Dwayne Wade: Good night and good luck

Dwayne Wade goes to the basket in the fourth quarter against the Chicago Bulls.

For his first bucket of the new season, Derrick Rose split a double team coming off a Joakim Noah screen and exploded to the basket, contorting around a desperate Udonis Haslem for a bit of acrobatic magic, off the board, into the net. I watched amazed, simultaneously aware that I had seen this before. Before Rose, before this game, many years ago, another fearless player demanded respect in much the same way.

In the off-season, the Boston Celtics traded their long-time anchor, superstar and soul, Paul Pierce, along with Kevin Garnett, to the Brooklyn Nets for a bucket-load of draft picks and spare change. I followed the trade online with mixed feelings. On one hand, the trade made sense for the Celtics: deal a couple of ageing veterans for premium picks (and the possibility of cheap young stars) and protect the future of the team.

And yet, something felt wrong. Trading a player of iconic status such as Pierce, a name synonymous with the franchise and its culture, appeared to be another sobering example of the commercial and unsentimental reality of the NBA. Players come and go; good teams and executives watch out for the future of the franchise, no matter how gut-wrenching it is in the short-term for the fans of the team. As I followed the trade, I wondered, somewhat despondently: what if this happens to my team?

What if the Heat let Dwyane Wade leave?

I have heard all the arguments. Dwyane Wade is not the player he once was. He isn’t as fast, as explosive, as reliable. At this stage of his career, he is best suited to playing as a second or third option on a team. His balky knees are unlikely to withstand the rigours of a full season and keep him fit for the playoffs. Dwyane Wade is no longer a max-contract type of player. I am aware of the discomfiting truth of these arguments, no matter how hard I try to counter or deny them.

And yet, I am unable to imagine basketball – the NBA – without Wade as a Miami Heat superstar. The master-narrative of this season is of events that determine whether or not LeBron James stays with the Heat. For me – and other Heat fans, I’m sure – there is another, more compelling narrative: is this it for Dwyane Wade, superstar?

Earlier today, another incredible player, spell-weaver, trailblazer, Allen Iverson retired from the NBA. The best player of our generation called him the best pound-for-pound player of all time. Iverson contributed to a re-imagining of basketball; he carried the 76ers to the Finals and left his imprint on the team. For better or worse, 76ers fans will compare their next star to AI. And yet this man, this incredible winner, retired shunned by every team in the league, unwanted and castigated, despite the immensity of his accomplishments.

Allen Iverson, a towering personality, hobbled out of the arena feebly, for once, perhaps, looking his height. To see such stature so diminished is sobering: I can’t help but feel that one day soon, maybe that person will be Dwyane Wade, the player who taught me to love basketball.

The NBA has never been about team appeal for me. So remotely located from the scene of action, the league has always been about the beauty of basketball and those rare players who elevate the game. As a fan, you can’t help but identify with one of them, and reconfigure your perspective on basketball through their eyes. They are, quite simply, magnificent heroes. They can do things that fill you with fawning admiration. For the past decade, I have been a Miami Heat fan for no reason other than Dwyane Wade. He is lightning fast, ruthlessly efficient, downright dirty and scrappy, a force of nature.

He was.

It is difficult now to watch Wade play. It is difficult, but today I’m able to appreciate his dedication to the sport better. I adored him once – today it is easier to respect him. The reality of his age and reduced skill-set is too strong to ignore, even for Wade. He has remodeled his game entirely to fit the new system the Heat play, asserting his relevance with smart off-ball cuts and transition opportunities. But this is only the prologue to what was previously unimaginable. Not long from now, maybe in the playoffs, even those opportunities will be hard to come by.

Watching him play against Chicago yesterday only reinforced this fact. For several possessions, he stood lurking in the wings, beyond the three-point line, passively waiting for the ball to come to him. On at least two possessions, Mario Chalmers elected not to pass to him on the break. He missed rotations; he didn’t get his hand up fast enough on defense. He didn’t look angry, as he has in the past, when he took apart the New York Knicks after a Galinari elbow to his face, or when he ripped the heart out of the Pistons in the regular season on the way to his first title and Finals MVP.

After all this time, after all the criticism in the off-season, I kept hoping the old Wade would resurface. The simmering anger I thought I recognized in all those off-season interviews would bubble up once again. What I saw was bitter-sweet: an expressionless Flash, sticking to his role on this team, not doing too much, playing his role just like anybody else. At times, in the first game of the new season, Dwyane Wade even looked tired.

As he goes through the motions against the Bulls, I’m acutely aware of how much time has passed, of how old I am today, and the naivety of my desire to see this basketball player do something incredible on every single play. After all these years, how can I still keep rooting for Dwyane Wade instead of the Heat? Why can’t I just watch basketball, instead of harbouring a childish fantasy for the dominance of a single player?

I stop myself mid-thought: Wade has just split a double team and streaked to the basket. He contorts and puts the ball up in a high arc to the hoop. It clunks off the rim and down, agonizingly short. Wade is on the floor, a look of disbelief on his face.

Perhaps on the next possession.