FROM ABOVE ARTICLE:

When his name was finally called, after he’d wiped the tears away once more, Luka Dončić walked through the tunnel of players. But Markieff Morris, the 14-year NBA veteran, knew exactly what his teammate of the last couple of seasons needed.

A hug.

Morris, pivotal in the culture of the Dallas Mavericks during last year’s NBA Finals run, emerged from the shadows and into the spotlight following Dončić. With open arms and a smile, Morris embraced the 26-year-old superstar. Dončić rested his head on his teammate’s shoulder as Morris consoled him with closed fist pats on his back.

As guarded as Dončić can be, he couldn’t hide just how overwhelmed he was in his return to Dallas.

“So many emotions. I can’t even explain it,” Dončić told ESPN’s Lisa Salters after dropping 45 in his first return to Dallas as a Los Angeles Laker. “I don’t know how I did it because when I was watching that video, it was like, ‘There is no way I’m playing this game.’ But all my teammates had my back.”

What was visible on the face of Dončić, in his welling eyes, in his quivering lip, was the humanity of professional athletes and the communal spirit of sports. While it’s often most tangible in the NBA, it is common for this element of the league to get lost in the most visible discourse, which plays out in debate shows and social media arguments. It often feels more septic than sentimental.

The Mavericks fan base, for two months now, and Dončić reminded us Wednesday of the emotion and connectivity undergirding all of this. In the NBA, where allegiance can be as much to players as to teams, nearly as important as winning is who wins. The process of building a championship is what gives hoisting the trophy its sensation. And in between championship runs, which for most followers are rare, a large part of the appeal is the relationship between fans and players, especially superstars.

Mavs fans love Dončić. And Dončić loves Dallas. Family is greater than flaws. What the Mavericks franchise lost sight of was how a title led by Dončić is a significantly more meaningful title. Dallas general manager Nico Harrison is the antagonist in a story with a moral we’d all be wise to remember: Winning a title isn’t the only valuable thing in sports — it may not even be the most valuable.

Dončić was 19 when he moved from Madrid to Dallas. He became a grown man in a city that knows how to take care of its stars. Everything is bigger in Texas, including the adoration. And Dončić was knighted as the successor to Dirk Nowitzki.

What was so clear was how much that mattered to him as he watched 6 1/2 years flash before his eyes on the video board. The people he met. The events he attended. The spots he grew to love. The backroads he memorized like an offensive set. It was home.

It’s a business, for sure. Players get traded. Fan bases often want trades. Fresh starts are needed when relationships run their course. But most times, some level of prep is afforded.

The pending departure is often predictable. The way contracts work, and how relationships erode, all parties tend to have the opportunity to begin processing. No better example of that than Klay Thompson. The Mavericks guard signed as a free agent in the summer. But his departure from the Golden State Warriors had been at least a planted seed for years.

Dončić and his beloved Mavericks fans were robbed of the opportunity to prepare even a little. He is such a superstar, the idea of trading him so ludicrous, when would he envision being on a new team? Players of his caliber, per the NBA in which he grew up, dictate these things. So having someone else decide this for him had to make it even harder to swallow.

Wednesday was closure. A memorial service for a relationship severed too soon. Sounds hyperbolic, for sure. But watching Dončić, hearing those fans, it felt like an apt comparison.

Though Harrison’s vision hasn’t taken shape yet, with all the injuries the Mavericks have endured, it has some logic to it. Defense wins championships. Anthony Davis is an elite defender and one of the best two-way players in the NBA. With Kyrie Irving, a pair of quality centers, outside shooting in Thompson and P.J. Washington — the logic makes sense.

Nobody cares about that in Dallas. Nobody in the American Airlines Center cared Wednesday.

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Mavericks fans will wear Dončić’s jersey even if it’s a Lakers jersey — which, if you know the franchise history, was formerly sacrilegious after all Nowitzki’s battles with Kobe Bryant. Setting aside the highly questionable logic that Dončić couldn’t ever deliver a title, the display the basketball world witnessed in Dallas was a population that prefers its superstar over a championship. The fans gave the impression they’d rather go through the next decade riding with Dončić as he tries to get it done than to capture one without him.

Of the NBA’s 30 teams, 18 have one or no championships in their franchise history. For most fan bases, it’s about the memories and moments. It’s about falling in love with a talent, a personality, a style of play, and watching it blossom. It’s about taking on the powerhouse franchises. It’s about riding with your guys, especially the face of the franchise who orchestrates so much of what makes NBA fandom special.

How brutal to lose your homegrown superstar to a powerhouse franchise.

Dončić, certainly worthy of the Lakers’ standard, might eventually ingratiate himself into Lakers culture. He’ll likely create new moments for a fan base that also can appreciate his ability. He’ll grow a relationship with Los Angeles, where stars of his caliber tend to find belonging. He could eventually feel about Lakers fans as he does about Dallas fans.

But first, clearly, he needed a true goodbye. He needed to face what he was losing, to feel what was snatched from him. Fortunately for us all, Dončić was secure enough to share his humanity. It was a lot to take in.

After he got through the rest of his teammates, another big bro, LeBron James, was waiting for him. Dončić needed another hug.