The 2024 NBA Cup has reached its final stage. On Tuesday night, the Oklahoma City Thunder and the Milwaukee Bucks will face off in Las Vegas for the ultimate prize: $514,971 for each player on the winning team and, of course, the satisfaction of a job well done. But the league didn’t get here overnight. The Cup, now in its second year, is part of a greater initiative to establish Las Vegas as an NBA town (and also: to juice interest in the regular season, design absolutely heinous courts, and generate gobs of sponsorship money). Sin City has hosted summer league for 20 years, but the Cup is different: This is honest-to-God NBA basketball, with superstars, trophies, and real stakes (kind of). To get the lay of the land, we sent one writer to the semifinals over the weekend. He set out into the desert looking for hoops. He returned home having found that—and (maybe) more?
Pregame
It’s a Friday evening, and I’m headed to Las Vegas. I love driving in the desert, watching the mountains catch the last of the light. The hills are purple and low, and traffic makes moving slow. For about an hour, I’ve been stuck behind a kelly-green GMC Savana, honestly one of the finest vans I have ever seen, and when I finally pass it, I’m sad to see it go. But I have to keep moving. I am on my way to take in the NBA Cup in person, to see what all the fuss is about—if it’s worth any at all.
I didn’t come for the inaugural NBA Cup last year, deciding to operate like those people who don’t buy the newest iPhone the year it drops but instead wait until Apple has figured out all the inevitable bugs. I’m unsure what to expect beyond competitive games. For all the hemming and hawing over the point of this thing, the basketball has largely been good, and the Byzantine group stage and last week’s quarterfinals matchups whittled the field down to four delightful teams: the Hawks, Bucks, Thunder, and Rockets—all of whom had reasons to take this stage seriously and play well. But the real basis of my Cup curiosity goes deeper. The NBA has put all its might behind this tournament for a variety of reasons that aren’t exactly the purpose of this trip. I’m interested in how a basketball tournament that sprung up out of nowhere might come, or not come, to feel organic. A proper, lived-in success. I’m curious whether the city of Vegas is as into the Cup as the NBA is into it.
More on the NBA Cup
I arrive at my hotel around 8:30 p.m., the Strip dressed to the nines, lights screaming at me. Arriving in Vegas at night, you get the feeling you’re arriving too late for a party that’s gotten along fine without you. I try to tamp down the “I need to catch up” vibe that wants to take hold, so I get a little dinner and go to bed early.
On Saturday morning I pick up my credential at Park MGM, then walk across the street to T-Mobile Arena, home of the Las Vegas Golden Knights. The first game, the Eastern semi between the Hawks and Bucks, starts at 1:30—and this is the first fumble; big basketball games are played at night—so it’s only around 11 a.m. The arena isn’t quite awake yet. I go into the media center to see whether there’s any popcorn. Any self-respecting media dining area has popcorn. This one doesn’t. Devastated, I grab some water and sit down anyway. Four televisions inside the room. One shows an NBA TV rebroadcast of the Hawks-Knicks game. The other three just show the Emirates NBA Cup trophy or whatever the hell they’re calling it. So many laptops. More laptops than people. A guy holding three coats ends a bottle of water, sucks till the plastic creaks. Grant Hill’s voice makes me sleepy. His way to add a little flourish to his commentary is to use the word “downtown.” Forty-five minutes to tipoff, I go down to the court to watch the players warm up.
Game Time
Jimmy Goldstein’s posted up courtside in shades of ivory. Looks like a very expensive, very noble baby crocodile. His motorcycle jacket was white, with black stars on the back. Skinny white pants. White cowboy hat, looks like snakeskin. Trying to thread a belt through the loops on his jacket. I get distracted by P.J. Carlesimo. I’m taller than him, but he’s taller than I expected. He’s dressed like a very good boy, in khaki pants, red sweater, blue blazer, and tan shoes. I look back at Goldstein, and he’s getting a drive-by handshake from TNT play-by-play man Brian Anderson. When Anderson finishes his Goldstein interaction, he swivels his head around and says something to Bucks assistant Joe Prunty, then he takes his spot next to Stan Van Gundy. They are both adorable. You look at them and want to put them in your pocket, have them ride around and be, like, your little joeys. Your two little joey boys who are with you throughout whatever adventures life throws your way. Tiniest duo in broadcasting, but they don’t let that stop them from giving you what you need.
“The infamous NBA Cup semifinals,” one of the arena emcees calls it. I think “infamous” is doing a lot of work there, very little of which I understand. But I am here, here for basketball. Emirates delivers the game ball. Presented by four members of their cabin crew. Lips as red as their hats. Lots of handshakes. PA announcer says, “We are cleared for takeoff,” and I felt like someone poked me with scissors. The ball is tipped. The Cup is underway.
Trae Young is here to put on a show. He knows he’s in Vegas and wants to remind those in attendance of that fact. We appreciate the effort. I’m watching Giannis, and that’s no deer. That’s a moose. A flying moose, with enough moosepower to take over the world. It’s jarring to see in person how powerful he is. The physical tools are all obviously off the charts. But it’s the all-gas effort that takes him to heights few can reach. He plays full bore the entire time. Fun to watch a guy give that much of a shit. Speaking of giving a shit, Thanasis is here, too. He is sitting courtside and pounding his chest. 2 Chainz is here, too. He’s wearing the best-looking Atlanta Hawks jacket I’ve ever seen and gets the biggest pop of the night, non-Aces-player division.
Lots happening. Might’ve seen Jay Mohr on the jumbotron, but who could know? He was washed in mood lighting. Bob Sugar’s no villain; he was just doing his job. There’s a guy in an old Bulls ’96 title hat and a shirt that says, “Layeth the Smacketh Down.” There’s another guy saying, “I’m due at the Aria.” Synth banging during a break. A song I have heard a lot but don’t know the name. They play it in arenas a lot. Consult with the phone. “Sandstorm” by Darude. Can’t believe Villeneuve didn’t use it in either Dune.
The Bucks hold off the Hawks, cash in their tickets to the final. Between games they clear the arena, and things get quiet again. I make my way down to the floor as Shai Gilgeous-Alexander arrives to start his pregame warm-up. The second game, Thunder vs. Rockets, has a little more juice. Puka Nacua sitting courtside in a houndstooth jacket. Lil Yachty’s here, too. Two teams at the top of the West squaring off in the evening game; it feels bigger.
Even so, definitely feels like neutral-site games—sort of to the product’s detriment. The basketball was great. Lu Dort was lively. Grinder’s spirit. SGA elicited the most “Ooooooooos” out of anyone. The kind of ball handler that requires all of you. But the energy surrounding things didn’t quite match what we were watching. Roof never really wanted to come off. During Thunder-Rockets, they showed Goldstein on the big screen during the Michelob Ultra Drip Cam, something you’d think he’d be proud of. He failed to look up for the camera.
“We can feel the basketball culture of Las Vegas when we come here,” SGA said after the game.
Can we? I’m looking for it and having a hard time. Summer league descends on Vegas, and it’s like the NBA takes over the town. This is because of the length (two weeks) and number of teams participating (all). The NBA Cup isn’t like that. It isn’t an advertising blitz, and there aren’t employees of all 30 NBA teams stalking the concourse and littering the Strip. It feels like just another event that is happening in Vegas that you can either decide to partake in or not. In some ways, this is refreshing. Vegas beats you over the head with summer league. The Cup is lower key, more selective, away from center stage.
“We’re in a non-NBA city. It’s a circus,” said Thunder coach Mark Daigneault. “It’s a pageant. So we have to be able to cut through that and focus on the game.”
Postgame
Caesars really nailed it on the font. I walk into his palace under pictures of Garth Brooks, Blake Shelton, and Rod Stewart. So not The Big Three but certainly A Big Three. Blake and Rod look me in the eye. Garth won’t. Horseshoe is advertising a Creed concert and the Big Ten Conference’s new Hall of Fame inductees.
A guy sits on the floor of the bar above the sportsbook at Caesars. He is crisscross applesauce and looking at TikToks. Modelo tall boy, orange can. It’s Sunday night, and we’re watching non-Cup NBA action (yes, it exists). Blazers-Suns and Dubs-Mavs are ending; Lakers-Grizz about to start. The basketball is relegated to one of the smaller televisions. Getting the same real estate as USC–Montana State. Eric Musselman doesn’t even have his shirt off. Horse races in Los Alamitos. Cris Collinsworth is really just a little too tan, man. The sun can be a friend, or it can be an enemy. It’s up to us. JuJu highlights during the SC men’s game. She hung 26 on Elon, and the ladies won by 50-plus. Shades of T-Mac in her game. I keep wandering.
Garth’s picture’s still outside because he’s still in town, winding up the final dates of his residency at the Colosseum at Caesars Palace. Show’s about to start. I’m at a slot machine close to the action, watching the masses come. A man is outside handing golden tickets to people. A lotta dress boots. If you’re gonna go see Garth, you’re gonna wear your dress boots. You owe him that courtesy. They are an offering to the Garth most high. It’s a show just watching people enter. Women holding clear purses and wearing, you know, Skechers-brand Hokas is what I’d call them. Platform sneakers. A short man in a Matt Ryan jersey. Moved, honestly, with power. Tiny senior citizens dressed to wow. Matching flannel shirts. Women wearing bows in their hair and shirts with four aces on them. This one cool guy wearing a Hawaiian shirt that had a surfing Santa on there. It says something here in my notes—Johnny Tsunami.
I get some food. A man next to me is googling rigatoni. I google rigatoni, too, because I’m only pretty sure I know what it is. Turns out, I do not. Lakers up 71-49 with 9:30 left in the third. Chase commercial with KG, Culkin, Kevin Hart, and Catherine O’Hara. KG has got a lot of mileage out of “Anything is possible.” Excited for Jayson Tatum to follow in his footsteps with “We did it.”
Driving home the next day, I find myself landing somewhere between Gilgeous-Alexander and Daigneault re: the Cup. As much as I respect it, the weekend didn’t leave a huge imprint. Vegas was not teeming with visitors eager to take in a tournament that did not exist two years ago, but the product on the floor was high quality. Didn’t feel like a party, but didn’t feel like a glorified pageant, either. I don’t know how long it takes for something new to become established, or for tradition to take hold amid a circus. One thing’s certain: All four teams scrapped hard and wanted to win. They didn’t shortchange the game and weren’t too cool to try. Good basketball happened out there. That was enough for me.
