A Conduit Between Worlds
Dwyane Wade: The Hermes of hoops
The most iconic photo of Dwyane Wade is really of LeBron James. The image—James rising, celestial, for a dunk—Wade, in the foreground, mid-stride under the basket with his arms spread wide—is often colloquially referred to as “the alley-oop”. The play Wade and James shared turned ubiquitous as a signature in their tenure with the Miami Heat. Wade would handle the mechanics, securing the ball in transition with an intuitively timed interception or deflection, and lead James with the lob for the emphatic finish.
This was such a regular occurrence that eventually Wade, running swiftly down the floor, didn’t need to look for James anymore. Wade’s passes triangulated by muscle memory and the vibrations of James’ thundering footfalls from behind. This play happened so often that the move that preempted the iconic photo was not an alley-oop. It was a bounce pass. Wade delivered it unhurriedly backward to James within the first three minutes of an unremarkable, December game. A Monday in Milwaukee against a middling Bucks team. And yet. This is the photo that’s come to represent a legacy. A career spent outworking the field so profusely that the main takeaway from the image is not effort any more than it is James, seemingly levitating. What resonates is a poise so profound that Wade, literally and figuratively foregrounding the action of basketball, appears so leisurely as if beatific. His expression, almost bored. A saint’s eye-roll. His palms tilting skyward as if to say, “See? This is how myths are made.”
The Young Blood
Wade had a title under his belt when the “alley-oop” photo was taken. He was a Finals MVP, an Olympic Gold medalist, and was the Heat’s all-time leading scorer, averaging 25–30 points a game. In the off-season prior to James’ arrival, Miami-Dade County officially renamed itself “Miami-Wade County” for the week that coincided with free agency. So keen was the population on Wade resigning. He was in his eighth season and already a certified superstar. The accolades helped—there’s nothing so affirming of stardom to the fickle nature of NBA fandom as hoisting the Larry O’Brien trophy over your head, patterning its historic surface with your fingerprints. But Wade’s ascension came as quickly as it did because reality arrived, hulking, in his second season.
When the Heat traded for Shaquille O’Neal in ’04–’05 the big man was two seasons out from winning three back-to-back titles with the Lakers. In ’03-’04 that same team was dispatched by the Pistons in the Finals. Conversely, Wade had just played through his inaugural season. The league’s landscape was novel to him then and basketball was stake-less. Despite the contrast, the two fell into quick step. O’Neal had been enticed to South Beach with the promise of another ring, but Wade was the conduit. For Wade, O’Neal brought a new urgency. As a mobile Mount Olympus, O’Neal’s larger than life identity was Wade’s first brush with stardom and its gravity. Wade said playing with O’Neal was like seeing the 8th wonder of the world but rather than idly admire, Wade adjusted.
“He didn’t ease into his career, learning at his own pace as many young players do. His career arrived all at once. A good thing then, that he was fast enough to keep up.”
As the young star of the franchise Wade was never in O’Neal’s shadow, but he did use it to his advantage on the floor. With the space the big man created, Wade had more room to run and set a punishing offensive pace. In transition, the floor seemed to tilt downhill for him, with defenders clinging to his hip and shortly lost in his wake as he slashed to the basket or pulled up for a middy. O’Neal nicknamed Wade “The Flash” for his speed. Defenders tripped and tumbled to keep up only to sprawl on the floor in front of Wade before he shot the ball, languid, through the space where their bodies had just stood upright.
O’Neal told Wade he was going to be great, that he’d turn him into one of the greatest shooting guards of all time. Wade wasn’t formless when O’Neal breathed confidence into him; he had the skill, the quickness and touch—but what he needed was the authority to accelerate it. He didn’t ease into his own career, learning at his own pace as many young players do. His career arrived all at once. A good thing then, that he was fast enough to keep up.
The Divine Trickster
Hermes, the Hellenistic deity, is able to move quickly between the worlds of the mortal and the divine. Wade is 6’4 in sneakers and able to get down a basketball court in three dribbles. Long, reaching dribbles, dribbles like the ball is a comet on an earthward trajectory and Wade is there to guide it. Wade’s fleetness didn’t expressly translate to stats. Neither did watching him always impress the wonders of his speed and lateral quickness given how natural he made it look.
Wade’s quickness came as if intuitive, like squinting into sunlight. His body, given the components of space, a shot clock, and the ball in his hands, just knew what to do. He wasn’t a traditional high-flyer, but he could dunk. His defense wasn’t predicated on overwhelming size, but he could tangle up anyone. He didn’t camp out in passing lanes or pick guys up full court, but he still leads the Heat in all-time steals, with a franchise record of 1,492.
“Wade’s mental mobility matched his physical speed, in that he learned how to mediate between potentially conflicting spaces.”
As a slasher Wade had the ability to take defenders out of the equation by blowing by them, but he didn’t shy away from contact—even if to his own detriment. His later seasons were paired with injuries to his wrists and knees, from midair collisions with bigger players. Hermes, it’s worth noting, was nicknamed “the giant-killer”, because he lulled the hundred-eyed Argos to sleep and pierced him with a sword.There can be a sense sometimes when watching elite athletes, especially those with intuitive skill, that they aren’t aware of what they’re doing. So deep is their body’s instinct. Watching Wade work was to see someone well aware of their power. Like when he already had a defender on their heels and decided to add a couple more crossovers anyway. Or when he took the ball down the floor on a fast break and slowed just enough for a hopeful defender to think they were catching up before he tore off in a cartoon cloud of dust. Wade took joy in his speed and what he could do with it. He didn’t just run, he reveled.
The Psychopomp
When LeBron James and Chris Bosh arrived in Miami the pressure on the team was immediate. After James’ primetime special to announce his decision to leave Cleveland, and Bosh’s less than lauded exit from the Raptors, the trio already had a target on their backs. The pressure from within was just as great. The front office took a big swing, and as a rule of thumb the more stars are involved in any given team, the less patience fans have for lengthy acclimation. Wade appeared to sense all of this and immediately went to work.
During James’ first season, Wade made it a point for the two to do everything together. Interviews, public appearances, traveling to games on the road, he was glued to the young star at every turn. Wade said he knew that for the team to work they’d have to accelerate chemistry, and to do that the two had to be tight. Bosh factored in but Wade, who’d gone from role player to franchise star with a county named after him, recognized that it was possible for egos to eclipse on this new-look Heat team, but not clash. Wade was succinct about the shift. He understood basketball is a team sport and he wanted to be recognized as the best. To be the best, an NBA player needs titles, and to win titles Wade needed the best around him. It was straightforward enough causality but it’s a shift no shortage of NBA stars have found difficult, if impossible.
Hermes is known as a psychopomp, an entity capable of moving between worlds. In Jungian psychology, psychopomps are also mediators between the conscious and unconscious realms. Wade’s mental mobility matched his physical speed, in that he learned, or perhaps already knew how to, mediate between opposite and potentially conflicting spaces. With James and Bosh, Wade recognized his best and most direct road to winning more titles and achieving the elusive greatness he wanted to stamp his career with. Mario Chalmers may have been the point guard, but Wade was the conduit. He saw how the floor could unfold on any given play and pushed his teammates, and opposing players, where he needed them. Psychopomps are also considered to be keepers of knowledge, given the dual worlds they exist in, the liminal spaces they inhabit. Wade had nearly a decade of institutional knowledge with the Heat. He knew the team’s game so well, and had such control over his own abilities, that he was able to manipulate the speed of the game and guide the culture.
After a season of acclimation the Heat met Russell Westbrook and Kevin Durant’s young Thunder team in the 2012 Finals. Miami had just finished two tough series’ against the Pacers and Celtics that both went long. The Heat looked tired and OKC’s legs looked fresh by comparison. The combined experience of Wade, James, and Bosh in the high-intensity of the Finals quickly overwhelmed the young Thunder, though. The next season, Miami ripped through the competition to make it to the Finals and face an experienced Spurs team. In both these Finals, Wade didn’t show up at the top of each series’ stats. Great players—impactful players—who work the margins and illuminate the intangibles, seemingly everywhere at once, never do.
The Protector
Scholars theorize that a kind of pastoral god predated Hermes. In this iteration, he was a shepherd, a boundary-maker and protector. Since Wade retired he’s doubled down on his involvement in foundations and community initiatives focused on helping those most at risk. He’s independently donated money to keep libraries open and roofs over people’s heads; his own foundation focuses on everything from highlighting gun violence in Parkland, Florida and his native Chicago, to raising awareness and tangible resources for LGBTQ youth. Wade’s philanthropy and personal growth is a realm where he’s made it a point to slow down with intention. No longer the on-court accelerant, watching Wade move into his post-career identity is to watch someone intentionally choosing their steps, determined not to leave anyone behind. This is Wade in a role that’s more expansive, though familiar to him—as a conduit of greatness.
