The dust has settled a bit in the wake of Saturday night’s nuclear assault, and while we can rest easy for now, we might not ever be the same. No, I don’t expect Blake Griffin to go apocalyptic every single night, not only because he’d have to be on a permanent, fixed schedule consisting of ‘NYK’ 82 times over, but because that’s just not how the construction business works. The foundation has been laid, however, and faster than expected. It only took Brandon Jennings 7 games to get 55, and he spent the rest of the year shooting his way into the darkest and scariest of caves only occupied by Baron Davis and Trevor Ariza. It only took Griffin 14 games to get 44, but given the ultra-highlight-reel nature of exactly how it went down, well, that makes all the difference, and surely I don’t expect him to be spending any nights in a damp motel room with Anthony Randolph any time soon.
I’m trying to curb my enthusiasm a bit, because a promise fulfilled is a rare and beautiful thing in sports, especially when the promise is mind-blowing on Jodorowsky-directs-Dune proportions. But in the same week that Greg Oden was lost again, perhaps forever, Griffin’s outburst was hyperbole personified, and Amar’e’s presence as witness and High Priest (of Dunks) makes it not just a matter of isolated brilliance relegated to the far corners of League Pass, but of sanctioned, NBA-approved arrival (with the clips, photos, and narrative to prove it, ready to be memed). And frankly, with Wall’s nagging ankle injury, Cousins’ nagging shot selection injury, and the rest of this year’s newcomers only making a little splishy-splash in a league of tidal waves, I’m ready to succumb to the almighty, high-flying power of this lone Clipper, capable of ending the Cold War in a single dunk (if only the Berlin Wall hadn’t already come down!). It’s okay to admit, friends, we have seen the future, and if we’re lucky and paying attention, we’ll be living there permanently.