A Man Apart

All Russell Westbrook needed to make history was to be left alone. This is the untold story of how he found his singular drive.

- Tim Keown

You're all alone, little man, and you’re starting to think it was a mistake to board that plane. Ever since you walked off that jet bridge, people have been asking questions with their expressions: How did you get here? Who told you to come?

You’re a skinny 16-year-old taking a trip by yourself for the first time, and you flew 2,100 miles from Los Angeles to Atlanta for a basketball camp, only to be told nobody knows who you are. The guy driving the shuttle from the airport to the hotel couldn’t find your name on the players list, so you stand on the curb holding your suitcase and your confusion, deciding what to do next.

You’ve got the hotel’s address on a piece of paper and enough money for a cab ride, and you’re determined to get it straightened out.

This camp is one of the big ones for high school players, sponsored by a shoe company. You’re here because your coach made a call, and he believed in you enough to convince someone important—someone you are right now trusting actually exists—that you belong here with all the best high school players in the country.

You get out of the cab and walk up to the camp’s check-in table at the hotel, trying to look like you belong, trying to ignore the buzz in your head that says you might not. “Westbrook,” you say. A lady runs her finger down the lists of names, flips through the papers with a concerned look and then starts back at the top. She asks again, and you try to keep it light by saying, “Westbrook—always at the end.” You’re trying to be cool, even as she winces. “Honey, I’m so sorry —you’re not on the list.”

You ask her to please check once more. She looks up at you with kindness, seeing your eyes widen in panic, and shrugs.