The Season of Russell Westbrook and a New Era in N.B.A. Fandom

On Sunday night, as I watched a game between the Oklahoma City Thunder and the Denver Nuggets, I realized that the past two or so N.B.A. seasons have changed me, maybe permanently, as a fan. I barely glanced at the score, or, for that matter, at the vast majority of the players who spent time on the floor. Instead, I watched Russell Westbrook. I appreciated—as it has become almost a cliché of basketball fandom to appreciate—his ferocity and fearlessness, intensity and reckless control, all of which verge on the insane. He leapt for rebounds, then exploded—as usual—into careening downcourt swoops, often stopping on a dime at the free-throw line to execute his signature pull-up jumper. But it was hard, on this night, to maintain a narrow focus on his sheer athletic excellence: I was praying for assists. Westbrook’s quest to average a triple-double for the season—purposeful and highly personal, despite his season-long claims to the contrary—had already been accomplished; the only milestone left was to break Oscar Robertson’s record of forty-one triple-doubles in a single season. By halftime it was clear that he’d have enough points and rebounds, and so, until the tenth assist—a whip pass to the rookie Semaj Christon, who hit a corner three—I cursed Westbrook’s teammates as they missed shot after shot that would have finished the deed.

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