Body of a giant, hands of a dwarf

The hands of Kwame Brown are shrinking by the season, fading from small to smaller.

At this pace, he will be down to nubs before his 22nd birthday.

The stagnation of Brown is believed to be connected to what is left of his hands.

At least that is one of the fashionable theories wafting above the den of ineptitude in Tony Cheng’s neighborhood.

Brown is blessed with the body of a Greek God but cursed with the hands of Mini-Me.

Michael Jordan might have noted this feature with a handshake, assuming Jordan was not holding a golf club in one hand and a cell phone in the other the first time he met with Brown before the 2001 draft.

The growing obsession with Brown’s hands goes with a team that is hurtling toward the ground without the parachute of Jerry Stackhouse and a whole Gilbert Arenas.

Given the options, the subject of hands is preferable to the splat of a team.

Brown is running out of fall guys, if not time to persuade the telephonic line of sufferers who vent in Scott Jackson’s confessional after each game. Brown already has been traded several hundred times this season, although not once by Ernie Grunfeld.

The talk of a trade is an unintentional compliment to Brown, as it grants interest in a player whose hands cause squinting in otherwise strong eyes.

Brown misses dunks with the worst, especially if he tries to convert the shot with one of his itty-bitty hands.

His teammates are advised to make the sign of the cross before making an entry pass in his direction.

His are not the hands of stone that Jahidi White passed down to Brendan Haywood, the one-time Bobble Twins of Fun Street. His are the hands of a newborn, precious up close but hardly functional from a distance.

An anatomy class inevitably breaks out around Brown.

Story Continues →