J.J. Barea and context in the key

Sometimes I think the thing sports fans are least good at, besides stopping being fans of sports — which, let’s face it, they’re the worst at — is scaling success. In my world, which sometimes feels as if it has narrowed to a harsh pinprick of light via a series of personal reversals too minimally important to register outside of my apartment — this is embodied in the elfin form of J.J. Barea.

This is a guy whose goodness as a player has stayed absolutely absolute for all his ten years in the league. And I deeply respect him. In fact, in my career, I kind of feel like I am him — we all wish we had more skill but we have what we have, and sometimes we hang on in the league by being willingly to fearlessly throw ourselves into the paint. There’s no sense in worrying about whether or not you should also be hitting the defensive glass when you’re 5-foor-10 in a league where everyone else is 7-foot-8. You’re you, and you do you things, and it is totally beautiful.

But J.J. is also a universal constant. He will always shoot between 40 and 43 percent from the floor and 34 to 38 percent from on 3-pointrs. He will always dish about 4-5 assists, depending on playing time and average between 1.5-2 turnovers a game. He will occasionally be a deadly spark plug off the bench and he will always be a deadly dead spark plug keeping the car from going at all on defense. This describes pretty much every J.J. season there’s ever been. At the same time that he is that constant, however, his appreciation is a universal sinus pattern.

People really liked him in Dallas, the first time, when he came from nowhere to jumpstart the offense at unlikely times. He is particularly remembered for his playoff run in the championship season where he was actually truly awful. He had a good series against the Lakers, ending with Andrew Bynum trying to murder him, and an okay one against OKC, but the rub of it all is that he is most remembered for a Finals series in which he scored eight points per game on 38 percent shooting and 33 percent shooting on 3-pointers. He really was instrumental in the crucial Game 5 and Game 6 wins, when he was in the starting lineup. But he also, in the first four games of the series, went 8 for 32, which, if you’re doing math at home — I don’t advise that — is not good.

The thing is, that team was so good that J.J. could be truly awful a lot of the time and be super valuable when he wasn’t.

On the strength of his recent laurels, J.J. swiftly departed to the Minnesota Timberwolves, where he was ultimately extremely hated. His stats weren’t only roughly as good as his years in Dallas, they were actually a little better in comparable minutes. But it was not a happy marriage.

The thing is, that team was mediocre enough it actually counted on J.J., and that is not a good place to be.

Now, once again a Mav, and on an apparently even worse team, J.J. is once again beloved. People will tell you it’s because he’s dramatically upped his scoring, and he has, from 10.9 last year to 17.3 this year. And it also seems like the last few years he actually is an improved 3-point marksman. But he’s shooting the same from the floor he always has, with twelve more minutes and five more shots a game.

I think you know where I’m going with this, but I’ll say it anyway — the thing is, the Mavericks are actually so bad that this mediocre player seems heroically great.

Listen everyone. It’s not J.J. It’s you. It will always be you. Guys who win are as good as they are, guys who lose are as good as they are. The right mix of talent makes a big difference and so does the wrong one.

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