The Dude And The Dudelah

By: Yochanan Gordon

I said I was done writing about basketball two weeks ago, but there was one lesson I could not overlook. And to be fair, a once-in-53-years event deserves a little extra attention.

A few years ago, when the Knicks committed to Jalen Brunson as the centerpiece of their franchise, former WNBA star and Spurs assistant coach Becky Hammon publicly expressed her doubts whether a team led by Brunson could ever win an NBA championship.

Her reasoning was simple.

To win a title, she said, you need a “Dude.”

Brunson wasn’t one.

He was too short. Too slow. Not athletic enough. Not physically imposing. Historically speaking, Hammon argued, very few teams had ever won championships with a star under 6’3”.

Fast forward to 2026.

The Knicks are NBA champions.

After the finals, Brunson was asked what scouts and evaluators had always said about him. His answer was telling:

“Too slow. Too short. Not athletic enough.”

Then he added: “Every reason that is unable to measure heart.”

And perhaps that was the one metric that mattered most.

Anyone who watched the Knicks throughout the playoffs saw a team repeatedly claw its way back from seemingly impossible deficits. Time and again they found themselves down twenty points or more, only to storm back behind Brunson’s leadership, poise, and refusal to quit.

Yet despite all that, it remains obvious that the NBA would rather market Victor Wembanyama.

And who could blame them?

At 7’4”, with the agility of a guard and the wingspan of a center, Wembanyama is a basketball anomaly. A once-in-a-generation physical specimen.

But why?

Because he’s the alien.

Seven foot four, with basketball abilities never before seen in the league. In Becky Hammon’s terminology, an A-1 Dude.

And it is that word more than any other that I want to dwell on.

What is a Dude? A Dude is someone whose gifts are so extraordinary that they become almost impossible to relate to. He exists on a different plane. People watch him with amazement, but they cannot realistically imagine becoming him.

Which raises a fascinating question. Why would the NBA want that person to be the face of its league?

Basketball is not merely entertainment. It is aspiration.

Every day, millions of children head to parks, playgrounds, gyms, and driveways dreaming that one day they too might play in the NBA. Entire generations grew up with the slogan, “I want to be like Mike.”

The brilliance of that campaign was not simply that Michael Jordan was the greatest player in basketball. It was that kids believed they could become like him. They could work harder. Practice longer. Develop a better jump shot. Cultivate his competitiveness and drive.

But nobody can practice their way to being 7’4”.

Nobody can work hard enough to grow an eight-foot wingspan.

Nobody can aspire to become Victor Wembanyama.

They can admire him. They can marvel at him. But they cannot become him.

And with the opportunity to elevate someone like Jalen Brunson—a player whose greatness comes not from freakish physical gifts but from heart, resilience, discipline, sacrifice, and leadership—the league still chose to market the alien.

What message does that send? That success belongs to the genetically fortunate? That what matters most cannot be developed, only inherited?

Brunson represents the exact opposite lesson.

Every criticism ever leveled against him is a criticism that ordinary athletes hear every day. Too short. Too slow. Not athletic enough.

And yet he won. Not because he possessed gifts unavailable to others, but because he maximized the gifts he did possess. In Becky Hammon’s terminology, he is the ultimate Dude.

No one realistically believes they can grow to 7’4”. But a kid can believe he can outwork everyone else.

A kid can believe he can develop heart. A kid can believe he can become Jalen Brunson.

And that brought me to a song written by the great tzaddik, Rabbi Levi Yitzchak of Berditchev, known simply as “The Dudelah.”

In it he sings:

“Where can I find You?

And where can I not find You?

Wherever I go—You.

Wherever I stand—You.

When life is good—You.

When life is difficult—also You.”

The word “Dudelah” comes from the Yiddish word du, meaning “you.” Now, in Yiddish there are two ways to address someone. There is ir, the respectful and formal form of address.

And there is du, the familiar and intimate form.

One would think that when speaking about the Master of the Universe, the appropriate choice would be ir.

Yet Rabbi Levi Yitzchak specifically chose du.

Why?

Because Judaism’s greatest aspiration is not merely to recognize G-d’s greatness. It is to experience His closeness.

The purpose of creation, Chassidus teaches, is dira b’tachtonim—a dwelling place for G-d in the lowest realms. The Infinite desires not only transcendence but immanence. Not only awe, but relationship. Not only distance, but accessibility.

G-d, so to speak, seeks to become a Dudelah.

Present.

Reachable.

Relatable.

Perhaps that is why the Knicks’ championship felt so refreshing. The NBA was searching for a Dude. Instead, it got a Dudelah.

Jalen Brunson is not larger than life. He is life-sized.

He does not overwhelm people with physical gifts. He inspires them through character.

At every opportunity he redirected praise toward his teammates. He famously left over $100 million on the table so the Knicks could build a championship roster around him.

His teammate Josh Hart was once asked about ego.

“I have no ego,” he replied. “It was burned out of my heart years ago.”

Maybe that’s fitting coming from someone named Hart.

The Knicks did not win because they possessed the most dazzling collection of individual talent.

They won because of humility, sacrifice, teamwork, resilience, and heart.

And perhaps that is the lesson.

The world is often captivated by Dudes.

But the people who change it are usually Dudelahs. 

Yochanan Gordon can be reached at [email protected]. Read more of Yochanan’s articles at 5TJT.com.