Russell Westbrook Is Channeling His Inner 60s Mad-Hoops Scientist
From O-Rob’s Triple-Doubles to the advent of Efficiency Preachers and the man they’ll never get to understand
There is nothing surprising in finding “Robertson” and “triple-double”, such a pair of contrasting concepts— of bone and flesh, legend, and supernaturality — connected, together, one side following the other in a single or two sentences sentence. When The Big O dropped a bucket for the first time in it, the NBA was barely a thing with only 11 seasons in its baby history. Embedded right in the cusp of the still-juvenile but already brewing legend of the Boston Celtics and their eight consecutive LO’Bs, Robertson’s freshman season was good enough to launch him toward the Rookie of the Year for the ’61 campaign in the L.
Nobody was touching Bill Russell — perhaps not even Wilt from his other side of the mountain — so having Ozzie contesting Bill the Hill was a tall statement to make, let alone a challenge to be successful at attempting. Making things even more ridiculous, O-Rob arrived in the circus at 22 years of age, drafted as the no. 1 overall pick by the now-extinct-later-Kings Cincy Royals, soft skin in place, far from an old-ass bum getting into the Association via dubious, merger-related agreements between leagues or anything of the like.
From the U of Cincinnati to his hometown — he was a territorial-draftee — Royals, by the way of the 1960 Olympics in Rome and the golden bling-bling he brought home. No joke, this O. Masquerading as a point guard in a game of giants, he was just one more of the latter crop. There literally have not been many men that high to man the point; only hybrids and blur-the-lines meta-PGs — think of O as a proto-James Harden — have historically approached the profile.
When Russ hit the L for the first time in 2008, he did so measuring at 6–3 and 200 pounds, definitely downsizing the measurements of his old pal Rob. Rob, by the way, who went on to fall 0.3 dimes short of trip-dubbing in his first season as a pro. He proceeded to break some souls in 1962 pulling off the feat that year thanks to a mighty 30–12–11 line that as great as it looks doesn’t even start to convey the greatness of such an accomplishment.
We live in a base-10 function world. Makes sense. Ten fingers up and ten more down, five on each hand, five on each foot, twenty total. Average five points a day, you straight. Average 10, you cool. Average 15, you legit. Average 20, 25, or 30, you a certified bucket. Average 16, though? Ah, hell no, you’re a weirdo stuck in the middle of nowhere, in the wrong time, and not good enough to reach those sweet 20s while hanging just barely above the nice and rounded 15-ball mark. That’s why folks always count O-Rob’s exploits as a one-year trip-dub season in a 14-year career.
But let’s be honest about The Big O. He actually had five seasons in which he finished with a baseline of 10–9–10, one of those including 9.9 boards a game in 1964. He played a stupid 45.6 MPG that campaign over the 75 games he appeared in. Sometimes I wish we had four fingers instead of five. Not that Westbrook cares a bit about number systems — or anything for that matter.
Back to The Brodie. Our day and age devices molly-launched Russ into rarefied air. That’s because he didn’t just pull off the impossible-to-think-of ridiculous O-Rob feat of averaging a season-long triple-double, but he actually did it four times in a span of five seasons while putting up a 27–8–7 in the lone year he missed on it. No base-10 bullshit on Russ’ book, though, as he topped the 10–10–10 each and every time, no questions asked, let alone unanswered.
I bet you remember that first time in 2017 when you stumbled upon a tweet, or a post on Reddit, or whatever, written by some nerd talking about his calculations and how they actually painted a picture of a trip-dubbing mate in the making. Only if he can dish out 182 more assists in the remaining 14 games will he achieve it, they said, or something of the like. The feat was so ridiculously unreachable that nobody cared about it… until they did. And oh boy, did they.
It became a joke of sorts, Russ chasing easy defensive rebounds, trying to find teammates where they ain’t just to bag those dimes, launching his soul toward the rim to drop the thunderous dunk — and luckily, get some and-one love from the refs here and there to bulk those stat-sheet point tallies. But at the end of the day, haters were forced to bow to the inevitability of Westbrook’s greatness. Gotta honor those who beat the game. A cadre of the most varied voices praised Beastbrook, he of the first triple-double season since the monochrome days of old.
Only it was cool for a year, two tops. With Kevin Durant out of OKC after signing with its foe Warriors, themselves launching a dynasty akin to that of Bill Russell’s Celtics, the first time Russ achieved his tri-tri in 2017 it was all seen as unadulterated, wild, and raw amount of rage packed into a basketball statline. Not good enough to win a chip, says KD? He will eat some D, should have poetically responded West-B. Ethically or not, the aforementioned Kev ended bagging the chip just months after arriving in The Bay, not even having to feast on the full 16-course meal in the postseason to get the flashy, sapphire-stripped, billion-karat ring. All Russ got was a bunch of shit thrown his way from members of the Association of the Fussy Preachers of Efficiency. In year one. Imagine what was about to come when he doubled-, tripled-, and quadrupled-down on his feat years later.
Russell turned into a living, breathing, walking meme. We normalized the triple-double average as if it came down to dropping 13 pops and pulling down 7 boards in the rec park on a lazy Sunday playing concrete-court hoops with a bunch of your mates back from them good’ol high school days. Westbrook, simply put, turned into a basketball Machine obfuscated with engineering impossible stats and outcomes while functioning as an inefficient — or so they say …— black box of sorts. Westbrook had just grown disconnected to the game, filled with the angst of not seeing himself as capable of reaching what slipped through his fingers back in the summer of 2012 when somehow only the LBJ/Wade/Bosh-led Heat stopped the Baby Thunder.
Seemingly for everybody, Russ’ Machine was and still is delightful, enjoyable, and a wonder to watch work on a nightly basis around the arenas and courts that belong to the Association franchises. Seemingly, I say, because that’s not the case for everybody. Not for the Fussy Preachers. The Fussy Preachers who don’t marvel at the inner works of the Machine and its forefront outings, but who rather find themselves inspecting the byproducts and the waste generated by the processing of raw basketball materials.
Efficiency. Production. Just a couple of reasonable qualities and attributes you can always attach to Machines. Turn them on, then proceed to watch them thrive in their nature while manufacturing all types of goods. Set it and forget it. Seed, then reap.
Only Russ posed the biggest Individual vs. Team conundrum ever explored in the realm of peachball. Nerds have maintained their position for a long time now, and if only because of pure bitter and stubborn beliefs they will stay sitting right there at the top of their self-crafted mountains of efficiency-geared thoughts.
The Lakers, by the way, just signed Russell Westbrook in a last — or at least their latest —effort to get and hang their 18th banner up to the Staples rafters. How can they dare thinking Russ is going to help them win? Just entertaining the idea is reason to die under the most grievous of pains, say the Preachers. Who, in his or her sane mind, would ever think of a man coming off a 22–11–11 season as someone capable of helping a team achieving anything? Heresy!
Truth is, though: Russ trip-dubbed three years in a row in OKC, and the franchise never got worse (from 47 Ws to 48, then 49 in 2019). Westbrook was traded to Houston and the Rockets repeated their no. 4 seed in the Western Conference making it to the Bubble Postseason and the conference semis led by Russ and the Beard. Another offseason, another trade, this one toward the Capital; joined Bradley Beal in Dec. 2020 in Washington and then proceeded to put together a playoffs-worthy campaign for the first time in three years.
Now, in another unexpected turn of events, The Brodie is buying plane tickets for the nth time in his career, moving back home to Cali, and about to ball under the bright lights of Hollywood in the ultimate superstar-loaded squad ever assembled: LeBron, AD, Melo, Ariza, Dwight, Marc, Russy. You name it. I guess when you have washed players in your roster, you gotta go do something, thus the trade.
The Lake Show is going to coast through the 2022 campaign. The Lakers already did last season even though they missed Bron and AD for more than a third of the total games played last year. Not even trying, LA put up a 40–32 record, seventh-best in the whole West. Play-in win. And a very Sunny defeat in the first round of their early-cut run toward a dreamy chip, that is.
If you want to believe in numbers, go ahead. Kind Fussy Preachers will always have some room for you. If you want to enjoy peachball, get inside our crib. This ain’t hoops textbook, we here root for our beloved and raw Russell Westbrook.
