I guess I’m still debating whether or not Tracy McGrady’s recent performances changes everything.
Everything, of course, being the outlook on the rest of his career. As much as I hate to say it, Detroit was supposed to be where McGrady’s dream of a triumphant return to NBA-caliber basketball went to die. T-Mac’s one-year deal with the Pistons made little sense when it happened. For the first month of play, there was almost nothing to latch onto. He was a middling third-stringer. It wasn’t sad; it wasn’t anything at all. It seemed as though we were witnessing the end of a spectacular run. Of a magician whose magic outlasted its crumbling vessel.
Of course, T-Mac at his absolute peak was the decade’s most frightening offensive maelstrom. No distance was too far to launch from, no angle was too obscure. To say that basketball came easy to McGrady would be an insult to his talents. The game itself flowed through McGrady’s fingertips. Gilbert Arenas’ flaring imagination held true to Adidas’ vision, but only McGrady’s preternatural gift could convince us that impossible is nothing.
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