Lonzo Ball Was Conquered by Patrick Beverley, His Spiritual Opposite

So much promise. Great passing vision, excellent size for his skill set, a functional, if somewhat unorthodox shooting touch, a father and a family and an organization who seemed like they would do anything to help him succeed. He was the top prospect of his high school class, a national phenomenon before his 19th birthday, a budding star who seemed poised to bring it to the league for a decade or more. But it's all over.

He busted after his first game. It's heartbreaking, but there's no way around it: the fates themselves arranged this doom for him. Nothing could have stopped it. Chris Paul, in his last act as a Clipper, signed the young man's death warrant when he allowed himself to be signed and traded to the Houston Rockets; when he allowed Patrick Beverley the chance to step foot on that court last night, to fill himself with a powerful loathing that he and only he can access, and to let it loose on this poor young man.

When David Stern vetoed the Paul trade way back when, did he know? Did he know that it would destroy the Lakers not only for the next five years, but for the next decade? Did he see the parts in motion? Did he see the doom being set forth for whatever young man would be placed on that altar, on that day?

Lonzo Ball has spent his entire summer preparing for this moment, only for the moment itself to leap out of a fucking tire and bite him on the nose. Beverley is everything Lonzo isn't: unremarked upon out of high school, kicked out of college for some asinine academic scandal, forced to play in Europe, doing everything he could to crack an opening into the NBA, devoting himself entirely to the art of defense, a manifestation of the form that is fueled by a darkness that makes people uncomfortable, a commitment to getting in a motherfucker's face that runs SO DEEP that he seems mostly unconcerned with whether he injures his opponent or not.

The kind of Twitter bravado we see all the time from pro athletes, but Patrick scrawls these thoughts as holy scripture, and he followed it to the letter. In his first outing, Lonzo—hyped, beloved, famous—was DEVOURED by Pat—under-recruited, unloved, unwanted—only managing to score three points on 1-6 shooting while Mr. 94 Feet stuffed himself as deep in his personal space as he possible could.

But that fact alone wasn't what crushed Lonzo's spirit, broke his mind, left him shivering and mentally unable to succeed in the NBA ever again. It was the sheer, profound disrespect that Patrick exhibited for Lonzo at every turn. Pat straight shoved Lonzo at halfcourt, took the ball from Lonzo's hand, turned around and called him an untoward name. Pat drained a three point shot right in Lonzo's maw, turned around and unleashed a sarcastic Cena-style "you can't see me" right into the heart of the struggling young Laker. Then, after spending the whole game stripping Lonzo for parts, Pat strolled off the court, yelling for anyone who could hear, "Weak ass motherfucker. Bring him out on the court with me and I will tear his ass up."

LaVar Ball, Lonzo's publicity-hound father addressed this after the game to ESPN: "Yeah, you shut the motherfucker down. And your check still ain't going to go no higher than what it is. Yeah, you shut him down. OK…who is Patrick Beverley? He played all last year and nobody said nothing about him. Now we are looking at your first game. Why? Because Lonzo's name is attached to it."

LaVar doesn't get it though. He sees Beverley's efforts as some vainglorious swipe at success or wealth or some horse shit. LaVar, a complete failure as a player, by the way, doesn't get that the shit that drives Beverley goes deeper than money or success or fame—transactional nonsense. It comes from a dank and profound wellspring of pure vitriol, an engine deep in his spirit that runs on the failure of his opponents, producing pure, purple-colored spite that he injects into his victims like venom.

Pat's shit goes beyond self promotion, his is a desire to see his enemies fail at any cost. He would rather see a man's life fall to pieces, scattered into the ocean on account of his defense, than raise some fucking trophy or stand on stage at some bullshit Hall of Fame ceremony. His drive, his madness, was what he used to lift himself out of the shit pit of academic scandal and European basketball, grabbing onto the NBA as tight as he could, sinking his claws into it, and dragging it down as far as possible, just to get a foot on the hardwood. If Lonzo's going to heal himself, he could do worse than to emulate him.