It’s enough to fool both the defense and, in many cases, hypothetical dunker Clint Capela, who has hopped all the way up only to watch, at eye level, a teardrop fall through the net. And that handle lets him glide through the first line of defense, slip into the middle of the paint, and baffle the defense with his preferred Sphinx riddle: “Floater or lob?” Both the pass and the shot are flicked up with insouciant ease, the way Tony Soprano might flick olive juice off his fingertips. He has no shame faking a timeout if it means he can turn the corner.

From behind the arc he throws one-handed bolts to teammates who fling up their hands in self-defense and only realize, as the leather hits their fingertips, that they are open. When it comes to the pocket pass, no one since Steve Nash has seen this many imaginative possibilities-over, through, around, behind. His range is the film negative of Ben Simmons’s range. Young controls the show even when his shot isn’t falling-and it really wasn’t, over this whole second-round series-because his bag of tricks keeps going. But the last one he shot was a swoosh from 29 feet, over Simmons’s outstretched hand, which put the Hawks up by six and put the game away. Young’s postgame pose was a little strong for a man had just gone 5-for-23 from the field in that Game 7. But for now, this postseason, standing among the corpses of the blindingly polished seven-footers (Nikola Jokic, Kevin Durant, Anthony Davis) and the burly all-seeing ball-handlers (Luka Doncic, James Harden, LeBron James), still standing, still alive, is a man who could be fairly described as a “twerp.” And therein lies his power. A single glance at the talent funneling into the league over the next few years will convince anyone of this trend. Sure, the sport is now ruled by players who have grafted little-guard skills onto bigger and stronger frames. Young’s emergence as a perfect supervillain should not go unnoticed, amid the pantsing of the secretly incompetent Thibodeau Knicks, or the hamfisted futility of the Sixers foiled by injury (Joel Embiid’s right meniscus, Ben Simmons’s prefrontal cortex). After spending the last month feasting on the collective hatred of the Northeast’s most hateful cities, he might be more powerful than ever.

It was this same Trae Young motionless on the court last night, the basketball pinned to his hip as the final seconds of Game 7 slipped away, eyes alive with malice, surveying the crowd as if trying to sort each and every gutted Sixers hopeful into a manila folder labeled “Motivation.” He marinates in these boos. Here in Trae Young was something Ariza genuinely could not abide. This was as genuine a flash of violence as you’ll ever see in a sport that generally dwells at much lower level of violence (smushing your face really close to the other guy’s face as if threatening to kiss). Young pursed his lips, nodded, and gestured for more. For good measure, Ariza, some seven inches and 35 pounds bigger than the would-be nutmegger, shoved him away with both hands. Young came down the floor and tried to dribble the ball right between Ariza’s legs and catch it on the other side Ariza realized what was unfolding and enthusiastically introduced his shoulder to Young’s windpipe. Young’s Hawks led Ariza’s Blazers by 16 in the third. It was a regular-season game last February. Trevor Ariza was not the first person to notice it, but he did perhaps notice it most primally.

Trae young shush