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.
Cade Cunningham, American Muscle
Cunningham plays like he’d stay late after a party to help clean up, offer to Venmo you money for the beer, take out the trash, replace the bag. He wouldn’t even have to ask where they are. He wouldn’t put that on you. You just threw a great party and deserve to rest. Obviously, they’re under the sink.
The fourth-year guard has been the all-purpose buffet o’ plays engine of the Pistons, who may finally be on the sunny side of the mountain. Catch him in the sun serving reminders of why he was the first pick in the 2021 draft coming out of Oklahoma State. The puzzle pieces are starting to fit, and Monty Williams is no longer around to accidentally knock a bunch under the couch.
Being fun would be enough. But the Pistons aren’t just fun. They’re also good. After more than a few years in the basketball wilderness, there’s hope in Detroit. Break out your finest skull-and-crossbones shirt. The Pistons are feisty again. Even with the bummer injury to the blooming Jaden Ivey, there’s plenty of interesting talent around Cunningham that enhances the viewing experience: Ausar Thompson, Jalen Duren, Beef Stew, Simone Fontecchio (who will never die), Ron Holland, and Sassmaster Marcus Sasser? Sounds great, man.
Cunningham’s got the subtle suave game. The eyes are up. Competence oozes. It’s good old-fashioned know-how. Cunningham leads the Pistons in points and assists. He’s second in rebounds. The smoothness is there, but he doesn’t make a big deal about it. The vision is omnidirectional. The face is serious. The 3s are falling. Shit’s getting done.
Cunningham’s not a rah-rah kind of guy. He’s not gonna overwhelm you with a vocal or stick his face in the camera. He’s gonna make you lean forward and look a little closer. His game doesn’t scream. It doesn’t even really raise its voice. It does its thing and rewards your attention.
Coming attractions: On February 5, he’s got a home date with the no. 1 seed in the East, the Cleveland Cavaliers. This will be another good test for the Pistons to see where they stand among the NBA elite and a great opportunity for Cunningham to show out against the best backcourt in the conference.
Best highlight:
Jerami Grant, Who Will Slap You (With a White Glove)
Up in the Pacific Northwest, where the seabirds soar, Jerami Grant has been wearing the hell out of some clothes. The 11-year vet, in his third year in Portland, has had an up-and-down season. The 3s are falling, but that’s about it. He’s also nursing an ankle injury and recently suffered a facial contusion that forced him to miss nine games. But when one door closes, the closet door opens. And what a majestic place Grant’s closet must be. He went in there and whipped up this little number.
Nothing but the bottom of the net. He looks like he’d take off a glove and slap me with it, and I dig that about him. If Grant played in New York or L.A.—and maybe he will in a few weeks’ time?—there would’ve already been countless appearances across several Condé Nast platforms. He’d have been featured in at least two Aimé Leon Dore editorials and modeled for Bode Recreation. He’d have gone to a dinner where he sat between Ayo Edebiri and Jason Isbell. Isbell and him would talk skull rings, dessert served in personalized F1 helmets.
Grant has a deep love for getting dressed. Who do you know that modeled for Wales Bonner, walked in a Willy Chavarria show, and still breaks out the toe shoes from time to time? This takes vision. This takes heart.
Coming attractions: Every time is a good time to check in on Grant’s sartorial exploits, but now especially so. The Blazers are in the midst of a seven-game home stand, and he’ll have the full weight of his closet behind him. Lots of potential. You can also keep an eye on the February 6 trade deadline. The Blazers need to keep losing games and he could help a contender.
Best photo of him wearing toe shoes in front of the Eiffel Tower:
L.A. Clippers: Scallywags, Rapscallions, The Pirate Zombies of the West
Check out these undead mariners of the sea. Pirate Zombies going port to port, just being themselves, confusing people up and down the coast with their unique combo of hustle and deception. Team motto seems to be something like “Go Like Hell And Make Your Presence Known.” The Clippers should make Jeff Van Gundy dress like a buccaneer for home games. I know it’s L.A. and entertainment’s easy to come by, but you’re doing prime Shaq-Kobe numbers if JVG cosplays Long John Silver on the bench. Eye patch, tricorn, and when he points things out on the whiteboard he uses a plastic pirate sword he wears on a sheath around his waist.
How dare anyone think the Clippers would draw dead? Yes, they lost Paul George. And yes, Kawhi’s knees are marmalade. But listen: This is a team with Jordan Miller. Kris Dunn has been clamping guys. Derrick Jones Jr. rates high on the cool shit scale. Zupac’s been in Chugga Chugga Mode all year and kept the trains on schedule. And James Harden’s as palatable as he’s ever been. Still a main ingredient, he’s no longer overwhelming the dish. The spice has been right.
Norm Powell’s been the big bad over there, thrashing defenses from sea to shining sea. The 31-year-old has been an oven for the Clips this season, getting back to the basics of bucketry, torching nylon, and making a run at an All-Star appearance. There’s little precedent for a player with Powell’s previous résumé popping like this. Last year, Powell averaged 14 points per game. This year, 24. This isn’t supposed to happen in your 30s. It’s a product of a team in need of what Powell does best—utilitarian, hearty buckets—coupled with a player ready for an increase in shots and lights. He called his shot in late September when he said of Paul George’s departure, “I saw it as addition by subtraction. More guys getting opportunities, including myself.” Norm knew. He’s not getting interviewed on Podcast P anytime soon, but he knew.
The right strings are being pulled, Ty Lue lifting with the legs this year. One of his finest coaching jobs. At 27-20, with a better record than preseason darlings Dallas, Minnesota, and Phoenix. The Clips are grinders who show up and maximize what they have. Catch them on the wrong night and they’ll have you underwater.
Coming attractions: If you’re looking for something with a little animus, we suggest Lakers at Clippers, February 4, in Inglewood.
Two strange facts about Clippers mascot Chuck the Condor: One, his favorite snack is a peanut butter and SPAM sandwich. Two, he has a 10-foot wingspan.
Goga Bitadze, the Restorative Ox
Little-known fact about Bitadze: As he jams, the rhythm gets stronger. He is the sun, a dream, and he’s dancing right beside you. Plays like he wants to remind you: There’s nothing wrong with just a little, little fun.
Restorative Goga. Hot Goga. Kundalini Goga. Manifest your heart’s desire. Savor the flavor. Something else about Bitadze? An athletic ox. Going to be sturdy, get his hands dirty, do the work. Real hard-playing, down-for-whatever center who won’t slow you down and likes to throw his body around.
A real meat-and-lobio kind of guy. You’ll find him holding down the farm, living hard, throwing parties in the barn. Caught Giannis in the quarterfinals of the NBA Cup and took him for a ride on Georgian Airlines.
This is another player who embodies the live más lifestyle. Bitadze is a man of action, and he is going to bring some activity to the proceedings. A close personal associate of [Hubie voice] the painted area. Stirs the pot in the lane. Makes people move. Cannonballs off the porch side, bends up his Nikes. That’s the way every game goes.
Coming attractions: February 6 in Denver against the Nugs’s big-boy frontcourt, then a February 8 date vs. Wemby and the Spurs.
Best video of him telling a joke about a man with a rubber toe:
Keon Ellis, Still Beaming
What we have here is one of the best transition defenders in the league, a man devoted to shutting that shit off. Wiry scrapper, instinctual, catches the worm. Looks at an offense and just sees food. Eats possessions, dreams. Happy to claw for it.
Sacramento’s third-year guard understands that sometimes you light the beam and sometimes, well, it lights you. Ellis keeps taking the punches, keeps getting up. Whatever that Dwyane Wade “fall down seven times, stand up eight” commercial was talking about. An undrafted, former two-way guy who plays with you’ll-screen-me-in-hell energy. Could watch him run for hours.
Ellis’s minutes have shot up since Sacramento replaced Mike Brown with Doug Christie. For reasons maddening to Kings fans around the world, Brown was hesitant to play Ellis. Christie knew what he had, and Ellis rewarded him immediately, with force. The man creates havoc. Energy begets itself. Steals, blocks, whatever you want. Apathy does not enter the equation. If he’s out there, he’s hunting. Stay beaming.
Coming attractions: On February 1 at OKC and February 3 at Minnesota, you have the opportunity to watch Ellis try to reign in two of the league’s best perimeter creators in Shai Gilgeous-Alexander and Anthony Edwards. He’ll make them work for their buckets.
Best example Steve Kerr is losing it: He thought Ellis was flopping here. Maybe yell at Draymond sometime, Steve.
Josh Hart’s [Twin-Turbocharged V-8] Motor
First-team All-Duralast. Built to last. A man after Thibs’s own heart. Might be the most “nose for the ball” player in the league right now. The effort is hefty. Red-letter, uncommon, freakish to the point of venturing into the avant-garde. Real strong-safety stuff. Hustle and ambition. The man has significant reserves of get-down. Not sure how much sense this will make, but he plays like he could build a boat, like he’s made of Class-A engineering brick; like he has, in the past, boxed with bears. You’ll find Hart where the action is. One of these tireless types. At home in the muck. Hunting for thrills and slights. Getting timely, grimy buckets. Crashing the boards with hate in his heart. Told teammate Mitchell Robinson last postseason, “You get regular rebounds. I get rebounds that break teams.” There’s been a lot of breaking.
Your favorite grinder’s favorite grinder. Your middle school coach’s favorite player. A total menace. He guards hard, rebounds harder, and dedicates himself daily to being the best pest he can be. Hart connects, fills gaps, helps wherever he’s needed. The engine’s good. He gets out on the break, sprints with bad intentions. The kind of player every team wants. Energy you can count on.
Best quote: “I’m actually in the process of being financially reasonable.”
Coming attractions: The remaining Nova Knicks vs. The Big Ragu and the Minnesota Timberwolves on December 19. There will be spice. [Sidebar: The Big Ragu is the best nickname in the league right now. It’s perfect. Everyone else is playing for second.] You can also catch Hart stealing scenes on Christmas Day against the Spurs. —December 13
Memphis Grizzlies: The Woodshed Is Fully Operational
The bears are back and they are pissed. Mama Grizzly pissed. The Grizz are in the process of reminding everyone who they are when the injury bug leaves them the hell alone. Ja Morant has returned. Earlier this season, the Memphis point guard claimed he wasn’t going to dunk anymore, but thank God he’s a liar. He’s putting the trampoline out again and experimenting with the limits of his own athleticism. Viewer discretion is advised to take a hike. Everyone should watch this guy. Even if he’s not dunking, the in-air acrobatics remain decidedly based. Lunar, even. Something you have to understand—he rises quickly, then floats. The legs are souped-up and so is the playmaking. He hit Brandon Clarke with a behind the back pass that Deni Avdija’s still looking for. Same game, he threw a lob to Jaren Jackson Jr. from just south of 30 feet out. JJJ caught it with one hand and mashed it with the left. The Grizzlies make sense again. Their sun is back. The spine tingles.
What makes this particular Memphis squad particularly fun and extremely scary is that Morant’s not the only one lowering the boom. Even beyond the strong supporting cast of Jackson and Desmond Bane, the Grizzlies have added more logs to the fire. Santi Aldama, Scotty Pippen Jr., Jaylen Wells, Jay Huff. Jay Huff—Exosphere Man. Let me tell you something about Jay Huff. He wants to put you in the rim. Have you ever ridden a star over the oceans of Europa? If not, watch Jay Huff. He’ll approximate the experience for you. Yes, he looks like he runs a computer repair shop. Doesn’t matter. What matters is, he jumps and visits the sky. What matters is, he can hoop. Pippen’s filling up stat sheets, being in the right place, scrapping. Memphis took Wells 39th in the 2024 draft. The rookie’s become an invaluable part of the rotation, a starter who’s defending well and shooting the leather off the ball. Aldama’s doing a little of everything, putting it all together. A word for the uninitiated: You’re gonna wanna get a hand up if you’re guarding Santiago, lest he leave you burnt and toasted. Zach Edey—the Canadian Colossus—has given them great minutes and a new dimension when his body has cooperated. Marcus Smart’s still tenacious. Clarke’s still outworking people.
The whole team’s out for respect, shaking off the cobwebs they gathered in the league’s basement, once again basking in the light of contention. When healthy, this is what they are. That 2-seed in 2023 wasn’t a fluke. It was a warning.
Best highlight:
Coming attractions: The Golden State Warriors come to town on December 19, a clash between two of the West’s top five teams, who also happen to have a history of getting chirpy and chippy any time they play each other. We’re almost nine months removed from Draymond Green knocking Memphis coach Taylor Jenkins to the floor during a scuffle with Bane and almost four weeks removed from Draymond tripping Edey. If Dillon Brooks were still around it’d be guaranteed something would pop off. Even still—high chance for sparks. —December 13
Jalen Johnson and the Hawks’ Rose-Colored Glasses
Emerging monster in Atlanta. Very close to taking flight and becoming an italicized, all-caps PROBLEM. Whole lotta versatility. Whole lotta ceiling. Fluid and agile and nimble. Can handle it, shoot it, pass the salt, flex, finish at the rim, run like mad. He’s initiating a little bit, taking guys off the bounce, playing on the move. Kid gets smoother by the day. Atlanta’s not a team that gets a lot in transition. This is disappointing because Johnson’s built to soar. There are more than just flashes now. He’s beasting regularly and showing no signs of regression. It’s early in his ascent. If he stays healthy, he’s a star. We’re a long way from the broken foot at Duke.
Speaking of the devils, when you watch Atlanta you get to see Quin “Mousse” Snyder in his Dorothy-red glasses. Why red? Because he’s the Hawks’ head honcho and that’s their main color. The ruby bifocals bring up questions we have no answers to. Questions like, why doesn’t he ever expand his repertoire and break out another Hawks hue? Is he too good for legacy yellow? Is he afraid of amarillo? I get it. For sure it’s one of our lesser colors. Certainly, it’s no indigo. But come on, Q, look in a mirror. You got the goods. The hair flows. You can pull off yellow, puke green, neon pink, whatever you want.
Still more questions: Does he have several red pairs, or just one? Does he wear other, non-red glasses when he’s not on the job, or are those his daily drivers? Considering he never broke out purple frames during his time in Salt Lake, do Jazz fans feel shortchanged? I’d be pissed, but I’m unwell. If he coached the Celtics, would his glasses be green? If he coached Phoenix, would they be orange? If he took over for Spo, would the words HEAT CULTURE be scrawled across the lenses? Or what if he coached Trinidad and Tobago’s hockey team at the Junior Goodwill Games? Would the frames be tie-dye? All I want for Christmas is a T&T hockey jersey. That Disney doesn’t have these readily available is a whiff of Goldbergian proportions.
Best six-minute video of Johnson’s top dunks from the first month of the season:
Best explanation for wearing red glasses: “It’s easier for me to find them and not lose them.”
Coming Attractions: After dispatching the Knicks in the NBA Cup quarterfinals, the Hawks will play the Bucks in the semis. Live from Las Vegas. Loser wanders the desert and thinks about what they’ve done. —December 13
Lonzo Ball, the Man Who Would Not Quit
Time’s learned us many truths. The world’s a grim, numb place, loaded with pain and wretchedness and regret. But sometimes, life gives us exceptions. Exceptions born out of vim and bellyfire, stick-to-itiveness and sand. It’s like Kate Bush told Peter Gabriel: Don’t give up.
The point guard out of Chino Hills would not quit, would not let a bum knee keep him from the game he loves. If you’re keeping track: three surgeries, two entire seasons lost, cartilage from a cadaver. After all of it, Ball’s back.
Pleased to report he has not yet reached the juiceless stage. He’s up to his old tricks. Playing unselfishly, pinging the pill around. Elegant passes with zip and foresight. Hit-aheads, sharing the wealth, doing everything he can to get the Bulls offense to hum. Bringing it on defense, doubling with intensity, refusing to give up on plays. It’s a long night for the guy he’s guarding.
Ball still has that quiet feistiness. Subtle rabidity. Just hoops the right way. Makes the game more fun to watch. You’ll find him chucking Big Baller Brand shoes into the fires of Mount Doom. It’s clear how much he loves being out on the floor, back in the middle of things, doing whatever he can to affect winning. Think I speak for everyone when I say shouts to cadavers and the cartilage they carry. Appreciate y’all.
Will he stay on the Bulls? Will he play well enough to work his way into trade talks? Is a glittery second act of his career a possibility? On the one hand, it’s hard to see him staying consistently healthy at this point, but people said the same thing about Shaun Livingston, another dynamic PG who battled back from a gruesome injury. Maybe Ball, too, can find his way to a contender someday? Maybe he’ll make big plays in big moments. Maybe he’ll shock the world.
Weirdest section of his Wikipedia page: Television appearances—“In 2020, Ball competed on the fourth season of ‘The Masked Singer’ as ‘Whatchamacallit.’ He was eliminated on Week 8 alongside Dr. Elvis Francois as ‘Serpent.’”
Coming attractions: Tonight, then Monday, then Thursday and Saturday, and every Bulls game thereafter. Seize every opportunity to watch him while he’s out there. Life’s short. Joy’s ephemeral. Ball’s life. —December 13
Bruce Brown, Whoopee Ti Yi Yo (Git Along Little Dogies)
[Tips cap] Howdy, partner. Brown’s been injured a fair amount during his Toronto tenure, including right now after undergoing arthroscopic knee surgery in September. This is a significant bummer for us who enjoy his on-court all-purpose exploits, but the hand strikes and gives a flower. Even from the sidelines, Brown’s turned the Raptors into electric television because my man’s been wearing the absolute hell out of some Western wear. The camera cuts to the bench and the slide guitar starts purring. Boots and jeans and pretty things. Call him Gus McCrae. He’s got the personality and the sauce. Looks like he knows how to write to two women at the same time, like he’s good at cutting cards, like he doesn’t put up with disrespect from surly bartenders. This is not some newfound look for him. He’s been yeehawing his way down the tunnel since Denver. Has shown up wearing short overalls, shitkickers, and nothing else. The West is wild and so is he.
Big Luke Combs fan. Brown’s probably sang the words deep-sea senorita fishing down in Panama, which is cool. Has probably wept like the rest of us watching Tracy Chapman and Combs sing “Fast Car.” Owned 10 cowboy hats and 10 straight brims as of nine months ago. Surely that number has bloomed. Went to the National Western Stock Show when he was still a Nugget. “To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an alpaca in person.” He has appeared on Stetson’s blog. Yes, Stetson has a blog AND WHY WOULDN’T THEY? The interview, titled “Cowboys of the Court” features photos with the caption “Bruce Brown Jr. wears the Shasta 10X during a custom-hat fitting and shaping experience at Paris Hatters in San Antonio, TX.” It features answers like, “I’ve cleaned a pigeon coop.”
Gave the entire Raps team and traveling party their own personal pair of Tecovas. A line dance broke out. Giddy up.
Best reason for going to his first rodeo: “I watched Yellowstone recently.”
Coming Attractions: On December 23, the Raptors take a trip to NYC to play the Knicks. Brown, stomping into one of the world’s foremost fashion capitals, will undoubtedly dress to impress. Round up the horses and load the chuck wagon. Prickly pear and cholla. The spurs will be jinglin’. —December 13
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. —November 22
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. —November 22
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. —November 22
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. —November 22
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. —November 22
