Midway through the 2nd quarter in Portland on February 27, Westbrook cut to the right just past half-court and waited for Anthony Morrow. Morrow darted right and set a screen for Westbrook near the three-point line. The screen gave Westbrook a few steps on Damian Lillard, who was also knocked off his path by Mitch McGary near the top of the key. Meyers Leonard left McGary to pick up Westbrook as he took a pass from Kyle Singler above the three-point line near the sideline.

Now with the ball, Westbrook exploded toward the basket on the left-hand side of the lane and after one dribble launched toward the rim. Leonard, overmatched and a step behind, fouled Westbrook who had turned in mid-air to get off a right-handed shot with legs splayed, Jordan style. The ball banked softly off the glass and in. Westbrook let out his now familiar primal scream and scowled at no one— and everyone—at the same time while storming around the baseline for a few seconds before retreating to the foul line.

In the grand scheme of things, it was a play indistinguishable from a sea of others like it. But look beneath the surface, and you’ll notice how this play is a perfect example of Westbrook’s game at-large. Nobody in the NBA today approaches every play with such fearlessness; such reckless abandon—and yet, finds so much success. Westbrook fights for every shot, every loose ball, every pass, every steal, every rebound — every second he’s on the court. He wins a lot more of those battles than he loses. And still, he plays with a chip on his shoulder, night in and night out.

Players like Tim Duncan and James Harden are masters of subterfuge, of blending into the background. Both give off the impression that they’d rather have their noses buried in a comic book, making a minimum of noise as they slink about the court. Then when you least expect it—they cut out your heart with a dull knife and matter-of-factly invite you to examine it, as you crumple to the floor in a heap.

Westbrook is a different animal. There’s an almost theatrical quality about him. He seems to relish playing the villain. He stomps around the court, yelling and frowning and violently holstering his imaginary guns, enraging opposing fans at every turn. But there’s nothing they can do, because seconds later—before anyone even notices anything is happening—he’s back at it. Maybe he’s exploding to the rim, or pulling up from ten feet out to drain another jumper. Competing night after night against the greatest athletes on earth, Westbrook always looks like he’s two steps ahead.