When dreams die
If you're reading this, Ja Morant was traded.
As soon as the first report came out that the Grizzlies were open to trading Ja Morant in January, I started writing a goodbye letter. I rewrote it so many times in that first week, untangling webs of emotions through stages of grief.
It’s been five months and a lot has changed — the emotions far less vivid — but it felt right for the initial post to be my rawest reaction.
You exploded into our lives like a shooting star. The moment you crossed into our orbit, we were intoxicated.
You see, phenomena like this didn’t pass through our corner of the universe. Your arrival rewrote our sky.
Word of your marvels spread fast. People clamored from far and wide to see you, and through you, they finally saw us. You made them see us, tattooing us onto your skin as you defied gravity, weaving us into your identity with pride. When they tried to whisk you away to brighter galaxies, you turned them down with a laugh.
We wanted to touch the moon, and you wanted to be the one to take us there.
Together, we built cathedrals in our dreams. Every run poured light into the rising walls, every breathtaking moment refracting it through stained glass, turning belief into something holy.
At first, our ascent felt effortless. Believing was as easy as breathing. But the higher we reached, the thicker the air felt.
The surrounding critics hurled words at you like weapons as you danced your way upward, daring you to fall. And when you got reckless — when you began drawing weapons of your own — they pointed theirs at us. They blamed our foundation for your stumbles.
So when the cracks began to form, we built our walls higher. Every warning felt like a threat to our dream.
It all weighed on you and we could see it. Your defiance was once your superpower; now you wore it like armor. And your legs were getting tired, unable to hold you up like they used to. But we were so desperate to preserve what we were building together that we clung onto your fractured frame like a lifeline.
Now the walls are toppling down, and they’re saying that we have to leave. But how do you walk away from the greatest promise you’ve ever known?
Maybe if I just let them inside, they’ll change their minds. If I just show them what we’re building, they’ll see how beautiful it is — that we haven’t finished yet.
But we haven’t built together in years, have we? We were too busy trying not to fall.
We mistook a streak of light for a destination, and now, all that’s left is darkness.
You’re gone, and so is the promise of everything. I would’ve lived here forever, playing pretend in this imaginary sanctuary. I once believed it in more than anything.
How could I not? You made us believe in magic. We saw you fly.
We breathed in your fire like oxygen. We blocked out the sirens because we didn’t want the dream to end.
But just because it’s over doesn’t mean it was all for nothing. We will always have the dreams we built, the nights you made us feel invincible. The smiles, the hope, the childlike joy.
In another life, your body was kinder to you. In another life, we were more careful. In another life, we touched the moon.
I think mythmaking is inherent to the human psyche. In the past, we told stories about Perseus and Hercules. In modern times, we're all too sophisticated for children's stories - so we make myths out of our athletes. Patrick Ewing, who I idolized growing up, is Hector. Dutiful, reliable and Troy's greatest protector. The ultimate in hero in every conceivable story - except his own, where he met his end at the hands of someone even greater - Achilles. In our world, Achilles didn't have a heel (well, except maybe gambling).
Ja, on the other hand, reminds me of Icarus. The child who wasn't cautioned against flying, but against letting his worst impulses control him. Don't skim the surface and don't touch the sun - all he needed to do. And yet, Icarus, much like Ja eventually did, became a victim of his disregard for temperance. Unable to tame his own nature, he flew too close to the sun one time too many - and paid the price.
This is how I found out… saw this notification before anything else