance. Where James is stiff, Curry is loose. Where James is powerful, Curry is supple.
One looks like a basketball player designed by SPECTRE. The other looks like a guy who's working as a bike courier so he can spend the winter in Ibiza.
It's hard to remember now, but Curry's only been a really big deal for a single season. Before that, he was just a guy who made shots. Over the course of these playoffs, he's raised his level, though not as much as his Q rating. He's crossing over in a way James never really has.
Five years ago, James might've been a little put out. Now, he gets it. He's acting as Curry's biggest hype man. Someone asked how you negate Curry's shoot from the second-deck mentality.
"Well, the same way you slow me down," James said. "You can't."
James doesn't just want to beat someone as good as him (but don't think for a second that he believes Curry is). He wants people to see it like that.
Though he's not capable of thinking of it this way, James may even want Curry to win. That gives the whole thing more narrative juice, and allows it to stretch on for three, five, maybe seven years.
If the past six weeks are our guide, it will be a magnificent final series. That's the least of what's playing out in Cleveland and the Bay Area. This is an incipient legend being born. It's the beginning of a story we might still be telling in 30 years.
Cathal Kelly