Features
The enthralling account of the attempt to revive a drowning victim – as written at the time by Dr. John Eadie
By BERNIE BELLAN Fascinated as I was by the story I had received from Reid Linney about Aron Katz, there was something else attached to the information about Aron Katz that was equally compelling: A vivid account of an attempt to revive a drowning victim, also in Big Whiteshell Lake (which is where Aron Katz drowned). It turns out that, subsequent to publishing the story of Aron Katz’s life – and tragic death, in our Aug. 3 print issue, we received information that confirmed the drowning victim in the account you are about to read could not have been Aron Katz.
What happened was that years ago, Dr. Gerald (Yosel) Minuk, who was also a classmate of Reid Linney and Aron Katz at St. John’s, had read an account of a drowning in Big Whiteshell Lake in a book titled It was a photocopy of something that, as Gerald (Yosel) Minuk subsequently explained to me in an email, had appeared in a book titled “History and Folklore of the Whiteshell Park North,” which his wife happened to buy from a woman going door to door selling copies of the book about cottage life in the Whiteshell area.
After Dr. Minuk had read Dr. Eadie’s chapter in the book, titled “Triumph and Disaster,” he was certain that the story Dr. Eadie tells must have been that of Aron Katz’s drowning. He sent a photocopy of the chapter to Reid Linney who, in turn, sent it to me.
It turn out the author of the story, Dr. John Eadie, was a Director of Public Health in Manitoba who would eventually became the Director of Epidemiology for the Province of Manitoba.
In his obituary, it notes that Dr. Eadie, who died in 2014, was born in England, studied medicine at the University of Edinburgh, and served with the Royal Army Medical Corps in Burma/Rangoon during the Second World War.
in 1950 Dr. Eadie and his family moved to Portage la Prairie. “In 1955 the family moved to Winnipeg, and later he purchased a cabin on Big Whiteshell Lake, where he would spend his retirement years exulting in family and his beloved outdoors,” his obituary notes.
I’ve decided to reprint Dr. Eadie’s entire account of what happened one summer day in the Big Whiteshell. However, as you’ll see once you start to read Dr. Eadie’s account, he says that what happened occurred on a Sunday – and that he decided to record his recollection of the day’s events at 4:00 am the following day, which would have made that a Monday. Aron Katz drowned on a Tuesday – and, as you’ll see at the end of this story, Dr. Eadie’s own daughter, Sheelagh, offered further evidence that the drowning victim described in the story you are about to read was not Aron Katz.
Here is Dr. Eadie’s story:
BIG WHITESHELL LAKE
JOHN A. EADIE
LOT 8 BLOCK 4
TRIUMPH AND DISASTER
“A normally busy Sunday at the lake started, for me , at about 7:30 a.m., when I took my wife’s dog for a run up to the ‘mountain’ behind our cottage. After a rest to admire the start of another ‘Sunny Manitoba Morning,’ without a cloud in the sky – back downhill, with Tuffy in the lead, to breakfast alone, listening to the world political situation on C.B.W., as was my custom.
“A quick shave and out to do chores – gas up in readiness for a day’s water-skiing, etc. Still no one else astir in the cottage. So out comes the axe and finally dispose of that poplar stump that should wake someone.
“Now the boys are astir and we’re off water-skiing. The water’s a bit choppy and there’s plenty of traffic – so I do most of the driving. Kenny goes first – an old pro at 13 years, followed by his friend Lars – skiing for 24 hours, but keen to catch up. Then Maria – a beginner, but too shy to tell us to speed it up for her. Irene and Carmen – prospective sisters-in-law to my two older boys – go up double.
(At this point the story is cut off. It resumes here:)
“A swim to the point with my wife, Pat, and a friendly visit with the neighbours.
“Great Scot – it’s 3:30 p.m – so we’re up to grab some lunch. When that’s over, the day’s activities tell their tale and I drop off for 40 winks.
“A thunder of feet up the stairs, ‘Dad, there’s a drowning at the dock!’”
“Up and moving. Grab the keys – to the wagon – drive to the dock. The kids beat me to it by boat – tell me it’s out at the diving dock, but they take me over by boat – 13-year-olds think fast and act with purpose.
“At the floating dock – signs of tragedy. A lifeless young man in his prime, the centre of earnest ineffective efforts at artificial respiration and cardio massage. What to do? Find out what the chances are or try to improve the resuscitation techniques? I’ll have to try both, somehow.
“ ‘ How long was he under?’ – ’15 minutes – maybe 10 – maybe eight – Who had a watch – how accurate are the estimates?’ (five minutes is the limit.)
“ ‘Is he breathing “No!’
“ ‘ Any pulse?’ ‘Yes,’ says Nurse.
“ ‘Is his airway clear? Are we getting air into his lungs?’ ‘Not much!’
“ ‘OK – four men get an arm or leg up and lift him, head down, feet up. You “Nurse” – (she wasn’t, but we didn’t know for an hour) – help clean out the mouth of blood and vomit. Quick – back down – on his back and start massage and breathing.’ Not good – take over breathing and show breather how to get a good breath in – chest rises – ‘OK? Now you try it. Get the rhythm 1001, 1002, 1003, 1004, 1005 – breathe. Repeat – a beat a second and a breath every five beats.’
“Am doing the massage – ‘Who can take over?’ ‘I will,’ says a voice – strong and confident – and he has the build to see us through to Pinawa. ‘OK – use the butt of the palms, quick beats – right on the breast bone – see?’ ‘OK!’ – tries it.
“Nurse reports femoral pulses – colour poor – pupils not good. To continue or stop?
“No one knew how long he was under for sure – he’s turning pink after being tipped up a couple of time and improving technique. OK – he has a chance – let’s give it to him.
“Time to look to the next step. ‘We need a hard board and four men to help lift.’ ‘Here we are!’ A surfboard appears – ‘We need a boat to get him to main dock.’ ‘OK- change boats – yours is biggest. Can you bring it alongside?’ ‘Did anyone send for ambulance or Mounties?’
(At this point the story is cut off again. It resumes here:)
“new catch phrase -KEEP the SYSTEM GOING. ‘If you’re tired ask for relief.”
“ ‘When we move him onto the surfboard after the next breath – hold it, he’s filling up again – tip him up and clean him out. Well done!’ Back to the SYSTEM. It’s going again.
“ ‘OK, now move him on to the board after next breath – 1001, 1002, 1003, 1004, 1005 – Breath – MOVE!’ He’s on the board – KEEP the SYSTEM GOING.
“ “Next move – move the board on to the boat – head to front – breather and cardiac massager keep going. After next breath MOVE but KEEP THE SYSTEM GOING.’ He’s in the boat – the two men on the outside fall in the lake and get left behind. Nobody laughs.
“We’re moving – to the main dock. On to dock –
“ Get the crowd out of the way!’ Someone does.
“ OK. Four men move him down the dock, but KEEP the SYSTEM GOING!’
“ ‘Who’ll drive my wagon?’ – ‘I will.’ – ‘Here’s the keys – the blue wagon’ – back it on to the dock – tailgate down – four movers ready – into the wagon and the SYSTEM KEEPS GOING.
“Nurse” asks privately – ‘What are his chances?’ – ‘Just about zero.’
“The Mounties are here, flashing lights and the works.
“ ‘We need water in a cooler – bucket – anything.’ They appear.
“We’re off.
“ ‘Hey, not so fast – watch the corners – we can’t do massage at that speed.’ We’re all on our knees – never knew steel deck was so hard on knees, especially on corners and on my cartilage scar.
“ ‘OK – relieve the breather!’ ‘I’m OK, Doc.’
“ ‘You can’t do it all yourself – take a break and come back stronger.’ ‘OK.’
“He’s getting pinker – He’s got femoral pulses. His pupils seem smaller, are they really? Wish I had my glasses! ‘Good work –keep it up – Keep it up – change breather – change massager – keep it up. Get a rest.’
“A young guy in his car gets between us the Mounties and won’t pull over, despite our lights and horn. The Mounties radio ahead and he’s invited to stop for a ticket at Seven Sisters.
“Half hour to Pinawa. Twenty minutes to Pinawa. Ten minutes to Pinawa. He’s still pink, still got a pulse. But, what about those pupils? Keep it up. ‘Breather rest so you can take over again at Pinawa.’
(Cut off again. Resumes here:)
“femoral pulse – but hold it – those pupils are dilated and fixed and have been for half hour or more. Don’t tell the team – yes, we’re a team now – everyone knows his job and does it well.
“Last time – KEEP the SYSTEM GOING – back in to the Emergency door. A word with Pinawa doctor – into Emergency.
“Electro-cardiogram shows he still has pulses, still was pink – without the system pulses become few and weak – pupils still dilated. The patient is dead. DISASTER! Or is it triumph? – Seven total strangers – who didn’t even know each others’ names – worked themselves into a team in three hours of desperate effort for a patient whose name they didn’t know.
“When the verdict was finally announced – that he was dead – despite pulses and pink colour – the Nurse looked around the room and there wasn’t a dry eye to be seen. For a stranger? Who is a stranger?
“The dilated pupils showed the patient’s brain had died before he was pulled from the water He’d been down too long – but who could be sure? He had a chance – we gave it to him – but it didn’t work out.
“The team was totally exhausted. After a wash up and juice or coffee the Mounties took our statements His girlfriend’s father came in to thank us – she was too distraught.
“Then home to family and friends, bucking traffic all the way back to Big Whiteshell – where there is still no lifeguard!
“Dozens of these helpers who gave instant action and response to requests should not be forgotten.
“But for the seven people – four men: an orderly, a policeman, president of the Campers Association, and the doctor; three ladies: a nurse, an accountant, and a housewife we thought was a nurse – it will remain TRIUMPH AND DISASTER.
“(Above disjointed notes written at 4:00 am the following morning, when I couldn’t get b
ack to sleep for the drama going round and round in my mind.”)
Post script: As mentioned at the beginning of this story, despite the many similarities between Aron Katz’s drowning and the drowning described in Dr. Eadie’s account – which had led Dr. Minuk to assume that the account was indeed that of Aron Katz’s drowning, subsequent to publishing this story in the Aug. 3 print issue of The Jewish Post & News, we received an email that had been written by Dr. Eadie’s daughter, Sheelagh. In it Sheelagh wrote: “I am thinking that Aron is not the person John assisted.
Aron died on a Tuesday and given that Dad wrote his notes right away and refers to it being a Sunday it is not likely that he would confuse the day of the week. As noted this is a discrepancy that is noteworthy.
“Secondly, he refers to his son, Ken, as being 13 but in July 1973, he was 11 going on 12.
“Dad was a precise person, not sure that detail would be altered.”
Features
“The Desert Doesn’t Forget” – a short story
By H. C. Piloski
Foreword
This story is loosely based on a true event shared between father and son. The exact year has blurred with time — somewhere in the early to mid1960s — but the Las Vegas my father described was unmistakably the Las Vegas of that era: hot, bright, and dangerous in ways polite men didn’t discuss.
Many years after the incident, my father introduced me to one of the businessmen involved. As we approached him, my father leaned in and whispered that I was not to mention Las Vegas — not to ask, not to hint, not even to let the word cross my mind. The warning was quiet, but firm, and it told me more than any story could.
The details here have been fictionalized, but the core incident — a trip abruptly cut short after a threatening encounter — comes from those private recollections. Some memories fade, others distort, but certain moments remain sharp as desert glass. This is one of them.
Las Vegas, 1965
The desert air hit Harold Bernstein like a blast furnace the moment he stepped off the plane — not just heat, but a smell, too. A dry, mineral sting carrying dust, sun cooked metal, and the faint tang of jet fuel settling over the tarmac.
Winnipeg men weren’t built for this. They were built for honest cold, for wind that cut straight and didn’t pretend to be anything else.
Harold paused at the top of the stairs, blinking against the glare. Miriam had tucked a small prayer book into his suitcase “just in case.” He almost smiled. There was no “case” for this — not the kind Miriam meant, anyway.
He and his business partner, Leonard “Lenny” Krawitz, ran Bernstein & Krawitz Apparel Distributors — a respectable prairie outfit, steady as a metronome. They’d been raised in the North End — synagogue basements, rye bread, and quiet rules — but now lived in Tuxedo, where the houses were larger, the streets quieter, and success felt like something you had to defend.
Harold had known Solly Markowitz since they were boys in the North End — same streets, same synagogue basement — but Solly had always moved faster, talked faster, lived faster. Too fast.
Rumors drifted back over the years like smoke: Vegas. Casinos. “Connections.” And the darkest whisper of all — that Solly had been with Benjamin “Bugsy” Siegel the night Siegel was shot to death in his Los Angeles home in 1947.
Siegel, one of the architects of modern Las Vegas, had built his empire on danger. Siegel’s murder was never officially solved. Men tied to Siegel didn’t retire. They drifted into darker corners.
You don’t play around with the mob.
Still, Solly called every few years. Usually around the High Holidays. Usually to ask if anyone remembered his parents.
This time, he had a business proposition.
“A warehouse,” Solly said. “Distribution. Vegas is booming. You boys could expand. And listen — you’ll be dealing with our people. Markowitz runs things on this end. Good man. Efficient. You’ll be safe.”
Harold didn’t trust men who promised safety.
But Lenny was curious. And Harold had been partners with him long enough to know that curiosity was a tide you didn’t fight. So they booked two tickets, packed their best suits, and flew into the desert.
The Strip
The taxi was a 1965 Dodge Coronet, the kind every Vegas cab company seemed to buy in bulk — boxy, dependable, sun bleached around the edges. Its vinyl seats were hot enough to sting through Harold’s trousers, carrying the ingrained smell of desert dust, gasoline, and a hundred previous fares who’d sweated their way down the Strip.
The driver wore a shortsleeved white shirt and a narrow black tie, loosened past respectability. A pack of Luckies sat tucked above the visor. He didn’t talk. Vegas drivers rarely did. They’d seen too much, and they knew silence was sometimes the safest tip a man could give.
Neon signs flickered to life in the early evening glare — reds, blues, golds shimmering like they were trying to outshine the sun itself. Billboards shouted from every corner:
FRANK SINATRA — LIVE AT THE SANDS; SAMMY DAVIS JR. — TONIGHT ONLY; DEAN MARTIN — MIDNIGHT SHOW; DON RICKLES — ONE NIGHT ONLY — CAESAR’S PALACE
Harold watched the lights smear past the window. Vegas looked like a city built by men who didn’t believe in consequences — men who thought the world could be rewritten in neon and smoke.
At a stoplight, Harold noticed a man in a dark suit standing outside the Desert Inn. Ninety degrees even after sundown, yet the man didn’t sweat. He stared at their cab with the flat, patient look of someone waiting for a decision already made.
Harold looked away.
Their hotel was one of the older ones — brass fixtures dulled by fingerprints, red carpets worn thin, cigarette smoke curling under chandeliers. The casino floor hummed with slot machines, dice clattering, and the low murmur of gamblers who had already lost more than they could afford.
Harold felt the city watching him.
They checked in, rode the elevator up, and began unpacking. Lenny talked about expansion, about opportunity. Harold listened, nerves tight.
Then came the knock.
The Knock
A heavy, deliberate thud — the kind that didn’t wait for permission.
Lenny froze. Harold felt his pulse climb into his throat.
Lenny opened the door.
Two men stood there — tall, broad, wearing dark suits that didn’t belong in the Nevada heat. Their faces were blank, carved from something that didn’t melt. One shifted slightly, revealing the unmistakable outline of a holstered pistol.
“You’re Bernstein and Krawitz,” the first man said. His voice was calm, almost bored — the tone of someone who had delivered this message before.
Harold nodded before he realized he’d done it.
“Mr. Markowitz appreciates your interest,” the second man said. “But he doesn’t want you involved. Not now. Not ever.”
Lenny swallowed. “We just got here—”
The first man stepped forward, jacket pulling back just enough to show steel. “If you stay,” he said, “the desert will take you. And the desert doesn’t give anything back.”
They turned and walked away without waiting for a response.
Lenny closed the door slowly.
“Harold,” he whispered, “we’re leaving.”
Harold was already zipping his suitcase.
The Retreat
They moved through the casino like ghosts. The noise felt distant, muffled, as if the city itself were holding its breath. Harold avoided eye contact with everyone — dealers, tourists, men in suits who always seemed to be standing just far enough away to pretend they weren’t watching.
At the front desk, Harold slid their room keys across the counter. The clerk raised an eyebrow.
“Checking out already, sir? You just arrived.”
“Change of plans,” Harold said. His voice sounded like it belonged to someone else.
Outside, a row of gleaming Cadillacs and Lincolns lined the valet area, their long bodies catching the neon glow like blades. The desert air smelled different now — harsher, metallic, as if the heat itself were warning them. The Strip looked less like a playground, more like a trap.
At the Western Airlines counter, Harold’s hands shook so badly he dropped his wallet. They managed to get seats on a late flight to Los Angeles, with a connection north to Winnipeg. Luck, or something like it, was still on their side.
On the jet, Lenny stared straight ahead, silent. Harold didn’t speak either.
When the aircraft began its run, the engines didn’t just roar — they howled, a rising metallic fury that made the cabin tremble. Harold gripped the armrests as the desert dropped away beneath them, Las Vegas shrinking into a glittering lie the desert never bothers to hide.
Only when they were safely above the clouds did Lenny finally whisper, “What do you think that was about?”
Harold didn’t answer. He didn’t have to.
They both knew.
Home Again
Back in Winnipeg, winter arrived early. Harold welcomed it. Snow didn’t lie. Cold didn’t threaten. The prairie wind didn’t bury men in unmarked graves.
Their wives were waiting at the airport, bundled in coats, cheeks pink from the cold.
“You’re home early,” Miriam said, frowning.
“Business fell through,” Harold said. “Whole thing was a waste.”
Esther looked from her husband to Harold, suspicious. “Barely two days?”
“Solly wasn’t organized,” Lenny said quickly. “Nothing to see.”
Miriam touched Harold’s arm. “You look pale.”
“Heat,” Harold said. “Didn’t agree with me.”
It was the closest he had ever come to lying to her.
That night, Miriam asked again. “Something happened.”
Harold kissed her forehead. “Nothing we need to talk about.”
She didn’t press. Tuxedo wives knew when a door was meant to stay closed.
A week later, Solly called.
“Boys! You never showed! Markowitz said you headed home early. Shame — I had everything lined up. Next time, we’ll make sure things are clearer.”
Harold hung up without answering.
Lenny unplugged the phone.
They never spoke of the trip again.
Not to their wives. Not to their families. Not to the men at shul or the ones they played cards with on Thursday nights.
Some stories were too heavy to carry into daylight.
Years Later
Decades passed. Their children grew. Their hair thinned. Their business went to younger hands.
Sometimes, late at night, Harold would wake in the middle of the dark, heart pounding, hearing that knock again — heavy, deliberate, final.
And he would think of Solly. Of Vegas. Of the desert.
How it didn’t forget. How it didn’t forgive. How close he and Lenny had come to disappearing into it.
Features
Turkey’s Rising Power Worries Israel
By HENRY SREBRNIK It has long shared intelligence with Iran, and it remains the only NATO country to have refrained from sanctioning Russia after its 2022 invasion of Ukraine. It is, along with Qatar, the main international sponsor of the Muslim Brotherhood, including its Palestinian branch, Hamas. Its poor human rights record consistently stir unease among NATO allies.
This is President Recep Tayyip Erdogan’s Turkey. He wants his country to become the preeminent power in the Middle East. If Iran emerges from the current war with Israel and the United States weakened, whether politically, economically, or militarily, Turkey’s relative influence in the broader region will increase. Ankara has already consolidated significant influence in Syria and Azerbaijan, and it continues to pursue strategic connectivity projects across the South Caucasus.
Since Erdogan and his Justice and Development Party (AKP) came to power in 2003, relations have steadily deteriorated. The Hamas victory in a legislative election in Gaza in 2005 felt in Ankara like a personal win for Erdogan, who had advised Hamas on its electoral strategy.
Three years later came the Mavi Marmara incident. A Turkish ship chartered by the Humanitarian Relief Foundation (IHH) attempted to break Egypt and Israel’s blockade of Gaza. The vessel was boarded by Israeli commandos, resulting in nine deaths. Erdogan accused Israel of “state terrorism” and appealed to the “international community” in a speech to the Turkish parliament. Things kept going downhill and are now worse than ever.
Turkish Foreign Minister Hakan Fidan recently remarked that “the Israeli authorities are a burden that humanity can no longer bear.” Fidan’s words came in a TV interview July 2 following Israel’s recognition of the 1915 Armenian genocide: “Israel is not just Turkey’s problem, nor is it just the issue of our president, he said. “But everyone knows it, feels it, whispers it in hidden corners, and occasionally speaks openly. This is what we must call it.” True, he stepped back from those remarks in a later interview, contending that Turkey and Israel aren’t destined for conflict. Was this second comment perhaps made at Donald Trump’s urging?
After Hamas’s October 7, 2023, attack on Israel, Erdogan emerged as one of Israel’s most outspoken international critics, accusing Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu’s government of committing grave violations during the Gaza conflict and intensifying Ankara’s diplomatic support for the Palestinian cause. Israeli officials have interpreted this rhetoric as evidence that Turkey increasingly views itself as a political counterweight to Israel across the region.
Already in December 2023, Erdogan had compared Netanyahu to Adolf Hitler, and Israel’s actions in the Gaza Strip to those of the Nazis. In March 2024, he referred to Netanyahu and his government as “modern-day Nazis” and called for bringing these “murderers” to justice under international law.
He subsequently accused Netanyahu of committing “genocide” in Gaza, claimed that his actions “would make Hitler jealous,” and even described the situation in Gaza as “worse than Nazi camps,” while portraying the West as standing aside and enabling the continuation of the “brutality.” In a speech posted on X on March 30 this year, Erdogan called on “Allah” to “damn Zionist Israel.”
The narrative accusing Israel has become a structural component of Turkey’s domestic political discourse. What is new is not the use of extreme imagery and Holocaust terminology, but the role they play. Unlike in the past, the rhetoric is no longer merely an expression of political anger or protest; it has become a component of Turkish policy, intended to lay a normative foundation through which Ankara seeks to deny Israel the moral legitimacy of its actions.
Turkey portrays Israel not as a state confronting a grave security threat from a murderous terrorist organization but as an entity that has crossed the bounds of humanity, committing crimes it equates with those perpetrated by the Nazis. This framing intentionally downplays the severity of Hamas’s actions and prepares the ground for collective action against Israel, including exceptional punitive measures against it. At the same time, it depicts any Western hesitation or lack of restraint regarding Israel as a moral abandonment of Gaza’s residents, expanding responsibility and blame to the international community beyond Israel itself.
On November 7, 2025, the Istanbul Chief Public Prosecutor’s Office announced the issuance of arrest warrants against 37 Israeli figures, including Netanyahu and other senior officials, on charges of genocide and crimes against humanity. Although these domestic warrants lack practical enforcement, their significance lies in the ongoing legal threat they create. They limit the movement of senior Israeli officials, discourage other countries and institutions from engaging with Israel, and enhance the criminal framing of Israel in the international arena.
Its identity as a Muslim state and a NATO member, but critical of the liberal-Western order, has allowed Turkey to position itself as a leading moral voice, strengthening its regional and international standing. In addition to the importance the Turkish government attributes to the Palestinian issue and the broad support for the Palestinian position among the Turkish public in general, and Erdogan’s electoral base in particular, this issue serves as a platform for positioning Turkey as a voice challenging the West and speaking on behalf of “the oppressed in the world.”
Erdogan’s tenure has seen a systematic shift toward Islamization within Turkey. His government has expanded religious education, restricted alcohol sales, and promoted conservative social policies. These measures, coupled with the suppression of secular institutions, align with his stated goal of raising a “pious generation.”
Erdogan, from his comments, seems to consider himself the rightful leader of the entire Muslim world. In the interim, he evidently sees himself as the Middle East’s next great power broker, claiming leadership while chaos reigns.
Already entrenched in Syria, steadily expanding an indigenous defence industry capable of producing sophisticated drones, naval vessels, and eventually advanced fighter aircraft, while seeking a foothold in Gaza, Ankara increasingly appears intent on filling the regional vacuum Iran leaves behind. Tehran sought to surround Israel with a Shi’ite ring of fire. Ankara appears willing to create a Sunni one.
Henry Srebrnik is a professor emeritus at the University of Prince Edward Island
Features
Can Deni Avdija lead Portland to the title next year?
It is too early to say if Deni Avdija is ready to lead the Portland Trail Blazers to the NBA Finals in 2027, but it’s not too much to hope for. But the trade to Washington in 2024 is arguably a signature move for Portland. All those who followed him on basketball results on SportyTrader have seen him grow from an all-purpose prospect into an All-Star creator and a testament to the Blazers’ rebuild.
It is not Avdija’s question as to whether he can be a one-man savior. Whether his scoring and playmaking, defense and competitive edge can support a roster that’s become ambitious.
The catalyst: Avdija’s arrival and Portland’s new hope
Deni Avdija was traded to Portland on July 6, 2024, with Washington receiving veteran guard Malcolm Brogdon, the draft rights to No. 14 pick Bub Carrington, a 2029 first-round pick, a 2028 second-round pick, and a 2030 second-round pick in return. The cost seemed to be very high, but the deal with Deni Avdija is becoming more and more justified.
In the 2025-26 campaign, Avdija averaged 24.2 points, 6.9 rebounds and 6.7 assists in 66 games played, and had a shooting percentage of 46.2 percent on the field and 80.2 percent at the free throw line. He has made his first All-Star call-up, his first call-up as an Israeli player. That was a turning point in his career and catapulted him into one of the most prominent Israeli athletes.
One thing that is still being questioned is his perimeter efficiency. He was 36.5 percent on 3-pointers in 2024-25, falling to 31.8 percent with an average of six attempted three-pointers per game. However, his versatility to attack closeouts, get to the ball, rebound, play several positions defensively, and start transition offense means that he is valuable.
What does ‘leading a team’ truly mean for Avdija?
Avdija is not quite in the Nikola Jokic or Giannis Antetokounmpo class; he doesn’t dominate each possession defensively, nor is he a Giannis Antetokounmpo who sets a championship system in motion. He’s becoming a more realistic high-level foundational leader, a part scorer, a part connector and a part tone-setter.
Standards are as necessary as statistics are in Portland. Avdija is aggressive with the ball, physically in it and plays with his heart. Those habits can become the culture on a young team that will ultimately foster contention.
He could still keep on climbing his ladder. The leap from 16.9 and 3.9 assists in 2024-25 to 24.2 and 6.7 indicates that the new found creation is more than just additional minutes. Whether he will grow into an All-Star every year comes down to avoiding turnovers, being able to break from defenders with pull-up shots and providing reliability in the playoffs.
Analyzing his fit with the current Blazers roster
Earlier discussions about what Portland is to look for at Deandre Ayton and Anfernee Simons are now outdated. Then, the 2026-27 bunch now contains Ja Morant, Damian Lillard, Jrue Holiday, Scoot Henderson, Shaedon Sharpe, and Toumani Camara, and Donovan Clingan should be added as well.
That’s opportunity and tension. The combination of Morant’s rim pressure will be a gamebreaker, and if Lillard is able to come back from the Achilles, he can pose defenses a threat with his shooting. Avdija can be used as a backup secondary initiator, attack mismatches and cover a tough defensive task. Camara and Clingan provide volume and bulk following him.
But, ball placement will be key. Morant, Lillard, Henderson and Avdija are all in need of touches. New coach Micah Nori will have to find a way to build an offense that takes advantage of Avdija’s abilities without it becoming a ‘spot-up’ forward.
The reality check: Portland’s long road to contention
There are no signs of a championship next season. Portland reached the playoffs for the first time since 2021, but were eliminated by the San Antonio Spurs in the first round of the Western Conference playoffs, with Victor Wembanyama’s return from a concussion in Game 4 proving decisive in San Antonio’s series win. That’s good, but not good enough to prove that they are champions.
Blazers still have work to do in the scoring, line-up balance, and postseason experience departments, plus clarity on who they’re going to rely on to be their starting closer. Morant is packed with star quality, and some risk. Lillard is 36 and coming back from a major injury. In the younger core, the prospects are good but not certain.
The rebuilds that generally work the way they’re supposed to go, go through a number of phases: asset building, playoff success, series success, then placing a claim on the title. Although Portland is past the beginning stages, one successful season isn’t going to close the gap between the team and the NBA elite.
The verdict: Can Avdija be a champion in Portland?
Avdija likely will not be the man for Portland to win the title next year. But he can also be the invaluable asset to a future contender. With his shot accuracy back at three-point, the turnovers will come down, his decision-making in the playoffs improves, another All-Star season is possible.
He’s a Portland Trail Blazers development litmus test now. Maybe not the only superstar that brings a trophy, but he can be the multi-faceted cornerstone that makes a real title structure possible.
