It’s got to be the hands.

Those quick hands, those magician’s hands, that make slight, almost imperceptible moves. The ones that make you think you saw something you didn’t, that make you hesitate for just a split second, until you realize it might not be the hands at all.

Maybe it’s the feet.

You noticed them earlier, as this tall, skinny kid named Jonathan Phelps was elevating over you and shooting a jumper in your face. So you back off, and now he’s using those same feet to blow past you. As you see the zero on the back of his jersey fling itself into three of your teammates, though, you realize something else – it’s not just the physical gifts. The guy’s got heart.

And as the referee’s whistle echoes in your ears, you see him high-fiving his teammates and strolling to the foul line to add another point to his total, it all comes together. You haven’t just been outplayed, you’ve been outsmarted. You and your teammates have done everything he’s wanted you to, been at his mercy this whole time.

So you shrug your shoulders, manage an admiring smile and trudge back down the court. Trying to guard this guy is impossible, you think, but there’s always hope. Maybe next time he’ll make a mistake or miss.

But he doesn’t.