The 1990s Sacramento Kings held both promise and limitation. The city stretched out beneath the sun like a dream deferred, its drawbacks being the defining characteristics that drew people back home.

Most people thought that Mitch Richmond had a perfect jumpshot. That it arced through the air with perfect geometry, with both beauty and futility.

And perhaps it did. He had straight All-Star appearances, all in a city that the basketball world treated like a weigh station.

There's something about watching greatness in exile that forces a reconsideration of what belonging means. The old clips of Richmond's games reveal something beyond the scoring – though the scoring was always there, reliable as sunrise. They show patience. The way he'd work off screens, find his spot, rise up while wearing a uniform that most fans considered irrelevant. They show dignity in showing up, even in a place you never planned to be.

Time resists easy measurement, especially when trying to decide what constitutes wasted years. Richmond played his best basketball in a city that couldn't give him what he deserved, in front of fans who loved him but couldn't offer him a stage big enough for his talents. And yet, those years aren't a tragedy – they're a testament to the kind of grace that comes from accepting where you are while never stopping working toward where you could be.

Some nights in Sacramento, the summer heat lingers past sunset, settling over the city like a memory that won't fade. It's the kind of weather that makes promises feel both possible and distant. And Mitch Richmond made it his kingdom.