Little John Wall's unvarnished climb

— -- John Wall rubs his scraggly beard and hops on the pool table in the players' lounge of the Verizon Center, his languid, 6-foot-4, frame unfolding as he leans back. "Shoot," he says.

All right. Where would you be if the NBA never worked out for you -- the money, the fame, the whole package?

"I'd probably be in the streets or in jail," he responds, emotionless.

The 24-year-old All-Star point guard sits upright and thinks on it some more.

"A lot of people in the league will say that. But this really was my escape," he explains. "Without basketball, that's where I was going. No sense lyin' about it or comin' up with somethin' that sounds good. I was going down the same road as my dad."

The District of Columbia, in particular, treasures deeply flawed, angry, successful men who show vulnerability. The more authentic, the less homogenized and pre-packaged, the better.

Jaded by spin and frauds, D.C. came to love the late Marion Barry. It came to grasp the gruff and growl of Big John Thompson, and all of his real and imagined Hoya Paranoia.

Hell, being black and difficult isn't as much a prerequisite as simply being real.

Chocolate City cherishes pasty John Riggins above all others. A beer truck with a broken parking brake as a running back, the District loved Riggo's public accidents as much as his Super Bowl steamrolling of the Dolphins.

From Petey Greene to Chuck Brown, Washington adores the guy who makes America uncomfortable, who, after early stumbles, careens toward their profession's pinnacle.

John Wall lost more games his first three years in the NBA than anyone but the Charlotte Bobcats and the LeBron James-less Cleveland Cavaliers. After slowing his helter-skelter game down, floating teardrops and making jumpers -- after carrying the Wizards to the Eastern Conference semifinals last May and burying questions about his work ethic and attitude -- he emerged as a bona fide elite point guard, equal parts passion and panache.

So while Greater Washington coos and prays for its homegrown luxury liner, Kevin Durant, to dock at Chesapeake Bay in 2016, perhaps the city unwittingly discounts the captain destined to restore D.C.'s NBA legacy to where Wes and Elvin once had it.

"Hell of a lot of experts said John Wall might not have it," Big John Thompson says, extolling the lost virtue of patience in pro sports. "Now look. John is that guy coming out of the dust."

Hope and change sound irresistible out of the box, don't they? But in a way, Barack Obama and Robert Griffin III were overpromised and underserved by the miserable people around them to ever genuinely deliver their dreams.

Too pasteurized. Too interested in being liked by people whose existence is predicated on their failure. Too polished.

"People like John Wall, people like Marion Barry and others -- they know our story," says Miles Rawls. "They relate to the people more. They more authentic."