The NBA playoffs began this weekend, as did the requisite hype about gravity-resistant superstars and dynastic empires rising and falling, all of which are true.

But the best story of the 2017-18 basketball stories has already been told. And it has nothing to do with the playoffs.

If anything, it has more to do with the anti-playoffs. Of falling short. Of rejection, failure and futile energy. And of Andre Ingram.

Ingram is a case study in frustration. Lanky, six-foot-three and of middling strength and speed, Ingram managed to get a basketball scholarship at American University, a small college in DC.

He had a respectable-if-forgettable career there, averaging 14 points a game at the tiny college. He had hoped to go pro as we hope to get the job we dream of, find the love that completes us, fill the gap that only we can. And, as happens to so many of us, reality pimp-slapped us a bit.

Ingram managed to land a spot on a team in the NBA’s G-League, the sport’s minor league farm club system. There, injured pros go to recover. High school phenoms are groomed by veterans. And players like Ingram eke a living to the tune of about $19,000 a year (the average American income is $27,000 a year, according to the US Census Bureau).

But while the G-League does a heckuva job with metrics like points-per-game, 3-point shooting accuracy and turnover-to-assist ratios, it has no barometer for internal organs — namely, the heart and brain. And Ingram has both.

While he toiled in the minors, Ingram — who earned a degree in physics from American, for Chrissake — supplemented his income by being a math tutor. After all, hoop dreams can’t afford Cheerios for two kids and a wife, all of whom joined the Ingram brood. For 11 years, he played in the echo chamber of gymnasiums that barely muster fan smatterings. The G-League is the GM of pro basketball.

But he did something quietly remarkable on the assembly line. He gave a shit. He earned the coy dollars that came his way. He did what We do on the line: Make sure the bolt is tight.

And while he’d never be featured on ESPN or Sports Illustrated, he became something rarer than a superstar. He became a Remarkable Joe. Ingram took what he learned in college and became a better adult. He’d earn a reputation as a man who busted ass in the journeyman circuit that took him to spots in Utah, Oklahoma and, finally, California. He’d shoot more than 700 3-pointers, the league record. He’d go from 14 points a game in college to 22 a night.

And last week, he got a call from his employer for an exit interview at season’s end — a performance evaluation for the rest of us.

But instead of meeting with human resources this time, Ingram was greeted by Magic Johnson, the general manager of the Los Angeles Lakers and local god to this city. And Luke Walton, Laker coach. And TV cameras. And a miracle: An offer to play the final two games of the season in the NBA.

He’d be offered $14,000 for two games — 75% of his annual salary. He’d be in an arena with actual people. He’d be playing against the Lebrons of the world. He might even catch a glimpse of himself on ESPN, management told him, though they’d need not have worried about making the sale. As he’d done all his life, Ingram recognized Fortuna.

His debut came against the Houston Rockets, the favorites of many to win the title. He’d go up against James Harden, the league’s likely MVP.  As Harden sauntered into Staples Arena sporting his trademark Beats headphones and throngs of reporters and fans, Ingram walked unnoticed  among fans wearing a school backpack and holding the hands of his wife and kids.

On court, he was easy to spot. He was the only 32-year-old rookie — and the only player with a healthy dollup of gray hair. His team, like every other in the NBA, was fated to lose that game.

But not before Ingram punched his time card.

Ingram scored 19 points. He went six-for-eight, a terrific percentage, on his shots. He went four-for-five on his three pointers.

And for one beautifully-strangled minute in time, Ingram was Lebron. Fans stood for him and shouted “MVP!”  Stars tweeted about him. For a day, he held the Lakers best points-per-minute average. The team had to manufacture replicas of his jersey to meet customer demand.

Now, the NBA will pay attention in tryouts. Stars will look up his pre-season stats. ESPN will do a half dozen stories about his games. Fans will ask for photographs. He will be heard from again.

You are Andre. We are Andre. And when we aren’t feeling like him, we can still learn from him, because his life sermon is Waterford clear:

When Life gives you lemons, don’t make lemonade. Pick up the lemons and chuck them back as hard you can. Aim for the nuts. Aim for the face. Slice it with your thumbnail a little before you chuck it, so it gets in Life’s eye.

Fuck fate. It never had an outside jumper anyway.