There's a photograph fixed to a wall by an AmericanAirlines Arena staircase, blown up to life size. Dwayne Wade's one-handed shot had just beaten New Orleans in the 2004 playoffs, and his rookie reaction _ plus everyone's gleeful courtside reaction _ is frozen forever, a cathedral to Wade's artistry.
Wade once said he "liked to go by that picture every once in a while, just to look at it, remember that night." Sometimes, he said, he'd try to recreate the photographed emotion, just to feel the precise moment his magic carpet ride first left the ground.
There were bigger and better moments to come in his 13 years with the Heat _ NBA titles, Olympic gold, a Finals MVP _ but there's nothing quite like remembering that first time, especially now that his last time arrived late Wednesday with his exit to Chicago.
The legacy of Wade _ and the reason there's so much emotion over his departure _ is that his time here went far beyond a few sparkling moments.
He lifted a full franchise. He changed our sports landscape. He helped South Florida evolve from a football town with other sports teams into a rich sports area that captured worldwide attention."
Other franchises, like the Florida Panthers in 1996 and the Miami Marlins in their two World Series runs, rose briefly and left abruptly. Others stars were cheered just as loudly. Other exits, from the Marlins' Miguel Cabrera to the Dolphins' Jason Taylor to the Heat's LeBron James, left fans angrier for different reasons.
But how many departures left a region so sad? How many made fans cry?
In Wade's case, the fans' tears weren't just for the end of his era here, or just for his leaving town because big, clunky and ego-ridden business was being conducted both by him and Heat President Pat Riley.
The tears were for a time of relative youth and sports electricity leaving, too. Because if Wade was old enough to be dispensable to the Heat, part of South Florida realized they were that much older, too.
"I'm gonna miss running to the end corner of the court and the scorer's table yelling, 'This is MY house,' " Wade wrote on Twitter as the dust was still settling Thursday afternoon.
Isn't everyone?
His 13 years run like a time-lapsed film now. His shot against New Orleans. His sneaker commercial with the tagline: "Fall seven times. Stand up eight." His drive through four Dallas players, either getting fouled or not, to win the 2006 title in a manner Mavericks owner Mark Cuban still complains about.
He was introduced by a politician as "Wade Jones" to laughter during a bayside celebration. He recruited Chris Bosh and James, celebrated their arrival that night the nation hated and South Florida loved, and then he won two titles with them.
"I only smoke cigars after winning championships," he said after his third ring, the winners' perfume of smoke and champagne all around him.
Somewhere across those 13 years, the kid who came out of poverty became an international brand. The player formed in Chicago grit became a man who got his feet pedicured and hands manicured on game days. He divorced his childhood sweetheart and married famous actress Gabrielle Union.
He grew up, in other words, just like all of us did. Our sports region filled out. Our basketball cup overflowed.
My house was no different. When a new dog arrived in 2007, three children voted to name it "Wade." I never told him that. Too odd, too strange, and a bit professionally embarrassing. Don Shula once named his dog, "Zonk" for Larry Csonka. Across South Florida in these years, no doubt plenty of dogs have been named "Wade."
"Miami-Dade County to me ... will always be Wade County," Wade wrote on Twitter.
A part will remain that, too. But it will come to label a time that doesn't exist anymore, just as the "No-Name Defense" is gone, the "Miamarino" era is gone, and any other defining label to a golden era will come with a date stamp.
Time will help in some ways. Any sour feelings from his exit will heal, and any lingering sadness will disappear. Wade will return as a Chicago Bull to AmericanAirlines Arena next season in an electric night of fun, of memories and of thanks _ no doubt of thanks, most of all.
His No. 3 will be hung from the rafters some year after that. Who knows? Maybe he'll even become part of the Heat inner circle someday, just as Alonzo Mourning has now.
For now, a page turns. A chapter ends. It isn't the happily-ever-after ending of fairy tales. This is real life, after all. And in this ending Wade leaves for Chicago, the Heat regroup for tomorrow and a South Florida sports region, so changed by his 13 years, struggles with what it all means.
