It's March 1993. Cal's playing Duke in the second round of the NCAA Tournament.

Like any good Cal grad, I'm tuned in to offer moral support during what I figure will be a painful defeat at the hands of the two-time defending champs. But it isn't. It's a game. We're in it. As a matter of fact, we're up, we've got 'em on the ropes. Kidd's finding Murray in the corners, he's blowing by Hurley and getting to the bucket.

	Even back at Cal, it was abundantly clear that Jason Kidd came to pass.

I started on the couch but now I'm on my knees on the floor, about 18 inches from the screen. Not shouting, just breathing deep, clenching my fists, watching the clock. The phone rings. It's my friend and fellow Berkeley alum Fred and all he says is, "Are you watching this? You're watching this, right?"

"Uh-huh," I say. "I'm right here."

That's it. He hangs up.

Anything more and we break the spell, tip the delicate cosmic balance. Our Bears are about to beat Duke. Our job is to keep our mouths shut and not tempt the gods. I know Fred's dialed in, he knows I'm focused, and we both know on some level that can't be charted, on some channel without a name, that the team can feel us, they're feeding off of us, and they play better and faster and stronger because they know what they're giving back to us.

It works. Cal wins. Kidd's brilliant. Fred calls back when it's over. "He's real good," he says, sounding supremely satisfied by the win. He wants to say more, but what's the point, he knows I know what he means.

"Uh-huh," I reply. "Very good."

"All right, talk to you later," he says.

I think for a second that we should break it down a little, that we should talk about how we've seen something genuinely great, but then I think better of it. "Yeah. Later," I say.

And that's that. Freakin' great day. One of the best sports days of my life.

	Kidd will often distribute the ball like it's burning up his fingers.

Fred and I have never really talked about it since. It's almost as if we think that somehow, even now, the game and the perfect blissful silence of the moment can be taken away from us.

I'm telling you this because I want you to understand that Jason Kidd's one of those mythic guys for me -- one of those guys I can't really be objective about -- and I want you to know that everything I say about him, even the understated stuff, is tinged with nostalgic good feeling, reverence and awe.

So, at its essence, the thing I want to say is this:

Jason Kidd passes the ball.

Passes bridge gaps, they connect people. More than that, they're the evidence, the trace, of a connection that was already there waiting to be spoken or revealed. They're a kind of communication, a way of saying, I see you, I hear you, I feel you.

Jason Kidd passes the ball.

Passes have eyes. They see paths and spaces. An area looks congested with arms and legs until a pass magic-bullets its way through light and air from one guy to the next. What you think you see is changed by what a pass shows you.

Jason Kidd passes the ball.

Passes enable shooters. A player runs off a screen, claws his way into an opening. He's got a second, he's got less than that, before the defense closes. A pass finds him, chest-high, soft and in rhythm. The way it meets him has everything to do with what he'll do next. It's the source spring of his flow, the steady calm of his jump and release.

		Passes have eyes. They see paths and spaces. An area looks congested with arms and legs until a pass magic-bullets its way through light and air from one guy to the next. What you think you see is changed by what a pass shows you. Jason Kidd passes the ball.

Jason Kidd finds guys early. The ball is right where it ought to be, and it comes in cool and easy to grab.

Passes are democratic. When someone shoots, the game is a game, it's a competition. When people are passing, the game is an idea, it's a system, it's an ideal. The many are working as one.

Kidd spreads the love. Everyone, from Van Horn to Kittles to MacCulloch -- not one of whom could go it alone -- is involved. My friend Kevin said the other day that he was "watching Kidd by watching the other guys around him." That's what I'm talking about.

Passes are ethical. Like Marvin Gaye said, "Got to give it up." A pass is a surrender, a gift. You get better because I give up something I have. I give myself and my control over to you.

A pass is a noble thing and J-Kidd makes passes.

Passes are collaborations. Think alley-oops. Think Kobe and Shaq in Game 7 against Portland in the 2000 playoffs. It's intuition and trust and anticipation and teamwork. It's two people creating something one person could never achieve. It's more than the sum of its parts. It's double and then some.

	Kidd dishes from any angle, making players like Kerry Kittles, Keith Van Horn and Todd MacCulloch exponentially better.

Think Kidd to Martin, any one of about a dozen times so far this playoff season.

Passes cover the floor. It's 94X50. Not everything happens in and around the lane. There's a whole broad canvas to the game and passes use all of it. The game is bigger, more ambitious and eclectic, and less obvious, when passes are in the air.

Kidd is all over the joint. He passes from anywhere to anywhere.

Passes are fast. In the halfcourt, offenses move, defenses move, and the game is alive. On the break, guys are running and the game is a gas.

Jason's hands let the ball go like it might burn him if he held it another second. Everything is sharp and explosive.

Passes are beautiful. The ball isn't really mine anymore and it's not yet yours. It hovers between us, rotating and traveling. What is it about arcs, curves and parabolas that we love so much? The ball's in the air and the moment is full of potential, but it's more than that ... there's something lyrical about a pass, there's something about the way it cuts a clean, delicate line through the air.

Jason Kidd passes the ball.

He throws sublime, length-of-the-court bounce passes. He throws a one-handed, on-the-run chest pass like only Magic before him could throw. He moves and looks left on the perimeter in the set offense, and suddenly and accurately passes the ball to the right, directly into Martin's hands just inches from the rim. He dumps the ball on the wing, gets it back, spots a shooter in the corner, delivers it there and follows the shot to the glass. He does things with backspin and sidespin and topspin we have no real appreciation and no sufficient vocabulary for.

He's the best thing you can be. He's a passer.

A real good one.

Uh-huh.

Eric Neel reviews sports culture in his "Critical Mass" column, which will appear every Wednesday on Page 2. You can e-mail him at neel@sportsjones.com.