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cathal kelly

On Christmas Eve four years ago, a carjacker approached then-Philadelphia 76ers guard Lou Williams while he idled in his vehicle.

The thief presented his gun, and then got all gooey once he recognized his target. They got to talking, apparently about Williams's work in the community. Williams ended history's most pleasant holdup by treating his assailant at McDonald's.

"He's a Lou Williams fan, so he didn't rob me," Williams told reporters a few days later.

The Philadelphia Inquirer noted that Williams "pretty much brushed off" what, for the most of us, would have been a deeply unsettling encounter.

Which is why we're all Lou Williams fans now.

Just as much as his jump shot, it's that iciness that makes Williams such a valuable piece. Whether he's on or not, he will continue to hoist the ball up until shots start falling. He's Terrence Ross, if Ross could have confidence surgically implanted.

The Raptors exchanged cap space in the shape of John Salmons for Williams over the summer. Williams was 27 at the time of the trade, a role player in decline. The move didn't get much attention because it didn't merit any. He was 10 nightly points off the bench and a backcourt insurance policy.

Williams didn't seem put out when he arrived, but how could you not be a little annoyed? Everyone playing in the NBA is a star when they arrive. None of them adapts well to becoming afterthoughts.

The beauty of the trade is that it worked two ways – first because it provided the Raptors with the season's surprise package essentially for nothing, and second because they robbed one of their only real rivals in the East, Atlanta, of Williams's services.

The Hawks gave up on Williams when he failed to quickly recover his form after blowing an ACL in 2013.

Between Williams, James Johnson and Kyle Lowry, the Raptors' defining roster principle has become, "We recycle your unwanted players."

If there is a secret to the surprising rise of this Toronto team, it's that wide streak of thwartedness. There isn't a single player on the team who was widely coveted when he was acquired. In most cases, this is a team full of guys only the Raptors wanted – which is why they came so cheaply.

On some level, every one of these players has been doubted in his career – often by the Raptors themselves.

Some (Ross, Jonas Valanciunas) are still being doubted, and with good reason.

Perhaps that outsider streak is what binds and drives them. It's as good an explanation as any other.

Across the NBA, the opposite is occurring – this year has largely been defined by teams led by great players who have nothing left to prove.

LeBron James came back to Cleveland with two championships. He no longer seems interested in dragging a mediocre club along on his back.

"We're not a very good team," James said after Sunday's humiliating blowout loss to Detroit. He's been saying that so often lately, we're beginning to believe him. If Cleveland isn't very good, whose fault is that? Largely James's. That's why they pay him so much.

Ditto Kobe Bryant in Los Angeles. He's weighted down with laurels, and seems completely disinterested in earning any more. The only thing keeping his career alive is sheer bloody-mindedness. If everyone got together and begged Bryant to play for five more years, he'd immediately retire.

At least Bryant has contrariness to drive him. Some lack any rationale at all.

In a tone-deaf interview a few weeks ago, the Knicks' wobbly fulcrum, Carmelo Anthony, told ESPN he's not happy being a basketball player. Instead, he wants to be "the innovator, the business tycoon" and something he calls a "tech pioneer athlete." Whatever that is.

This is bad news for the Knicks, who pay Anthony $25-million (U.S.) a year to play basketball, minus the tycooning and tech-pioneering. That's not going so well. He's currently mulling season-ending knee surgery.

This is the star trap. If your flag-bearer is someone like San Antonio's Tim Duncan – a player immune to complacency – you're going to be fine. But there aren't many Duncans in the world, never mind the NBA.

Everybody gets tired after a while. They lose interest. And no matter how great it feels, more of the same is still more of the same.

Never having had a chance to sign a LeBron/Kobe/Melo-level star, the Raptors have turned their weakness into a strength. They don't beg anyone to come here. They don't get involved in bidding wars. They're the ones who do the favour – giving undervalued guys a chance to contribute.

The benefits of that push/pull strategy have been enormous.

Bryan Colangelo gave up on DeMar DeRozan when he signed Rudy Gay to do his job. When Masai Ujiri gave up on Gay, DeRozan thanked him by recasting himself as an all-star wing.

Nobody really wanted Lowry or Tyler Hansbrough or Patrick Patterson or Greivis Vasquez. They were all serviceable, but still spare, parts. They only became essential because Toronto had the bright idea to ask them if they'd like to be.

You doubt whether this roster tactic will work forever. Williams is a case in point. He's on pace to win the NBA's Sixth Man of the Year Award, after which he will be due a new deal – likely something in the $27-million range over three years. Plenty of teams will be willing to pay that. Will the Raptors?

More importantly, should they? Because we're now at the point where adding salary is a de facto subtraction. In order to take this from a very good team to a championship-calibre squad, Toronto will have to lure a top-tier big man. That's a flirty sell job rather than a second chance, and it'll cost. That's the last step in this progression, and it will require a philosophic shift.

This year, the Raptors have proven they are adept at rescuing careers. Now they have to convince someone they can also help a great player define one.

Follow me on Twitter: @cathalkelly

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