Before yesterday, this was gonna be about Derrick Rose’s 50-point game.

The basketball gods had blessed us with a season that was brimming with drama, pettiness, and an ungodly amount of scoring. Chalk it up to the game’s rapidly evolving pace or softer defensive rules, but stars seemed to be getting buckets at will. Before we even hit December, a whopping eight players had already cracked the 50-point benchmark.

Of the eight, three were Warriors; one was the best player on the planet; one was the reigning MVP; two were underrated stars on overlooked squads; And one was a former MVP, turned NBA journeyman, who struggled to find playing time or any semblance of relevance.

Before yesterday, it was a no-brainer. Rose’s sudden outburst was far and away my favorite basketball moment of 2018.

Watching it live, you weren’t exactly sure what was happening. Rose scored 16 in the first half, and you could see he was feeling it. But I couldn’t shake the looming disappointment, lurking in the second half. I half-expected D-Rose to sit out the rest of the game with knee soreness. Or for Rose’s midrange J to go ice cold, as he was wont to do. Or for him to take a hit and break something we’ve never heard of before. I’ve seen it happen to him too many times.

Thankfully, this wasn’t one of them. Instead, he kept pouring it in. Slowly but relentlessly. Peppering the Jazz with 18-foot jumpers and open triples, his tally got higher and higher. Before long, he had 30, something he hadn’t done since he was on the Knicks—a period of time best forgotten.

With every bucket, the crowd buzzed louder and louder—slowly realizing what they were witnessing. The announcers went on and on about how Rose was turning back the clock; how he looked “young” again.

Except he didn’t. “Young” Rose sliced defenses and flung himself recklessly onto bigger and stronger defenders. “Young” Rose relied on god-given athleticism to get that split-second window, that millimeter of separation. “Young” Rose was the only player I knew who could double-jump on unsuspecting schmucks like he was freakin’ Crash Bandicoot.

That player is long gone. And that might be okay. Because the Derrick Rose I was watching was a craftier beast altogether. His moves were deliberate and reined-in—he knew his spots and he took them, never forcing the issue. Rose was content with stepping back and pulling-up in his defenders’ faces. Here was a man who took what his body gave him; channeling his dwindling athleticism into the most efficient offensive attack possible. Footwork didn’t translate into ankle-breaking drives but pivoted hook shots. He embraced contact, instead of gliding and avoiding it mid-air. Nuclear-powered dunks were replaced with dagger threes—way easier on the knees, and hey, worth more points, too.

Rose going for 50—against the team that traded for him and waived him two days after—was his triumphant return. A return, perhaps, none of us imagined or hoped for, but a return nonetheless. And as he bowed his head, tears streaming down his face, grasping at the words that would always fail to describe a gruelling, painful, seven-year odyssey, I found myself fighting back the tears, as well.

It was November 1, barely a month into the season, and the NBA had already peaked. If the season had somehow ended, and the Warriors won the Finals the very next day, it would’ve been all good. Seeing Rose climb out of the hole, victorious against his one, true mortal enemy—that was as good a sports moment as I’d ever seen.

Yesterday, however, Derrick Rose turned back the clock and double-jumped all over that moment.

It’s a decidedly less-flashy moment than the previous one. Rose drives from the left and spins on Kris Dunn. Dunn reaches and hits Rose’s outstretched arm as he wildly flings the ball into the basket. It counts plus the foul. Rose steps to the foul line, and the hometown Chicago fans start chanting “M-V-P!”, Rose can’t help but smile as he sinks the bonus free throw.

I’ve thought about that moment a lot; how the Windy City will always take pride in the Windy City Assassin. Derrick will always be the hometown kid, the prince from Chicago. And unlike washed has-beens who have fallen from their franchises’ graces *cough* Melo *cough*, it feels nice to know that Rose will always have a home in Chicago. I hope he’s fortunate enough to retire there.

I thought about how often we forget (or try to forget) that D-Rose was the youngest MVP ever. That messes me up every time. The fact that his previous career high was only 42 speaks volumes as to how much potential was left on the table. If you didn’t have the pleasure of seeing Rose take off in his prime, I genuinely feel sorry for you. You know how Steph takes a rage-quit three during a game, and you’re like “You can’t even do that in 2K!”? Derrick Rose was exactly the same way, except instead of shooting threes, he was dunking dudes into oblivion. Nobody, not even Russell Westbrook, attacked the rim with such high-octane, reckless abandon.

I thought about how rare it was to see Rose crack a smile—and it wasn’t even a mischievous grin, the type one makes after nailing a big shot, or the hearty smiles teammates pass around after winning a hard-fought game. This smile was as pure as they came, like a kid opening his presents on Christmas morning. Rose was just happy to be on the court again. Happy to be having fun again. Happy to be healthy again. For a dude that likes to celebrate with this face, that smile might be just as rare as a career-high 50-point game.

I thought about Rose as a problematic role model. How you can’t talk about Derrick Rose without bringing up his sexual assault charges, his assumptions on what a man is entitled to, or how he couldn’t explain the concept of “consent” to literally save his life. I never stopped rooting for D-Rose, but I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel guilty looking up to him; was I still supposed to revel in his victories? Was I wrong for wanting to see him succeed?

When Rose scored 50, you could hear the commentator fumble as he tries to talk about Rose’s tainted reputation. It was painful to hear, and it made for a cringe-y moment against the backdrop of Rose’s physical and moral victory. I don’t blame the guy. It is hard to talk about, and as someone who couldn’t get all the facts in the case, even if he wanted to, maybe it isn’t my place to pass judgment on Rose.

God knows there are enough angry mobs in the world. And as heartbreakingly revolting as the entire ordeal was, in the end Rose was cleared of all charges. Maybe they found enough evidence in the end to absolve him. Or maybe his status as a world-famous basketball star was enough to sway a jury of his peers to hold him to a lower standard than we hold one another. Again. I wouldn’t know, I wasn’t there.

I was there, however, when he tore that ACL in a freak accident. I felt that pain in his left knee from 8,125 miles away. I was there an entire year later, when he returned faster and more explosive than ever, only to tear his right meniscus barely a month into the season. I was there when he tore that same meniscus. When he broke his orbital bone. When he was traded away from his home. I was there when the fastest guy in the league was a step behind everyone else—a turnstile on defense and a dud on offense. I was there when all the joy was sucked out of Rose’s game.

Before yesterday, I wasn’t sure if he’d ever reclaim that joy.

Thankfully, he does. I was there.

Photos from Getty Images