In "The 40-Year-Old Virgin" (2005), Steve Carell had continual trouble with putting the — ahem — feline on the pedestal. We, and by "we" I mean the collective masses of NBA fans and those teenage girls who mysteriously broke out the BlackBerrys to furiously vote throughout All-Star Weekend, are having a similar problem with Blake Griffin.
Describing it as a problem might be a little much. After all, sports thrive on larger-than-life figures that transcend team loyalties and appeal to those who simply love the game. We wanted to be like Mike, and now we want to make it like Blake.
It was a foregone conclusion that Griffin would win the dunk competition on Saturday night. JaVale McGee could have jumped over three cars and a herd of elephants and it wouldn't have mattered. But he didn't, and that's what counts. Griffin was the one who leapt over a Kia, who executed a thunderous repertoire of mind-boggling slams. If McGee — or DeMar DeRozan or Serge Ibaka, for that matter — had pulled out the car stunt instead of Griffin, we would be left scratching our heads, wondering whether to be amazed at the dunk or upset that our hero didn't execute it first.
But that doesn't matter at this point. Blake Griffin won the slam dunk contest. For all intents and purposes, he won All-Star Weekend too, because anyone who wasn't a fan before now cannot help but bow down in, at the very least, admiration.
I, like the rest of America, am rooting for Griffin to succeed. He represents the next generation of rising NBA stars — my generation, if you will. His stoicism will supplant Kobe Bryant's; his high-flying antics will eventually surpass Dwight Howard and LeBron James. He plays for a down-and-out franchise with a ruthlessly evil owner. He's a favorite surrounded by an underdog supporting cast. He deadpans better than any athlete except Shaq.
But at what point does reality end and legend begin? At what point do we begin to embellish and distort reality to feed the myth? Ultimately, the line begins to blur, and that's what makes a legend a legend. Anything he does is no longer out of the realm of possibility.
There seem to be three simple stages through which all legends must traverse: the inception, the prime and the fall. Griffin is still in that first arena. After all, he's only a rookie, a fact that may be hard to forget amid the endless barrage of orgasm-inducing throw-downs.
Griffin's myth is still forming. He's already created a highlight reel of dunks long enough to match most players' careers, but plays for a 21-35 team. The Clippers are far from a championship contender; so too is Griffin still far from crossing the barrier between "elite individual" and "elite winner." And only until he enters the third stage, only until we begin saying things like "remember Griffin in his prime, man he was awesome," will the legend cease to evolve.
That's not to say that what he did at the dunk contest wasn't cool, but we use that as an example of his larger symbolic value, placing him up on the pedestal in the process. Griffin has become a holier-than-thou figure, the perfect blend of Kevin Durant's modesty and the talent of the game's best. But what happens if something goes wrong? This is life, after all. Squeaky-clean sports careers simply don't happen anymore, and if they do, it's to those who fly under the radar.
The interesting thing is, while his dunking exploits have become common-place, anything Griffin does off the court has escaped the public's eye. So far, we have no reports of virulent sexting or late-night exploits at the strip clubs. And that is what sets up a vicious fall from grace for our hero.
For now, though, enjoy the car dunks. Vroom, vroom.
