Every sportsman has felt the wrath of old-man game. Even the young know, whether it's that hairy, sweaty elbow to the stomach before that turnaround jump-shot that "they don't teach anymore," or that 50-year-old who slowly walks up the field, pointing exactly where he wants each young guy to run and then hits them in stride. It's when Kobe puts up 42 against Kyrie:

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And when Ryan Giggs, at 39, times a perfect, goal-scoring run — one weekend before he signs a contract extension with one of the best teams in the world and likely plays in his 1000th professional game:

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In fact, there may not be a man on Earth who epitomizes old-man game more than Giggs. The grey speckles on his temples. Those forearms. He's scored in all of his 23 seasons — longer than any NBA player's career — first as a boy-prodigy described as a speedier George Best, emerging into the spotlight in his prime, and then sitting back and working beside a game's shadows till an opportunity arises. Though he can go a whole game. And if he doesn't start, he'll come on with about 20 minutes to go, slow the game down when it needs slowing or, completely calm, drive an inch-perfect pass across half the field to a game-winning goal with minutes left.

It's difficult to find a modern American old-man analog to Giggs. In baseball, there isn't the same fluidity, and the game lends itself to long careers a bit more. (There are no Satchel Paiges in soccer.) In football, most players get battered too hard to achieve either power or finesse in their later years. Longevity is mostly left for kickers or quarterbacks who linger on the sideline. Maybe there's a comparison to be drawn from Giggs to Jerry Rice without the utmost superlative for his position, but with the endurance and ability to adapt after losing a couple steps; or maybe Brett Favre, with the scandal. Or possibly Darrell "Ageless Wonder" Green, who, like Giggs, stuck with one team throughout — though with nowhere near Giggs' championships. But football is less forgiving.

And so basketball: Similar rate of players playing at forty; comparable minutes played per season; and the same need to reconstruct one's game to the speed of the new lithe, flashy young guys.

Early on, Giggs resembled Kobe (before Kobe was playing). He earned a contract at 17 with a soothsaying coach (always Sir Alex; early on, Phil) and bearing the mantel of the Next Generation. They both quickly became stars: Bryant had Adidas and Sprite; Giggs had his own TV show. And as they grew, they found a sweet zone right beneath outsized, better players: Eric Cantona and Shaq. Only to come into their own to win championships and MVPs, with reckless-abandoned drives right into opponents' chests at the most crucial moments. Like Kobe in the 2006 playoffs against the Suns:

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And Giggs in the '99 FA Cup semifinal versus Arsenal:

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But in old age, Giggs has become much more akin to Tim Duncan (again, the comparison is in reverse) — another champion who grew beside a massive star and a white-haired mastermind, and has stuck with the same team for his entire career. Because Kobe still plays like a young man, dominating possessions and calling out GMs with that same boyish fire. Kobe doesn't have old-man game. The man still posterizes 27-year-olds and looks back over his shoulder. And it's because he's still the best player on his team, while Duncan and Giggs haven't been for years. They've been surpassed by younger players. Wayne Rooney became the screaming pale face of the Red Devils (before, now, Van Persie). Tony Parker is right behind Chris Paul. And they've accepted it and become more peripheral — the moment of truth for old-man game. They play more subtle, pivotal but not focal. They sit out more games than they used to. And they grow old, but no less influential.

And so Giggs, it seems, is a Kobe-Timmy hybrid, a teenage wonder who was the best and is a champion, and who knew when to step back but not off the playing surface.

Though there is one difference between the trio that should be mentioned: Giggs is about three years older than both of them.

Nate Hopper Associate editor Nate Hopper is an associate editor for Esquire magazine.

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