"Watching a basketball game on TV," wrote Leonard Michaels in his 1993 book of essays, To Feel These Things, "I saw Walt Frazier start to his left with a sort of no-beat dribble, then break right, going to the basket at a hard slant, his opponent going just as fast, then not fast enough. Frazier went by untouched, soaring toward delivery, and the ball whispered through the net before his sneakers hit the floor. The move took one second, yet was packed with sensational detail. I was alone in the house. There was nobody to whom I could say, 'Did you see that?' Then Bill Russell's voice came on the air. 'Frazier doesn't look fast, but that's because he's so smooth.' Russell, who often said things more pleasing than the game, said exactly what I'd seen. If he'd wanted to write about Frazier's move and had then sat all day at a typewriter, he couldn't have said it better."
Here's what I'm getting at: Substitute the name Gary Payton for Walt Frazier, and you have a nearly perfect description of what it is that makes the Sonics point guard such a constant joy to watch. Payton, like any number of fantastic players over the years--Bob Cousy, Julius Erving, Magic Johnson, Michael Jordan--has, as Michaels says of Frazier, the "clarity of tremendous style." And that style, a sort of unbounded determination that carves beauty from pure slapstick, suffuses every aspect of his game: from his ridiculously high-arcing scoop shots in the lane, to his scrappy, stealthy drives on the baseline, to his endless chattering and challenging on the floor. Payton is the NBA's Charlie Chaplin, rescuing grace from garbage and transforming his physical limitations into an amazing asset. Half of the shots Payton puts through the hoop appear guided by nothing but outrageous luck; but that, due to the irrefutable laws of physics, is simply impossible. This is exactly why he's so amazing to watch. His chaotic gestures, despite all appearances, are entirely controlled. The implementation of his style is a sheer force of will.