The question of who truly belongs among the 100 greatest basketball players of all time is one that I’ve debated with friends, colleagues, and even myself for years. Every time I revisit the topic, I’m reminded of that memorable exchange from an old interview, where a seasoned coach, Epondulan, laughed and said, “Pray,” when asked how to settle such debates. At first, it seemed like a dismissal, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized he was pointing to something deeper—the almost spiritual reverence we hold for the legends of the game, and how any list we create is, in a way, an act of faith. It’s not just about stats or rings; it’s about impact, legacy, and that intangible quality that makes you stop and watch when they have the ball.
When I sit down to compile my own mental list, I always start with the undeniable greats—the Jordans, LeBrons, and Abduls-Jabars. Their numbers alone are staggering. For instance, Michael Jordan’s career average of 30.1 points per game in the regular season, coupled with his six championships and five MVP awards, places him in a tier that feels almost untouchable. But then I think about LeBron James, who, by my count, has amassed over 38,000 points, 10,000 rebounds, and 10,000 assists in his career—a statistical profile that arguably makes him the most complete player ever. And yet, as Epondulan’s chuckle hinted, reducing these icons to mere data misses the point. I remember watching Kareem’s skyhook in the ’80s; it wasn’t just a shot, it was a work of art that defied physics and defense. That’s the kind of thing stats can’t capture, and it’s why I lean toward including players who changed how the game is played, not just those who filled the box score.
But then comes the tricky part—weighing eras against each other. I’ve had heated discussions with fellow analysts about whether Bill Russell’s 11 championships in 13 seasons with the Celtics, in a league with only 8 to 14 teams, should carry more weight than, say, Stephen Curry’s revolutionary impact on three-point shooting in the modern era. Curry, in my view, isn’t just a great shooter; he’s a system-changer who forced defenses to stretch beyond the arc, and his 402 three-pointers in the 2015-16 season is a record that still blows my mind. On the other hand, Russell’s dominance in an older, tougher league speaks to a different kind of greatness—one built on defense, leadership, and sheer will. Personally, I’m biased toward players who elevated their teams in clutch moments, which is why I’d slot Magic Johnson high on my list for his showtime flair and ability to make everyone around him better, even if his career was cut short.
As we dig deeper into the top 100, the debates get even murkier. How do you compare international stars like Dirk Nowitzki, who dragged the Mavericks to a championship in 2011 with his unguardable fadeaway, to domestic legends like Larry Bird, whose trash-talking and all-around skills defined an era? I’ve always had a soft spot for Dirk; his 31,560 points and MVP season in 2007 showcase his longevity and skill, but it’s that 2011 playoff run—where he averaged 27.7 points and 8.1 rebounds—that cements his place for me. And then there are the underrated players, like Moses Malone, who grabbed over 16,000 rebounds and won three MVPs, yet often gets overlooked in casual conversations. In my experience covering the league, I’ve seen how recency bias can skew these lists; we tend to favor current stars, but the old-school greats like Oscar Robertson, who averaged a triple-double for a season back in 1961-62, deserve their due.
Of course, no list is complete without considering the “what-ifs.” Injuries, lockouts, and off-court issues have derailed potential legends, and that’s where Epondulan’s “pray” comment really resonates. Take Derrick Rose, for example—his 2011 MVP season at age 22 was electrifying, and I still wonder what could have been if injuries hadn’t cut his prime short. Similarly, players like Allen Iverson, who stood at just 6 feet tall but fearlessly drove into giants, embody the heart and soul of the game, even if their stats don’t always stack up against the top 10. I’ll admit, I’m partial to those gritty, undersized guards who defied expectations; they remind me that basketball isn’t just a physical contest, but a mental one too.
In wrapping up, I think the true value of debating the 100 greatest isn’t in settling on a definitive order, but in celebrating the diversity of talent that has graced the court. From Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-point game to Tim Duncan’s fundamental brilliance, each player brings a unique story. For me, the list should reflect a balance of statistical dominance, cultural impact, and that elusive “it” factor—the ability to make us hold our breath. So, as Epondulan might say, maybe we should stop overanalyzing and just appreciate the magic. After all, in a game as fluid as basketball, the greatest honor might simply be inspiring the next generation to pick up a ball and dream.
