'There Was Nobody Really Like Him': NBA May Never See Another Dwyane Wade

MIAMI — Dwyane Wade stood beneath the rim, arms planted on his hips, body bouncing side to side, eyes peering up at the giant screen hanging from the ceiling. AmericanAirlines Arena was mostly dark, save for the lights emanating from the video playing high above and all the cellphone cameras recording the scene. Thanks to some sly scheduling from the Miami Heat (announcing the pregame ceremony would take place 30 minutes before it actually did in an attempt to assist their notoriously late-arriving crowd), the arena's seats were mostly full.

Wade watched as the Heat, his Heat, paid tribute to his career. Ten minutes later, on the Heat's first possession of Tuesday's game against the Philadelphia 76ers, he juked himself open and dunked the ball home. He spent the rest of the evening playing chords from his greatest hits. A jab-step fadeaway here, a step-back three there. 

Early in the fourth quarter of what would be the final home game of his legendary 16-year career he and the Heat learned the Detroit Pistons had defeated the Memphis Grizzlies, killing Miami's playoff chances. If you weren't following along on your own, you'd have no idea. Wade buried one three, and then banked another, and then one more, and the crowd grew louder after each one, and if you needed any further proof that this was a special night, one that illustrated and all the beauty and power that can be found in these silly games so many of us love, here it was:

Wade had compelled a fanbase (fanatics, by definition) and a team (one that prides itself on its "winning culture") into caring more about honoring the past than mourning a lost future. 

"There might be just a handful of NBA greats that have the opportunity to be celebrated like this," Heat coach Erik Spoelstra said before the game, a 122-99 Heat victory over a lifeless 76ers squad playing without Joel Embiid and JJ Redick. Later, Spoelstra added: "There was nobody really like him. A combo guard that really was a ball-handling wing, so dynamic, you know, could really do some crazy things defensively 1 through 5, guard the rim and be electrifying offensively."

At his peak, few, if any, were better. Wade's game was guile and grace, power and art. One possession he'd throw down a dunk over two defenders. The next, he'd juke a defender with a pump fake. After that he'd swat a shot—no player 6'4" or shorter in NBA history has blocked more—catch the ball on the break and Eurostep to the hoop.

But Wade was more than highlights and accolades. He was the rare star willing to cede the spotlight, willing to recruit LeBron James—and Chris Bosh—with full knowledge that doing so would cost him both money and shine. He was an icon, both—and pardon the cliché but some people are worthy of them—on and off the court. 

"I didn't have many jerseys growing up, but I had the all-black D-Wade," Wade's teammate, Justise Winslow, said. Asked why Wade, he replied: "Who didn't have a Flash jersey? Just the flare. He did it his way, but he did in a cool way so that the next generation—we idolized him. From the padded sleeves to the Band-Aid under his eye, the fadeaway, the Eurostep, him being big and fast—there were just so many trends that he did set. For a young black guy like myself, we're constantly looking for guys to idolize and role models to look up to, and he was that and he did it with the utmost humility. He never put himself above anybody, but he did it with swag."

That he did, but also with honor and dedication to his sport, his people and, perhaps most importantly, his city, with his visit to Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School last year in the wake of that deadly mass shooting serving as the best example. Wade is many things. But above all else, he's a reminder of the power sports stars possess, of the magic that can occur when one decides to hoist an entire city onto his back. He's a reminder that accolades may lead to greatness, but that it takes more to transcend. 

"Man, I love you guys," Wade announced to Heat fans after the game.

By this point, he had scored all 30 of his points, swapped jerseys with his teammates and hugged his family and friends. There was nothing left for him to do but sprint to the table—his table—at midcourt, leap on top, raise his arms up high and claim, for one final time, the city as his own...except he stumbled (hey, no one's perfect). So he rose up again, only to slip again and collapse into the welcoming arms of Heat owner Micky Arison. 

"It was three leaps. I wanted to keep it with the number three," Wade would offer as an explanation later that night. "You see how I turned a negative into a positive that fast? My last words say so much, but for me, I think the moment when I jumped up on the scorer's table back in 2009 or somewhere in there, that was really the moment that it really became Wade County. This really became my house. That is the way I wanted to end. I ended it in D-Wade fashion, falling and slipping and getting right back up."

About an hour later, Wade stood in a hallway outside the Heat locker room, wearing a red suit that looked like the inside of a watermelon. His teammates had all gone home. His media requirements were complete. He held his youngest daughter, Kaavia, just five months old, and brought her over to a wall covered in photographs of joyous Heat moments, then pointed to one of him holding an NBA championship trophy. Afterward, he posed for pictures, first with family, then with friends, then Heat staffers. More and more people filed into the hallway as Wade stood there, the circle around him growing larger and larger.

Yaron Weitzman covers the NBA for Bleacher Report. Follow Yaron on Twitter, @YaronWeitzman, and sign up for his newsletter here.