Rajon Rondo balls like no one else on this planet. All shoulders and knees and elbows, he attacks with a sort of awkward grace, calculating otherworldly angles and exploiting windows in opposing defenses that seem to come into existence nanoseconds before he whips the ball through them. His E.T. hands are ill suited to jump-shooting basketballs designed for human use. Even when he’s dominating, his demeanor remains detached and unreadable, like he can’t connect with the earthly concerns in front of him.

Based on the Starfleet uniform he wore to the TD Garden last night, maybe Rondo is finally ready to admit to his celestial origins. Or maybe, like Pusha T, he’s just young rich and tasteless.