NOW YOU KNOW
THERE’S MUSIC IN Jamal Murray’s game. The way he bounds around the floor has a rhythm to it. That cadance he plays with can be seen when he dribbles down the court, seemingly on his tippy-toes, in tempo with the bounce of the ball. His steps have their own time signature. Dribble. Float. Dribble. Float. Dribble. Float
Murray starts to sing when it’s time to raise up. The hop into his shot is consistently on-beat and it comes with perfectly squared shoulders like he’s leading an orchestra. The shoulders give way to a dipped-in-honey follow through that he leaves up even after the nylon dances to his music. His whole game is a concert in which his mind and body take turns leading the jam session.
It’s regular to hear him play different songs. Sometimes he’s calm, providing the backing track for his teammates. That’s when he moves in chords, within structures that keep the timely groove. Sometimes he’s aggressive, living in the solo section of the song, crashing through with long-distance shots that squeal like a bent guitar string and dribble combos that happen so
