You need a superstar to win an NBA title. This axiom has been proven true over so many seasons––Detroit in 2004 is the one modern example against––it’s almost NBA dogma at this point. Conversely, if a superstar doesn’t trust and embolden his teammates, the quest for a title is cut short. The give and take between these two conflicting truisms is the NBA’s alpha paradox. 

When the real season starts in late April, every team needs an alpha star. No matter how well five players congeal into something greater than their individual offensive skills, the innate defensive intensity in the spring demands a player who can create his own shot. It’s why we venerate Michael Jordan, Kobe Bryant, Shaquille O’Neal, Tim Duncan and LeBron James. They put it in the hoop even when it’s the most challenging to do so; They also win ringz. But an NBA alpha can also be a team’s downfall.

There’s a tendency to overcorrect when today’s champion-in-the-making attempts to become “The Man” (not to be confused with The Man, but equally as ridiculous to say out loud). While asserting their alpha status on the team, and the league, a star today will sometimes swing too far from the teamwork that’s the trademark of all championship-winning groups. 

This push and pull regarding an NBA star’s role started with Michael Jordan. For all the overblown talk of Phil Jackson’s Siddharthan sorcery (Tex deserves more credit, and so does Euclid), Jordan won titles on his own terms––with scoring titles, an undefeated record in real and imaginary feuds, and the ball almost always in his hands. He dominated opponents, but he also dominated the ball.

The superstars directly before Jordan in the modern era––Kareem Abdul-Jabbar (before 1986), Magic Johnson (after 1986), Larry Bird and Isiah Thomas (sorry Fo’ Fo’ Fo’ Mo)––were different. They led as integral pieces interwoven into the fabric of the team. Jordan was a different fabric altogether. Bird and Magic are two of the game’s greatest champions, and neither ever had a season over 30 percent in usage. Kareem––like Shaq and Tim Duncan later––relied on others to get him the ball. Any individualism Zeke might’ve brought south from Chicago to Bloomington was quickly drummed out of him during Bobby Knight’s first boot camp, and that team-first mentality continued with the Bad Boy Pistons.

This wasn’t the case with MJ, despite North Carolina subsuming a lot of his talent and athleticism under the shroud of Dean Smith’s system.

Once His Airness was unleashed on the Association, he eviscerated defenders like no player before or since. An important distinction, at least after his first seven seasons, was that he won scoring titles, racked up historic usage numbers and won titles. A ball-dominant player hadn’t really happened won like that before (ask Wilt). Jordan used a ton of his team’s possessions, but it worked––for him. He was a progenitor of what was to come. 

Few remember, but MJ faced constant criticism for this style of play. Most acknowledged he was the best singular player in the world, but he’d never win a championship without ceding some responsibility to the other four teammates he shared the floor with. But then he won and he didn’t really need to change his game. 

The bargain knockoffs soon followed. Everyone wanted to shoot and score; Everyone wanted the ball; The high-volume scorer became de rigueur. Allen Iverson’s entire oeuvre was dedicated to this theme, and we loved him for it. Some––Shaq and Tim Duncan––saw a lot of success after MJ, but they were bigs who simply didn’t have the ball in their hands as much. Kobe was the exception. 

Even after becoming a champion, Kobe was too much like his idol to stay teamed with the most dominating big man of his generation. He wanted to find his own Bill Wennington. And, following some rough Smush Parker stories, and a book where Phil trashed Bean, Mitch Kupchak purloined Chris Wallace (after freakin’ Jerry West resigned!) for Pau Gasol––just because Marc Gasol was later included in that deal doesn’t make it any less of a theft. Kobe, like MJ before him, became “The Man” for today’s stars. He played by his own rules, and won titles. Plural.

It’s not surprising Los Angeles natives Russell Westbrook and James Harden look up to Kobe. If you’re a certain age and from Southern California you worship at the altar of the Mamba. Similar to both Bean and Jordan, Russ and Beard are near the top of the league in usage and scoring. They’re singular entities in MVP talk most seasons, but with only one Finals appearance between them. Sound familiar? 

While other star wings and guards of this era who don’t need any entry pass to do their damage––LeBron, Kevin Durant, Steph Curry, Kawhi Leonard, Dwyane Wade––have learned to assimilate into the team concept, Westbrook and Harden continue to pound the rock, and assault the rim against impotent defenders. That’s how they’re wired: Kobe 2.0; MJ Redux.

It’s only when they learn to let a little of that alpha mentality go that they’ll find themselves playing in June. It’s not easy, either; Contradictions never are.

Steph needed AI’s former Philly running mate and then Westbrook’s previous co-alpha (the latter even after winning 73 regular-season games and the first unanimous MVP in history). LeBron was considered too passive for the first half of his career, lacking the killer instinct Michael and Kobe taught us you must possess. Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh helped him get over the hump, and that was only after Dirk and DeShawn embarrassed him.

These days, after going to the Finals more times in a row than anyone since 1966––including Cleveland’s iconic, come-from-behind 2016 win––LeBron’s arguably the greatest player in the modern game not named Michael Jordan. 

Life is often a paradox. Why should the NBA be any different.