There are 1,230 games in an NBA season. Many have overlapping tip-offs, and some nights just about every team is in action, a whole slate of possibilities. Whether you’re a casual fan (this is a compliment, live your life) or a true League Pass sicko, it can be hard to know where to direct your attention. We’re here to help.
The operating theory of this project is that watching basketball is fun. Our goal is to help you have more of it. We want to point you toward spectacle but also subtlety. We want to show you sauce, pragmatism, pyrotechnics. Guys that leave you in awe and guys that make you look closer.
The Ringer’s Top 100 Players in the NBA rankings are back! Check in throughout the 2024-25 season for updated analysis on the players who are making a splash.
These League Pass recommendations will arrive regularly throughout the NBA season. They’ll highlight the beautiful, the cool, the strange, and the skilled—the indefinable mojo and mystique present in the game today. Some recs will be very specific. Some will be very broad. Some will be very stupid. Some will age like oranges, others like wine. And because these are League Pass recommendations, we are attuned to the NBA minutiae that sit off the beaten path. The league’s deeper than ever, with fun things under every rock we turn over. Follow us into the forest. There are flowers here, too.
Tre Mann’s Baggy Era
Shorts are short again. This began happening several years ago, guys of all shapes and sizes finally letting their thighs come out to play. The shorts aren’t as teeny as they were in the ’70s and ’80s, but they’re shorter than they have been, the inseams smaller than the compression shorts beneath them. We aren’t here to make value judgments on one style of short vs. another, but we do embrace people daring to be different. And in a time of homogenization, one man has taken it upon himself to spit in the eye of convention, cover the quads, and challenge the status quo.
The early-2000s on-court aesthetic Mann has unveiled this season has been a welcome sartorial zag. He’s doing his own thing, keeping us on our toes, and it’s much appreciated.
It’s not quite T.J. Ford at the NBA rookie photo shoot—we’re not dealing with gaucho pants here—but there’s a concerted effort to find his own version of the Iverson silhouette.
The size of the jersey and the size of the shorts, the way they hang, the way they flow behind and then catch up to his movements, I feel like I’m back in 2001 spilling Surge on my AND1 shirt, circling Sprewell Spinners in the back of an Eastbay, wondering why they canceled Hang Time. Their court was so tiny. Rest in peace, Coach Mike Katowinski. And it’s not just the jersey. It’s the headband, the armband, the socks just barely poking up beyond the tops of the shoes. All of it sings. Waiting for him to walk the tunnel holding a portable CD binder and a Sidekick.
Go to church—pray you don’t guard him. Because Mann has been hooping. His move to Charlotte has meant more burn and more touches, the fourth-year shooter finally getting a chance to consistently terrorize defenders with that otherworldly stepback of his. The immediate separation he gets—it’s like he hits tab—there’s nothing the defender can do about it, no matter how long God made their arms. His baggy era has come at a time when he’s been able to show the depths of his own bag. He’s not a bench ornament anymore. He can be somebody in this league. He already is.
Jared McCain’s Perfect Form
McCain is here, goosenecking, reaching his hand into the cookie jar, doling out treats. Not sure I’ve seen a straighter elbow. The ball flies true. Instructional video form. Basketball Tom Emanski would blush. Who is Basketball Tom Emanski? Hubie, maybe? Lenny Wilkens? The late, great Jack Ramsay? And who is Basketball Fred McGriff? Tayshaun Prince? Michael Redd? Kukoc?
The rookie flamethrower has injected some much-needed juice into the Sixers and been the only legit bright spot in an otherwise dim opening to their season. I guess “dim” doesn’t really do it. Let’s go ahead and change that to “onyx.” At the time of this writing, Philly is 2-12 and dead last in the East. Paul George and Joel Embiid have been dinged up, in and out of the lineup, bringing little more than malaise along with them. Tyrese Maxey, whom I would die for, has also dealt with injuries. McCain’s been showing out in spite of all the gloom and doom, playing with energy and personality. He’s the lone rookie with more than two 20-point games this season—and he has six. Right now, he’s the only thing that makes the Sixers worth watching.
You better find McCain in transition. He’s running to the 3-point line and letting that thing fly. He can get it done off the bounce or off the catch. The pull-up is strong already, and with defenders worried about the shot, he’s got enough wiggle to get them on his hip and enough touch to finish in the paint. Can do so with scoops, off the glass, with the weak hand, whatever. A relocation prince, already elite at the get-back. A defender’s job is not over when he gets rid of the ball; it has only just begun. Stay with him or get used to taking the ball out of the net.
Shoots like he has great posture, like he will never have back problems, like he’s never fumbled a handshake in his life. He’s not coming in too late and getting his fingers squeezed. He’s not coming in too hot and sailing past the other hand. He’s nailing it, and he’s making you feel welcome. As a white dude, I never know how to greet white guys anymore. Some want the handshake, others want the dap, others want the dap/hug, others want the little … it’s not a high five or a low five, it’s something in between—anyway, they want that, then a hug. It’s getting confusing out there. Stay vigilant.
Bonus: On the Sixers’ local broadcast, the numbers on the score bug turn into three fingers when someone hits a 3, a nice little flourish that adds some spice to the product.
Amen Thompson’s Burst
Thompson is the kind of athletic that makes you question his Homo sapien status. Unnatural, bonkers, extraterrestrial burst from the second-year flying forward on the Rockets. Can cover an outrageous amount of ground in the time it takes me to sneeze. I’d pay a not-insignificant sum for a RedZone-esque service that alerts me when Thompson checks in. Wemby’s not the only alien in the league. The truth is out there, and Amen’s it.
In the open floor, he is skating. The closing speed is yeesh. The closing speed is peregrine falcon. The closing speed is Bugatti. Gonna do some shit that leaves you dizzy and gasping. Packs an eraser. Wheels so nuts you think something is wrong with your phone. Do I have bad service here? Is my internet wonky? Did the person who posted this mess with the frame rate? Why’s he moving like the sharks in Deep Blue Sea?
Thompson plays in a way that makes you frustrated with the Rockets’ logjam of interesting players. You want to see more of him. It’s irritating when he’s not on the floor. I check in on Houston games and immediately look to see whether no. 1 is in the game. Despite the fact that his jumper isn’t where it needs to be, the Rockets have another level of nitrous with him in the mix. He and Tari Eason continue to come off the bench as the Bash Brothers of H-Town, wreak more havoc than the starters—and Thompson’s athleticism is still far above that of his Terror Twin. Eason’s good, but he’s not gonna make me question the limits of the human body. He won’t make me see stars.
Honorable mention to Steven Adams’s mustache, which is somehow fuller than ever.
He looks like someone you would see on the side of the road selling the biggest tomatoes you’ve ever seen. You feel bad even slicing them. They taste like candy. They look like art.
Darius Garland’s Passing
Garland’s having a resurgent year, reestablishing himself as one of the best young point guards in the league and scoring more efficiently from every area on the floor. His partnership with Donovan Mitchell has never looked as fruitful as it does right now. They are finding a balance that has the Cavs looking beastly at the top of the Eastern Conference. Amid all of that, Garland’s passing is the real draw.
Passing has gotten infinitely harder over the past decade. Offenses are more spaced out. Defenders are longer and cover more ground. Windows start closing the moment they open, and you either get the ball where it needs to be or suffer the consequences. Now, elite point guards need to come with full war chests if they’re going to dice a defense the way they want. One-handed, long-distance passes have become crucial. There’s not always time to switch the ball to your strong hand or gather and pass with both. No-looks, over-the-head jump passes, behind-the-back dimeage, and regular needle threading are not unnecessary flourishes; they are essential components of the bag.
Garland’s one of our jazziest passers, can fire with either hand and have the ball on a rope. His combo of handle, change of direction, and invention can leave defenders confused as to how he got the pass past their heads so quickly. He’s a surprising and manipulative passer. Seems to float with the ball in his hands, dances in transition, cuts loose and up. He can catch a defense napping or put it to sleep on his own.
Bilal Coulibaly’s Cool
Fighting out of Saint-Cloud, France, 20 years young, 6-foot-8, 7-foot-2 wingspan, ball hawk. Just plain cool. Cool guy, cool name, cool game. Silver medalist in the Olympics as a member of Team Croissant, but that’s just the hors d’oeuvre for what’s to come. Can do some startling two-way stuff that’ll make your eyes jiggle. Teaching Tyler Herro he might be better off just staying on the ground and getting out of the way. Transitions from one end to the other smoothly, dangerously, and with alacrity. He merges fluidity with uncommon length to perform feats of athletic superiority. Maybe he’ll steal the ball on one end, push it up the floor himself, sky for a rebound, and punch in a tip dunk. Maybe he’ll meet a would-be dunker at the rim and go Karch Kiraly, send the attempt back down to earth. Maybe he’ll cross up somebody on the wing, attack, and catch a body. Maybe he’ll do it with his weak hand. Tristan da Silva, we knew you well. Please send flowers to 420 S. Orange Ave., Orlando, FL 32801. Send a card, too. You’re a person. So was he.
Coulibaly’s in the phase of his career where damn near every week there’s a new career high. The handle’s getting tighter. He’s seeing the floor better. The defense remains extremely [locks cage, eats key]. The arrow’s pointing up. Hop on the bandwagon now and reap rewards down the line. You can say you had your eye on him early in his career, when the seeds were still being planted, when he was finding his way, fine-tuning himself, learning how to weaponize the outrageous proportions of his body. He’ll be a monster soon.
