The Julius Randle experience is defined by a certain duality. Catch him for the right two-minute stretch and you'd think he's some lefty reincarnation of LeBron, with that same blend of speed and heft, the wrecking-ball shoulder bumps, the inside-out playmaking. Catch him in the next quarter, and he'll look like a sulky 4-year-old piloting LeBron's body.
Randle arrived in New York in a moment of the franchise's humiliation... The trade cleared up two max salary slots, and 'from what we've heard, we're going to have a very successful offseason,' team owner James Dolan intimated. That July, they watched as Kyrie Irving and Kevin Durant signed deals in Brooklyn.
With all that delectable cap space, Knicks acquired the likes of Elfrid Payton, Bobby Portis, and one Julius Randle. Shame hung in the air like the aroma off the Gowanus Canal. But Randle spent five years clearing out the stink, lifting his team into surprising semi-contention, and contributing to one genuinely good Knicks team, before he was traded to the Minnesota Timberwolves.
At first my body rejected the news, as if in an immune response. While I've since come around to the deal, I can recognize that initial reaction as a kind of dissociated love for this vexing but gifted player.
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