Just past Christmas, and still Gilbert Arenas was smug in his certainty that somehow this would all go away, that a wink and a smile could charm the trouble. All that had come out was that he had stored unloaded guns in the Washington Wizards’ locker room. There was something bigger and bleaker on the way, the truth working its way out of the darkness and into the public light, and someone had suggested to Arenas that maybe he ought to be careful with his public words, that he needed to cling close to a stranger called restraint.
Arenas dismissed the advice with a roll of the eyes and a cocksure insistence. ”I’m smarter than everyone else,” a witness heard him say, and no one needed to tell Arenas how to handle the public, the media, the storm closing fast on him.