Going in, we’d all been prepared that the night’s star would be Zion Williamson, from Duke. He’d certainly be the top pick (to the New Orleans Pelicans). So somebody urged him to dress like the guy who’d go first. And what he wore is one way to do that: creamy tuxedo jacket, white shirt, silky and ribbed, open to the top of his chest. It was everything you want to see for an event that kicked off at 7:30 on a Thursday evening and was staged within spitting distance of a Best Buy, a Shake Shack and the D.M.V.: glamour, confidence, swagger, a spritz of sex ­— but only a spritz. (A gold, diamond-studded cross dangled from his jacket pocket.)

Of course, it wasn’t perfect. Once you saw Williamson cross the stage in that star-making cream, you could see that his pants were giving him some trouble; they seemed to be bunching in the crotch.

It’s true that Williamson is the most exciting player to enter the league since LeBron James was chosen first 16 years ago. But some people, including the folks at ESPN, went too far. They saw Williamson and reached back to James’s get-up on his draft night in 2003. These are not — I repeat, not — comparable events. James wore a flouncy suit, as white as Noah’s dove. The jacket must have had 5,000 buttons. He looked as if he was trying to win a Boyz II Men marathon but only got to “End of the Road.” Williamson, on the other hand, was dressed like a man on his way to get new gadgets from Q.

EVERY YEAR, I watch this thing and see the parades of gray and slate and concrete and charcoal, and I’ll say to the TV, “Oh, no. Who died?” The draft is not a job interview. It isn’t even really the first day of work. It’s a party. Get low, get bodied, get some colors. Take a risk.