Andre Roberson catches the ball and hesitates. His body slows, but his mind races. You can almost see his conscience waging war. Shoot it, says the little guy on one shoulder. Don't you dare, says the other.
Unless it's late in the game. Then there's no debate. Roberson would rather catch a band of scorpions than a roundball. In crunch time, Roberson plays hot potato. Treats the ball like it's 451 Fahrenheit.
So when you watch Roberson pass up open shots, or worse yet clank a corner 3-point shot off the side of the backboard, you wonder.