The Loneliness of LeBron James

The first two games of the N.B.A. finals matchup, between the Cleveland Cavaliers and the Golden State Warriors, were nothing, really, to remember for long. In the first game, the Warriors, led by Kevin Durant—whose change of uniforms, from the Oklahoma Thunder’s electric blue to the bright yellow of the Warriors, still disorients me from time to time—coasted to a merry, almost tossed-off trouncing, beating the Cavs by twenty-two points that looked like they could have been forty. Cleveland’s defense, which has been questionable all season, was to blame: LeBron and company couldn’t figure out how to guard Stephen Curry at the three-point line—the site of so much of his freewheeling demolition—and simultaneously pay attention to the painted area near the net. The result was a flurry of unworried fast-break dunks and layups for Durant, who, once limber, showed off the other aspects of his game—a slick, subtle stutter-step here, a blasé three-pointer there. The best thing about watching Durant play is his utter ease on the court. His much-vaunted scoring efficiency is more than simply statistical; he never seems to move his wispy body a flicker more than is absolutely necessary. At his best, he looks half-asleep. In Game 1, this effortlessness was a model for his entire team: for most of the night, the Warriors floated more than fought.