Swamped by Success

Dazed Net Fan Wonders, 'Can This Be Happening?'

Stylewise, Martin is his polar opposite, overdecorated with tattoos, a ten o'clock shadow, and a Marathon Man scowl. Martin is all sweat and effort, grunting, leaping, elbows flailing, diving after loose balls. He is Charles Oakley on steroids, a Buck Williams of the 21st century. There's nothing subtle about his moments of triumph on the floor, whether they're blocked shots swatted into the 17th row or thundering Sir Slamalot dunks that threaten to rip the rim right off its moorings. Grandly, Kenyon wears his heart on his sleeve, grimacing, glowering, calling out teammates who don't want it as badly as he does. His face displays the inner torment of a man who hopes more fervently than he believes. No, nothing comes easy for Kenyon Martin, not even a post-game interview. And as a long-suffering Nets fan, I think it's only appropriate that our hopes rest with him.

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