Contrary to popular belief, Jimmer Fredette is still Jimmer Fredette. He still has a proclivity to launch the ball from an unconscionable distance and watch it gently drop through the net. His panoply of scoops, dips and other sleight-of-hand finishes at the rim still curl over and around and under the arms of substantially taller and stronger and bouncier men. Jimmer Fredette – the Jimmer Fredette who scored nearly 30 points per game on his way to winning the Wooden Award at Brigham Young, who was the truest manifestation of Great White Hope-dom since Larry Bird – isn't gone. He's just in Westchester.
The Westchester Knicks, the New York Knicks' D-League affiliate, play in the plainly named Westchester County Center, a venue that, try as it might, is just not a basketball arena. There is a large stage behind one of the baselines. There is no lower level of seating along an entire sideline. Even its pomp, the obligatory pregame hype video, seems to have a sideways awareness that it lacks circumstance: the video begins with shots of the team's Greyhound bus pulling up to the County Center.
And it is here, in White Plains, where Fredette – alongside countless other members of the basketball periphery – battles to re-prove his NBA mettle. But the difference between Fredette, and, say, fellow Dub-Knick Jordon Crawford, a 5-foot-6 shock of cornrows and Floyd Mayweather's bestie, is that while Crawford is a perfectly fine player, Fredette is on the precipice of being a transcendent one.