Russell Westbrook Never Chilled. Thank God.

By Tyler ParkerAug. 17, 1:41 pm UTC • 13 min

Zero

Russell Westbrook retired last week. He announced it via an inscrutable Instagram video narrated by Michael B. Jordan and directed by a dude who does Larry June videos. At the beginning, we see the words “The Museum of Unspoken Answers.” Westbrook wears a shirt that says, “Don’t Rock With What They Say.” He does not speak. He is, truly, one of the greatest to ever do it. A man for all time. 

Westbrook is hanging it up after 18 seasons of high-octane, blue-flame, screaming-eagle hooping, his particular brand of incandescence both maddening and stunning. Eighteen seasons. He played 1,301 games for seven organizations total. Oklahoma City for 11 seasons, the Lakers and Clippers for around a year and a half apiece, then one year each in Houston, Washington, Denver, and Sacramento. The bona fides: nine-time All-NBA, two-time scoring champ, three-time assist champ, a member of the NBA’s 75th Anniversary Team, the 2017 league MVP, and the league’s all-time leader in triple-doubles. 

He leaves the game 14th on the all-time scoring list and fifth on the all-time assists list. He is one of exactly two players in the history of the league (LeBron is the other) to score more than 25,000 points and have more than 10,000 assists. As my boss pointed out, Westbrook’s also one of exactly three players in the history of the league (next to LeBron and Oscar Robertson) to eclipse 25,000 points, 7,000 rebounds, and 7,000 assists. He retires as one of the defining players of his generation and one of the greatest to ever pick up a basketball. 

Yves Saint Laurent once said, “Fashions fade, style is eternal.” So is Westbrook. Originals endure. Always have, always will.

One

The first time I heard about Westbrook, he was taking somebody’s head off. A SportsCenter highlight, it must’ve been. This was when he was in Westwood, playing in a UCLA home game against Oregon. Westbrook got a steal on one end, took it coast-to-coast, and put a Duck named LeKendric Longmire in the rim. Now, I know what you’re thinking. Longmire? That show on A&E? Yes. I mean, no, not that show. It’s not the same guy. They do spell it the same, though as I understand it they aren’t related. Walt Longmire is the dedicated and unflappable sheriff of Absaroka County, Wyoming. LeKendric Longmire was a backup guard from Pascagoula, Mississippi, who got in front of the wrong man at the wrong time. 

Westbrook’s headed for the Hall of Fame now, but back then, he was lucky to even get into UCLA. When he first got to Leuzinger High School in Lawndale, California, as a freshman, he was only 5-foot-8. It wasn’t until his junior year, after a growth spurt sprouted him to 6-foot-3, that he even started for the varsity. Only when Jordan Farmar decided to declare early for the NBA draft did a scholarship open up, enabling Westbrook to become a Bruin. In his two years in Westwood, Westbrook showed off enough springs, enough burst, enough electricity that the Seattle Supersonics took him fourth in the 2008 NBA draft. It was seen as a reach at the time. Not so much anymore. 

Two

A career as long as Westbrook’s, there’s a lot to remember. Hard to keep the order of everything straight, the memories swirling. I remember the time he dropped a Shammgod on Tyler Ulis. I remember the time he grabbed the mic and talked about Thunder great Nick Collison before his last game in 2018. I remember him dancing with Cam Payne. I remember Charlie Villanueva trying to stop Westbrook from dancing with Cam Payne. I remember Westbrook realizing this and dancing even more aggressively with Cam Payne. I remember his putback dunks over Jaylen Brown and OJ Mayo and Danilo Gallinari. I remember when he crossed up Luke Ridnour and sent him to the floor so hard it looked like Ridnour had been punched. 

I remember Westbrook on the move. Hoo boy. Iridescent in transition, glistering, many-splendored. Cheetah on the loose. At his peak, Westbrook dabbled in a kind of hypercharged psychedelia, his athleticism so out there that his fast breaks doubled as miniaturized star gate sequences. He always decorated his one-man coast-to-coast trips with immaculate bursts of color and fury. And if he got to the rim, it’s explosion at the paint factory. It was like he filmed on IMAX and everyone else shot on flip phones. Westbrook was athletic in the same way that the Grand Canyon is big. 

I remember him wearing what appeared to be a Kyle Busch NASCAR jacket. I remember him wearing glasses with no lenses. I remember him wearing custom Bode to the Met Gala. I remember his pants were “made from an antique French midnight blue toile curtain circa 1890.”  I remember him saying, “Humbly speaking, I’m the best rebounding guard ever. So when the ball come across the rim, I’m gonna get it.” I remember when Patrick Beverley hurt Westbrook’s knee. I remember wanting to headbutt a truck when I learned he’d be out for the rest of the postseason. 

I remember the time Westbrook got a dent in his face. February 27, 2015. The Thunder were belly deep in injuries, no Durant, no Dion, not even Enes Kanter. The Thunder’s second-leading scorer was [screams for effect] Mitch McGary. The Snake God had 20 points and nine boards. Kyle Singler played 30 minutes and 38 seconds of basketball, in the year of our Lord 2015. Straits were dire. And so Westbrook did what he always did when things got hairy—flung himself headlong at the problem. 

He was at the free throw line, OKC down two, with one shot and 2.5 seconds left on the clock. Obviously, he tried to miss it, but the ball rebelled and went in anyway. While the shot was in midair, Westbrook scrambled to get in position for a potential rebound but got knocked down by teammate Andre Roberson, who was trying to crash the glass himself. And so Westbrook was on the floor, the ball having gone through the net. Thunder down one, and now Roberson was worried about denying the inbounds pass in any way possible. He tried to leap over Westbrook, but his knee added injury to … injury and met the side of Westbrook’s face. It was a fracture in the zygomatic arch bone of his right cheek, which resulted in a golf ball–sized divot along the side of his head. Westbrook had surgery, missed all of one game, then returned to the lineup. He showed up in a white headband and Rip Hamilton mask, wielding a blowtorch and a bad attitude. His first game back, he had 49 points, 15 boards, 10 assists, three steals, and one block in a home game win over Philly. With a little under three and a half minutes left in the first quarter, he threw down a coast-to-coast two-hand Hulk smash that features prominently in any Westbrook career-highlight mixtape. He flushed it so hard, he had to readjust his mask.

Some people sprint away from the moment with reckless abandon, desperate to dodge responsibility or consequences. They are terrified of failure, afraid of how they might be looked at if things go south. This is a way to survive, but it’s no way to live. Westbrook laid it on the line, always. He dived headfirst, broken face and all, put himself at hazard, said, “Shit, I’ll do it.” 

And the posterizations. I’ll always remember the posterizations. There was Omer Asik and Steph Curry and Lamar Odom. Marco Belinelli and Kawhi Leonard and Thon Maker. There was Dario Saric and Kent Bazemore and Shane Battier. DeMarcus Cousins and Rudy Gobert and DeMarcus Cousins and Rudy Gobert. There was Josh Smith, Michael Kidd-Gilchrist, and Ben McLemore. There was Bismack Biyombo and Jerami Grant and sort of, kind of, a little bit, Kevin Durant. I cannot stress enough that these are not all of them. 

He once dunked on Clint Capela with one second left in the fourth quarter to seal a win over Houston. Westbrook went southpaw, punched it with his left hand. Beforehand, he’d called his shot and told teammate Victor Oladipo that he was going to dunk on someone left-handed that game. In the aftermath of the poster, he found Oladipo. I told you! I told you! 

I remember when Durant left, how seismic that whole thing was, how much it felt like the end of Thunder basketball. And I remember feeling like Westbrook saved Oklahoma City basketball from certain disaster when he agreed to stay. I remember thinking he became immortal the moment he signed the extension. It didn’t matter what came next. From then on, in the state of Oklahoma, he was a god. The rest was gravy. I remember thinking, If nothing else, we won’t be boring. 

I remember the “Now I Do What I Want” Jordan commercial. I remember MOUNTAIN DEW. I remember “Russ, did you guys lose this game, or did the Jazz win this one?” I remember him going, “WHAT? Bro, what are you talking about, man? I’m out, man.” I remember he was wearing a green hoodie. I remember he made this face. 

I remember he became the first person since Oscar Robertson to average a triple-double for a season. I remember he did that three years in a row, his final three in OKC. I remember two years later he did it again, that time in D.C. 

I remember the April night he dropped 20 points, 20 rebounds, and 21 assists in honor of Nipsey Hussle. This was 2019, two days after Hussle was shot dead outside his shop Marathon Clothing in Los Angeles. The Thunder had a home game against the Lakers, and Westbrook just went out and did that. 

There’s being able to do it in general, that’s insane enough, but to put up that line on command? Because you had to? For your friend? That’s something else. That’s outrageous and beautiful. 

I remember the roller coaster he took you on just rooting for him. In my notes, it says here that watching him play is “like getting dragged around by a horse, only fun?” I remember the highs were so high you’d walk around feeling invincible by association. You think I’m going to die? Yeah, right. I’m a Westbrook fan. I’m gonna live forever. I remember the lows were so low you’d think about swearing off television altogether, moving somewhere remote, off the grid. Start a bar, maybe a church, maybe a combination of the two. Tyler’s Bar, Church, and Grill. Or maybe not a church. Maybe just somewhere to get away from the noise. Because I remember, too, no matter what, good, bad, average—Westbrook’s game was loud. He was the answer to the question “What if the Doof Warrior hooped?” 

I remember when he iced out Drake before the 2016 NBA All-Star Game, and I remember when Kendrick invited him onstage to dance. I remember when ESPN’s cameras caught Westbrook singing Ke$ha’s “Die Young” before a game against the Mavericks, and I remember when Westbrook videoed himself singing Natasha Bedingfield’s “Unwritten” while driving his car. I remember Carmelo would roll the ball to him after the opening tip. I remember Rizzoli made a coffee table book called Russell Westbrook: Style Drivers. I remember when he wore pink sweats on Fallon. I remember when he said, “Ahh, that’s pretty interesting.” I remember when he sneaked snacks on the bench. 

What I’ll remember most, though, is the tenacity. His will to win, his insatiability. Nobody went harder. The drive in him was alien. He made no sense. 

Three

Clear out for Durant. 

I remember asking assistant coach Mo Cheeks, what’s harder to do? Workout after practice or before?? I only asked cuz by time I would get to the gym, Russ was already done in the morning and I usually got mine in after practice. Mo like, “coming in before practice is probably harder”…since then, it’s been my routine….a lot of people looked at the emotions on the court and thought Russ was loud, nah to me, he was quiet and methodical. He lead by example and once the lights were bright, he let everything out and experienced pure freedom. It was inspiring as his teammate and everywhere I went, I seen it inspire people from all walks of life, crazy thing is, he didn’t say much, he just showed up. For 18 years. This basketball life is sacred to us as professionals, what we put into that court means everything. Some of us wish we could go back and do things with a little more intent and some can just wipe their hands and be satisfied with the time spent. Who u gonna be? We know what zero was on…keep inspiring in the next phase of life champ. I don’t care what happens, can’t erase what it was…The first YNs, finals run in our early 20s, all star games, seeing each other get injured and bounce back, the bus rides, plane rides, card games, jokes and arguments, the whole thing, memorable!! …to the whole Westbrook family, Nina, the kids, mama Westbrook, big Russ, Ray, Donnell, everybody from luezinger high and ucla and many more that I’m forgettin, much love and Congratulations on a iconic career.

I read this and thought about the unrelenting nature of time, how it swallows us all, how I will one day die. I read this and thought, Durant wants me to cry. I read this and thought of how fun those early years were, how overwhelming of a combo they were, how when they went to the Finals in 2012, I’d have bet any amount of money they’d have won at least one ring together. I read this and thought about how impossibly bummed I was when Durant left, how much they seemed to hate each other in the years that followed, and how later that hate seemed to have faded. There were daps, laughs, hugs for mom.  

They played with each other for eight seasons total. Each of them spent more of their career without the other than with them, yet they will always be linked. They were too successful together for the ties to ever really be severed. When you think of one, it does not take you long to think of the other. Absolutely, they will be partly remembered for what could have been, but that’s only because what was was so incredible.

Four

On Page 163 of Hitchcock/Truffaut, the two directors begin to talk about Hitchcock’s 1945 film, Spellbound. The movie featured a dream sequence. In those days, dreams in movies were almost always depicted via hazy, blurred screens. You know, some twinkling in the speakers, and the air squirms, and the edges of the picture snake and fuzz. Big Al wasn’t into all that. He wanted his dream to look different, so he talked his producer David O. Selznick into hiring Salvador Dalí to collaborate on the sequences. 

“I wanted to convey the dreams with great visual sharpness and clarity, sharper than the film itself,” Hitchcock said. 

So it is when you watch old Westbrook clips. Regardless of picture quality, something in the image is sharper, cleaner, rawer, more immediate than the stuff you’re used to watching. 

“I wanted Dalí because of the architectural sharpness of his work,” Hitchcock said. 

I enjoy Westbrook for the same reason. 

Five

The sheer volume of Westbrook’s numbers cannot tell this whole story. His detractors—weak people with fear in their hearts—are quick to point out that he was inefficient, volatile, that he cared about the triple-doubles too much, that he hunted rebounds when he should have been contesting shots, that he could gamble too much on defense and shoot too much on offense. And it was not as if we Westbrook fans thought otherwise. It was true, he could drive you nuts, and sometimes you left possessions exasperated, wondering what on earth he could have been thinking. But sports are not only about high levels of efficiency. How boring would basketball be, if that were all that mattered? Sports are also about watching people do wild shit, things you could never dream of accomplishing with your body, and reveling in what physical wonders humans are capable of. One of the reasons we watch sports: to see human beings meet the moment and succeed in the face of adversity. Another reason we watch sports: to watch someone do something you thought was impossible, to see someone make a play and think to yourself, I did not know we could do that. 

This is my impression of someone coming out of a 50-year coma and watching Russell Westbrook play basketball for the first time. Dude, what the hell, we can fly now? 

Westbrook was, like most interesting players, full of contradictions. He was newfangled and groundbreaking, a classic, sui generis. He failed spectacularly. He succeeded spectacularly. He was so fascinating to watch because despite his alien athleticism, he remained so human. 

Westbrook never, ever developed a consistent jump shot. He also made colors brighter. You don’t like his shot selection? Interesting, he makes me feel like I am riding a comet. Some people value players with quality shot diets. I value players who make me feel like I might touch God. 

You thought he played too emotionally, that he let things get under his skin too much? I watch him play and get the sensation that I have just snorted lava, that I am wakeboarding on Miller’s planet with one hand on the rope and the other on a marg. And overhead, the stars are melting. He’s going to be loose with the ball? I think, somehow, I’ll get over it. I have a great appreciation for sensibleness in my daily life, but I want my basketball players allergic to the stuff. I want them to believe in impossibilities. I want them to believe they can do anything. I want them to ask, “Why not?”

Westbrook never let his game get cynical, never chilled. He was earnest, willing to put himself out there, willing to care. He was this way even in the final years of his career, when he was bouncing from the Lakers to the Clippers to the Nuggets to the Kings, when the production and minutes began to wane and he was no longer the all-consuming fire-eater he’d been in his youth. It wasn’t that he couldn’t still turn back the clock from time to time. He got his final career triple-double in mid-March against the Clips, a 12-point, 12-rebound, 10-assist Jason Kidd Special, but he was not what he was and hadn’t been for a while. It was time. 

Still, the reason so many rode for Westbrook, the reason he inspired the kind of passion he always did—what was true at the beginning of his career was true at the end. Some players play basketball like the game owes them something. He played basketball like he owed the game, the fans, and himself his best. He showed up and gave all he had. What more could we possibly ask for?  

Tyler Parker

Tyler Parker is a staff writer at The Ringer and the author of ‘A Little Blood and Dancing.’