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James Harden just got everything that he wanted—the city, the team, the warm and fuzzy homecoming, the superstar teammates—and everything that he needs to pursue, without further drama or distraction, the one prize that’s long eluded him: an NBA championship.
It’s not that hard to picture, is it? Four future Hall of Famers, all draped in red and blue, partying on the podium with Adam Silver next June; Harden, his luminous beard littered with confetti, cradling the Larry O’Brien Trophy as happy tears stream down his cheeks.
It at least feels plausible now, as Harden—who got his long-awaited trade to the Los Angeles Clippers last week—embarks on this latest chapter alongside Kawhi Leonard, Paul George, and old pal Russell Westbrook. The talent is certainly there. They just need a little luck, a little good health, and a little chemistry, same as any contender.
And then finally, with a banner raised and a ring on his finger, Harden can claim his place among the all-time greats, his legacy secured. That’s the fairy-tale ending he surely envisions, and it might even come to pass … all except the legacy part. That’s forever muddled, no matter what happens next.
Yes, Harden got everything he wanted when the Philadelphia 76ers at last acceded to his demands and sent him home to L.A. But Harden has always gotten what he’s wanted, and it’s never been enough to satisfy him—competitively, financially, or spiritually.
Back in 2012, after a steady rise in Oklahoma City, what Harden wanted most was a trade to Houston, along with a max salary and a starring role. The Thunder and Rockets obliged, and Harden has been getting everything he’s wanted, requested, or demanded ever since.
Complete control of the offense? The Rockets gave it to him.
A superstar tag-team partner? The Rockets got him Dwight Howard.
When Harden grew weary of Howard, the Rockets dumped him.
When Harden wanted Chris Paul, the Rockets got him.
When Harden grew tired of CP3, the Rockets swapped him for Westbrook.
And when Harden lost faith in the Rockets entirely, they traded him to Brooklyn—at his request—so that he could play with Kevin Durant and Kyrie Irving.
When Harden lost faith in the Nets, they traded him to Philadelphia—at his request—so that he could join Joel Embiid. And when Harden lost faith in Sixers coach Doc Rivers, they fired him.
And still, Harden wasn’t satisfied. If this were a children’s book, Harden would be the Very Hungry Caterpillar, except instead of chewing holes through apples, plums, and leaves, he chews through teammates, coaches, and franchises, and instead of turning into a butterfly, he just devolves into an increasingly embittered caterpillar, unable to evolve at all.
On the strength of his statistics and accolades alone, Harden has earned his place among the NBA’s all-time legends. He has an MVP trophy (and multiple top-five finishes), scoring titles, assist titles, and a bounty of All-Star and All-NBA nods. He made the NBA’s 75th anniversary team. And he’ll absolutely make the Hall of Fame.
But there’s a difference between accomplishments and legacy. The former is within the player’s control; no one can take away the stats, the wins, the hardware. But legacy? That’s about perception, about esteem, about how the public views your entire body of work—the good, the bad, and the ugly. And Harden’s is as tangled as any.
He’s scored more points than anyone else (by a lot) since 2012. He’s taken—and converted—more free throws than anyone else in that span (again, by a lot). He’s produced the second-most 3-pointers and the third-most assists. But since 2020, when he soured on the Rockets and forced his way out in the messiest way possible, Harden has led the league in holdouts, temper tantrums, and forced trades. If Basketball Reference had a column for “drama,” Harden would rank among the career leaders there, too.
Another stat to consider: six. That’s the number of surefire Hall of Famers that Harden has (a) played alongside and (b) abandoned. He’s played with three other MVPs, all in their primes, and left them all. He’s parted ways with Durant and Westbrook twice each. He’s forced three trades in less than three years. There’s no precedent for any of this, in any era, for a player of his caliber. (Granted, superstars of an earlier era had much less autonomy. But the point stands.)
Scroll through the NBA’s 75 greatest list, and you’ll find some all-time greats with a few scuffs on the bio. Dennis Rodman could be flighty. Allen Iverson could be defiant. Kobe Bryant could be self-indulgent. Rick Barry could be boorish. Carmelo Anthony and Dominique Wilkins were great individual scorers who struggled to elevate their teams, or make a mark in the postseason.
But it’s possible that no all-time great has squandered so much talent and goodwill, in so short a time, as James Harden. Even in this era of rampant player movement, when discontented stars are constantly fleeing for greener pastures and bluer skies, Harden stands alone: the only superstar to force three trades in three years, and the only one to leave a reigning MVP.
Even at 34, Harden is an incredibly impactful scorer and playmaker. He led the NBA in assists per game last season, and he played a key role in Embiid winning his first MVP. Yet the trade market for Harden this summer was almost nonexistent. Only the Clippers, desperate to salvage the Leonard-George era, were eager to acquire Harden, and even they set hard limits on what they would give up to get him.
As player-turned-podcaster Matt Barnes said in September, “James has to be careful, because the NBA doesn’t need him.” To which his guest Kevin Garnett replied, as only Garnett can: “When you wiggle your way out, bro, you only got about one or two wiggles. You ain’t got no infinite [wiggles].”
The truth is, Harden already faced an uphill battle in the image department. His playoff record is littered with failure and untimely shooting slumps, his plodding ball dominance leaving him too fatigued, too predictable, or both.
The truth is, even at his best, Harden has always been more respected than beloved—his high-usage game proving as problematic aesthetically as it is competitively.
Every elite scorer does it his own way. Durant leaves fans awestruck with his precision and grace; Westbrook, with his unbridled ferocity; Stephen Curry, with his joyful audacity; Damian Lillard, with his clutchness and range. But Harden’s tedious gamesmanship—the foul seeking and flailing and the endless dribbling in search of his shot—has always generated more grudging admiration than adoration.
“I’m not a system player—I am a system,” Harden said at his introductory press conference with the Clippers last week, succinctly summarizing his greatness and his fatal flaw in one sound bite.
The sentiment is understandable; being the whole system has made Harden successful, famous, and fabulously wealthy. But as a basketball matter, the limitations of that approach are glaring. If the Clippers are going to break through next spring, they’ll need Harden to be less of a system and more of a cog. If he can’t see that by now, he probably never will.
Harden is set to make his Clippers debut on Monday, joining three other mid-30s stars, each with SoCal ties, gaudy stats, and something to prove. There’s much at stake for all of them, and for the once-bedraggled franchise still searching for its first banner. A championship could change everything, for everyone. It might even restore a little luster to Harden’s ragged résumé. But legacies are a delicate matter, and much harder to mend. In this league, you ain’t got no infinite wiggles—and Harden exhausted his supply long ago.
