It was all Mo Pete's fault.

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Two nights before the 2008 playoffs the New Orleans Hornets gathered in a ballroom at Harrah's, a hotel and casino on the edge of the French Quarter, to toast 56 wins and conceive 16 more. It felt like a rehearsal dinner, players flanked by wives or girlfriends, everybody encouraged to stand and speak. Point guard Chris Paul took his college sweetheart from Wake Forest, Jada Crawley, and even she shared a few words. But the most enduring speech was delivered by small forward Morris Peterson, who had come to New Orleans after seven forgettable seasons in Toronto. "Cherish this team, this opportunity," Peterson said. "You may think it's always going to be this way, and you're always going to have a shot. But I've been around the NBA a long time, and you don't always have a shot. Things happen in this league. Injuries happen. Trades happen. You don't know if you'll ever be in this position again."

Paul, then 22 and in his third season with the team, eyed Peterson as if the vet had ordered too many Sazeracs. Man, listen, Paul thought, I'm going to win MVP in two weeks and then I'm going to win it again. I'm going to have a shot at this every year. He was the successor to Steve Nash, a mantle that consumed him since he was a rookie, stewing all night before an early-season showdown against the Suns. He wanted that game desperately, but coach Byron Scott subbed him out for his usual rest at the start of the fourth quarter while Mike D'Antoni rode Nash, and a 14-point lead vanished in what felt like seven seconds. Paul fumed, but 22 months later the Hornets were surging and the Suns fading, following the career arcs of their incandescent point guards. I'm Steve now, Paul told himself, and only the most manic Deron Williams devotee could argue.

Paul adored those 2008 Hornets, the rollicking team dinners at his condo downtown and the heated game nights at Tyson Chandler's house in the suburbs. They traveled in packs a dozen deep, like on one Saturday night in Toronto, when they rolled into a popular club called Muzik. At midnight, early by T Dot standards, small forward Bonzi Wells noticed Paul paying the bill and calling the cars. "O.K.," Wells sighed, "I guess it's time to leave." The Hornets solemnly filed out of the club, then throttled the Raptors the next day for their 50th win. They hung together and scrapped together. Before practices, backup point guard Mike James would tell Paul, "I'm going at your neck!" Afterward, he'd leave muttering, "Little s---." Paul mastered the pick-and-roll with power forward David West, cash from 17 feet, but he could not persuade the sweet-shooting big man to step out to the three-point line. "Peezy," West cooed, "that's fool's gold."

It was a strange but sublime period in New Orleans, the city recovering from Hurricane Katrina and the franchise mulling whether to build or bolt. The Hornets practiced at the Alario Center in Jefferson Parish, but they would get booted for gun conventions and bird shows. A proposed training facility turned into a bank when funding lagged. "One time the front office told us we were moving to Kansas City," Paul recalls. "Another time, San Diego." They were informed they could not stay without reaching an attendance threshold. "No way we hit it," thought forward Ryan Bowen. But the 2008 Hornets earned the second seed in the Western Conference, pummeled the Mavericks in the first round and jumped out to a 2–0 lead on the Spurs. After Game 2, Paul glanced at the San Antonio bench and was met by a sickening image. "Nobody was fazed," he says. The Spurs won in seven. Kobe Bryant edged Paul for MVP. Mo Pete's words lingered.

Injuries happened. Trades happened. Ten years passed. The Hornets became the Pelicans, and the Bobcats became the Hornets. Paul became the players association president, the State Farm pitchman, the Point God. Jada became his wife. Weary of instability in New Orleans, they swung a move to Los Angeles and raised two children, Chris Jr. and Camryn.

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