Jalen Brunson could barely find the words.
You couldn’t blame him. The man had just done the one thing he’d organized his whole life around, and he did it as the player few outside his own family ever forecasted would be the one standing there. No longer the overlooked NCAA champion. More than the second-round pick with potential to overcome his measurables. The guy who surprised Utah in the playoffs that one year. Now? Well, now that kid is the champion. The Finals MVP. He told the sideline he had no words,
that he was just in awe, and for a few seconds, the kid who always had an answer didn’t have one.
I was sincerely happy for him. I still am. This is one of the great sports stories, and the fact that he isn’t ours anymore doesn’t take that away. We cheered for this guy. We watched him grow up in Maverick blue. He went and did something enormous, and there is real pride in having been there at the start of the pro leg of this journey. There is also, if I’m honest at one in the morning, the ache of what could have been.
Lisa Salters asked him afterward what he’d been telling himself about closing the game out. His confidence, Brunson said, comes from his work ethic. Every time he got the ball down the stretch, he was thinking about the summers, all of them, as far back as he can remember. About being, in his words, “me alone in the gym.” All those hours with no crowd and nothing at stake, cashing out at last on the loudest stage in basketball.
The way he cashed it is the part that should make every doubter wince. San Antonio built a roster engineered to erase a player exactly like him. Length everywhere. Dylan Harper, Stephon Castle, and Devin Vassell hounding the point of attack, long and rangy and athletic, and Victor Wembanyama waiting at the rim as the most terrifying shot-blocker in the league. Brunson gave up size and reach to all of them and beat them anyway. Herky-jerky, start and stop, a half-beat ahead possession after possession, outthinking a defense designed to think faster than he could. He poured in fifteen in the fourth quarter, one clutch shot after another, and there was nothing all that San Antonio length could do about a man who had already seen every counter in an empty gym years before. Too small, they always said. Doubted his whole life. He just kept finding a way.
Charles Barkley has spent years calling him the greatest free-agent signing in NBA history. After tonight, the room finally stopped arguing.
Here’s the hard part. The Dallas part.
This is not a missive about a franchise that should have spotted a legend. He went 33rd for reasons that made sense at the time, and when Mark Cuban shrugged that he had “no idea” Brunson would become this, I’ll grant him that one. Concede the scouting. The malpractice lives in what came next.
By Tim MacMahon’s reporting in The Wonder Boy, Brunson wanted to stay. He was eligible for a four-year extension worth up to roughly $55.5 million, and his family was so eager to put down roots in Dallas that they’d have taken less than the max. The security meant that much to him. He grew up watching his father, Rick, work through a journeyman’s NBA career on one nonguaranteed contract after another, training three times a day every summer just to earn a training-camp look, never sure when a team would move on from him. For a son raised on that, a guaranteed deal in Dallas carried a weight beyond the dollars: it was the safety his father’s career had never once promised.
The front office wouldn’t commit to it. They wanted to keep him movable, to dangle as bait for a co-star next to Luka, and they kept one eye on the luxury tax they’d ducked ever since 2011. So they waited. Through training camp. Past the January window when his camp said he would sign right then. And by the time they finally slid the same number across the table, he had outgrown it. A structuring flub on his rookie deal meant Dallas didn’t even hold the right to match. He walked for nothing. His father’s verdict was that the Mavs could have made the choice hard, and instead they “made it easy.”
Sit with the cruelty of that. This is the precise kind of player the Mavericks spent that entire era clearing cap space to chase in free agency. A natural leader. A low-ego, locker-room-raising winner who makes everyone around him better. They had him. They grew him. And because they could not stop keeping their options open long enough to back the believer right in front of them, they let him leave for the price of a goodbye.
We just passed fifteen years since 2011. You and I both remember how much had to break right that spring, how rare that alignment is, how a whole franchise’s one shining season can hinge on every piece fitting at once. The Knicks just ended a fifty-three-year wait. That is the math that turns this from a grievance into a warning: self-inflicted wounds in roster building are exactly how a fifteen-year drought hardens into a fifty-three-year one.
I have heard it said that the acquisition of Kyrie Irving effectively balanced the scales for having lost Brunson to the wind less than a year prior. To think so is pure folly and underestimates the causality of burning future assets – the 2029 first sent to Brooklyn in the Irving package – to atone for past mistakes. Think about it long enough, and loving the Mavericks post-2011 can feel like the basketball version of 12 Monkeys or Memento. We now bank on the creativity and gem-finding skills of Ujiri and company to save the Cooper Flagg era (itself an unlikely dollop of grace) from the sins of the past.
So let yourself look ahead. Barring something catastrophic, what we watched tonight is a Hall of Fame résumé manifesting in real time. More years of contention. More years leading that franchise. Some will tell you he was already a lock, and that tonight only burned off the last of the doubt.
Somewhere down the line, a kid in a Brunson jersey is going to ask why his guy ever wore blue and white. We had him first. The people who ran the team then couldn’t bring themselves to keep him.
