One of the best ways to pay homage to Tim Duncan in text would be to write very few words on him, sprinkle a little dry humor within the paragraphs and let him fade into the sunset. But whether Duncan wants to verbalize it or not, he is a legend. He is the silent nod in basketball history, if you will, with his excellence unquestioned by any man in any era. Given the names of the great players who played the same position he did for two decades, he is so great that his name tops them all in the minds of the consensus.
We can discuss and essay about Duncan’s skills for hours. Blessed with footwork and dexterity of supreme athletes half his size and impeccable defensive timing, Duncan played as a temple giant – patrolling the paint with a quiet intimidation. The low block was his domain, and the backboard was his favorite weapon when he needed to decimate from distance. His athleticism wasn’t full of nitrous oxide, but of the perfect blend of iron and stone. He was physics, not chemistry, and it took much longer for his efficacy to have a major decline.
I do not selfishly wish that he plays forever. Despite the end of his career being another token of realization that I am also getting older, this feels right. There is an air of finality to Duncan’s tenure. There is nothing else he has to prove. The long list of accomplishments, fittingly so, speak for him.
Poemer. 8-time Hug Champion. Pick&Roll Enthusiast. Guardian of Logic and Tact. Apocalypse’s good Brother. Collector of muted souls for Mt. Filtermanjaro.