The DeLorean

Shahin Ourian's Look Back Blog

[shahinourian]

From Fan to Framework: A Social Media Strategy Playbook for Sports & Entertainment Brands

This playbook sits at the intersection of passion and data. I understand what fans feel, and I understand what metrics say. That combination matters.

Want to build or further your brand, connect with your fans on a deeper level, and expand your presence and credibility online? Then read on...

Who Am I?

My name is Shahin Ourian and I’m a lifelong Los Angeles Lakers fan who turned that obsession into a 160,000+ strong Instagram community. What started as fandom became strategy. What started as posts became performance benchmarks. Over the years, I’ve tested formats, failed publicly, hit viral highs, analyzed comment sentiment, studied platform shifts, and built something sustainable in one of the most emotionally charged sports markets in the world.

Professionally, I’ve worked in social analytics, insights, and digital strategy across major brands and platforms. Personally, I’ve lived the grind of creating every day, adjusting in real time, and earning trust from a hardcore fanbase that will absolutely call you out if you’re off.

Who Is This For?

This is for sports teams, entertainment brands, leagues, media companies, and content teams trying to build something real on social instead of just filling a feed. It’s for social managers feeling pressure to grow but unsure what actually drives long-term loyalty. It’s for executives who want performance without losing brand identity. It’s for creators inside big organizations who know “cool” matters but need a framework to defend it.

You’ll find high-level strategic thinking here, but also practical insights grounded in actual audience behavior. This is for brands who want relevance, engagement, and sustained growth, not just short bursts of attention.

Why Should You Use This?

Because social is harder than it looks. Algorithms shift. Audiences fragment. Attention spans shrink. Leadership wants growth yesterday. Fans are emotional. And competition is nonstop.

The biggest challenges brands face are clarity, consistency, and trust. They don’t know where to focus. They overcorrect to data. They chase trends. They post too much or not enough. They lean too hard into nostalgia or ignore it completely. They respond to bad news poorly. They game for clicks. They burn trust.

This playbook exists to help you balance creativity with analytics, speed with strategy, emotion with discipline. It’s not about hacks. It’s about building something that lasts.

Now with no further ado...

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The 10 Commandments of Social Media Strategy

I. Go Where Your Fans Actually Live

Not every platform deserves your time. Being everywhere is not a strategy. It’s exhaustion.

Different life stages, different intentions. Younger fans might live on TikTok and Instagram. Older fans might still be on Facebook. Hardcore communities thrive on Reddit or Discord. YouTube has entirely different expectations for depth and storytelling compared to short-form feeds. You need to understand not just demographics, but intent. Why are they there? What mood are they in?

When I grew my account, I focused on Instagram because that’s where my audience responded strongest. Could I have expanded earlier? Sure. But depth beats shallow omnipresence. Win where you are before you expand.

II. Balance Art and Science

Data tells you what happened. It doesn’t always tell you what should happen next.

You need performance benchmarks. You need to know average weighted engagement rates, reach, saves, comments, and shares. You need to identify patterns. But you also need gut instinct. You can’t quantify “cool.” You can’t spreadsheet originality. Some of my biggest hits were creative risks that didn’t look obvious on paper.

If you rely only on data, you become predictable. If you ignore data, you become reckless. The magic is in the balance between the two.

III. Speed Wins the Moment

In sports and entertainment, timing is oxygen.

Trades, injuries, announcements, buzzer beaters. If you wait too long to be polished, the moment passes. Fans want to react together. That shared reaction window is small. You need templates. You need preparation for known events. You need workflows for surprise ones.

Yes, polish matters. But relevance matters more in breaking moments. You can always follow up with something more refined. You can’t rewind the internet.

IV. Consistency Builds Trust

You don’t need to post every hour. But you cannot disappear.

Algorithms reward consistency. Audiences expect presence. Your content needs room to breathe, but not so much room that you fall out of the rhythm of your followers’ feeds. At minimum, something meaningful should go up daily. Sometimes twice or three times if there’s both evergreen and timely content to share.

Consistency signals commitment. Commitment builds trust.

V. Respect the Past. Prioritize the Present.

Nostalgia is powerful. But it cannot carry you forever.

Kobe content carried huge emotional weight, especially during difficult team years. It gave fans something to hold onto. But audience shifts happen. Younger fans connect more deeply to current players. When Luka arrived, sentiment and engagement made it clear: more Luka, more Austin, slightly less retro content. That’s not disrespecting history. That’s evolving with your audience.

Know when to celebrate the past and when to feature the now. Both matter. They just can’t dominate at the same time.

VI. Emotion Drives Everything

Joy and anger fuel engagement. Neutrality does not.

Fans respond when they feel something. Big wins. Underdog stories. Controversial moments. Celebrations. Frustrations. When Austin rose from undrafted to star, the emotional connection was huge. When a star gets traded, reactions spike instantly.

Your job isn’t to manipulate emotion. It’s to understand it. Social is not just distribution. It’s emotional amplification.

VII. Deliver the News, Don’t Drown in It

You cannot ignore bad news. But you also can’t live in it.

Fans want updates. They expect transparency. But if your feed becomes a constant stream of negativity, people disengage. They come to sports and entertainment as an escape. Post the news. Let the community react. Then move forward unless there’s a major update.

Balance realism with optimism. That’s leadership.

VIII. Think Long-Term: Be the Tortoise, not the Hare

Clickbait works short-term. Trust wins long-term.

Gaming the system for quick follows erodes credibility. Once audiences feel manipulated, they disengage or turn hostile. Sustainable growth is slower but stronger. It compounds.

The Tortoise wins because consistency and credibility compound over time. That applies directly to social strategy.

IX. Experiment Boldly, Learn Ruthlessly

Not everything will work. That’s not failure. That’s data.

When something flops, don’t delete the lesson. Ask why. Too niche? Too late? Off-brand? Not aligned with audience mood? When you remove extreme outliers, you can create realistic performance benchmarks and identify true breakout content.

Failure patterns are often more educational than viral wins.

X. Use AI Like Seasoning, Not the Meal

AI is powerful. It is not a replacement for judgment.

It can help with ideation, mockups, workflow acceleration, analysis. But if you let it replace voice and originality, audiences will feel it instantly. Social audiences are allergic to soulless content. Use AI like an assistant. Guide it. Edit it. Take responsibility for it.

Seasoning enhances a meal. It does not replace the protein or vegetables it's added to.

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Recap

This playbook is about sustainable growth through emotional intelligence, strategic clarity, and disciplined creativity. It’s about building something that fans choose to return to.

Over years of building a Lakers community to more than 160K strong, I’ve seen what works, what fades, what sparks emotion, and what burns trust. Social is not random. It’s human. When you understand humans, you understand performance.

What Now?

If you’re a brand, audit your strategy against these 10 principles. Where are you over-indexing? Where are you underdeveloped? Where are you reactive instead of intentional? If you’re building something yourself, commit to the long game. Focus. Stay sharp. Stay curious. Be willing to evolve.

The goal isn’t just growth. It’s relevance, trust, and longevity.

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For inquiries or additional info contact me:

Email | LinkedIn | Instagram

[shahinourian]

Sneaker Icon: How the Kobe VI became the Ultimate Expression of Mamba Mentality

It’s wild that it took me this long to write about the Kobe sneaker line. I’ve written about Luka, about NBA Street, about Kobe’s legacy and mindset — but not the actual sneakers? The things that touched hardwood every night while the Mamba did what only the Mamba could do? That’s a miss by me. But let’s fix that now.

I won’t pretend I’m some archive-raiding, OG-box-sniffing, sell-a-kidney-for-rare retro-pairs kind of sneakerhead. I’ve got a decent rotation — Nike, Jordan Brand, Converse, a couple Adidas pairs I swear are underrated, and, of course, my Rigorer AR1s, because Austin Reaves got that ‘white boy who’s a killer’ vibe. But of everything I own, chase, or wish I hadn’t missed on SNKRS, there’s one silhouette that hits different. One Kobe shoe that stands above the rest — loud, fearless, unmistakably venomous. The Nike Kobe VI.

My favorite sneaker, hands down. I own four colorways of the Kobe VI — each one with its own vibe, story, and memory attached. There’s the Lightbulb, a fluorescent punch of energy that looks like it was dipped in Gatorade and designed for warp speed. The All-Star Game edition, sporting deep red and black coats of paint, gives off intergalactic MVP energy. Then there’s the Mambacita Sweet 16 — the most emotional pair in the collection — honoring Gianna with elegance and grace, wrapped in black and white with gold accents and her #2 on the sides that feels like a touching tribute.

And then... my crown jewel: the Devin Booker P.E. This one’s not easy to come by — a player exclusive that fades from Suns yellow to purple, but to me? It’s pure Lakers-coded heat. It’s like if Boyz N The Hood or Training Day got turned into a sneaker. And don’t ask me how I got them. Just know that it took more than money. I had to call in favors like I was assembling the Ocean’s Eleven of sneaker connects — a few texts, a couple of handshakes, and some serious luck to get a special pair made for me by a name I can’t mention. These aren’t just kicks. They’re trophies. Symbols. And every time I wear them, it’s like I’m channeling just a little bit of that Mamba fire.

But you can’t understand the power of the VI without knowing the whole Mamba sneaker saga. It all started with Adidas, where a teenage Kobe entered the league and — like most teenage boys — made some questionable fashion decisions. The KB8s (later renamed Crazy 8s) had moments, sure, but Adidas veered into spaceship territory quick. The Kobe 1 was clunky. The Kobe 2 was a disaster. The Kobe 3? Kobe was so dissatisfied they were never even released.

And then, the sneaker free agency. Kobe bought out his Adidas deal in 2002 and became a sneaker mercenary. He wore Jordans. He wore Reeboks. He wore Air Force 1s, Huaraches, Questions, And1s, even Converse. That run was chaotic but legendary, like a sneaker buffet before he settled down with the brand that finally got him: Nike.

That’s where things got real. The Zoom Kobe 1 dropped in 2006 and it was the perfect reset — a less cluttered-profile than other sneakers of the time, battle-ready, and debuting during Kobe’s most volcanic scoring run. 81 points in the Staples Center. Then came the 2, the 3 — both of which tried things, but lacked the sleek, storytelling punch of what would come next.

The Kobe 4 changed everything. Eric Avar and Kobe teamed up to redefine the performance basketball sneaker, building it low-cut, light, and deadly fast. It felt rebellious. It felt like Kobe. That stretch from 4 through 6 — and even the 8, to be fair — was untouchable. Each new release was more refined, more venomous than the last. Kobe didn’t just want a signature shoe. He wanted a performance weapon. Something that moved with him, adapted to him, pushed him further.

The Kobe VI was peak Mamba. It didn’t whisper. It hissed. You could spot it from across the court — that scaly upper, those poppin’ colorways, that Black Mamba logo on the tongue that made it feel like a warning label. Every inch of that shoe screamed predator. It wasn’t trying to be versatile. It wasn’t trying to blend in. It was Kobe in shoe form — unbothered, dialed in, and dangerously stylish. And while most shoes have one or two iconic colorways, the Kobe VI had a whole lineup that could carry a franchise.

Let’s talk about the Grinches. It’s the sneaker equivalent of Heath Ledger’s Joker — wild, terrifying, impossible to ignore, and oddly beautiful in its chaos. That acid green with the crimson laces? A Christmas Day villain origin story. Kobe wore them while putting up 27 against LeBron and the Heatles. And even if he lost that game, he won the culture war. Sneakerheads still chase that pair like it’s a myth.

Then there were the Mambacitas, which hit completely different — honoring Gigi and carrying on the Mamba legacy in a way no other Kobe sneaker could. They were heartbreak and hope molded into one. Try not to tear up lacing those.

And the PEs? Endless. College programs were decked out in 6s. NBA players still rotate through ‘em like clockwork. WNBA stars rock them with pride. Devin Booker, DeMar DeRozan, Anthony Davis — all riding that Mamba wave, channeling that edge. It’s no accident the Kobe VI remains the go-to retro for hoopers at every level. Because it performs. Because it connects. Because it means something.

The other Kobes had heaters too. The Kobe 1s had the 81 Points pair. The 4s had Draft Day, Del Sol, Carpe Diem, and some slick MLK editions. The 5s were artsy — Bruce Lee, Dark Knight, Chaos, Miles Davis Blue. The 7s? Solid, especially Invisibility Cloaks, Cheetahs, and the Year of the Dragon. The 8s? Light, aggressive, and came in wild colors like the Christmas Reds, the What The Kobes, and Purple Gradients. But the 6? The 6 had Grinches, Chinas, Rice Highs, Lower Merions, 3Ds, Sunsets, Glass Blues, All-Stars, Italian Camos, BHM. And those were just the general releases.

Everything after that? Started feeling... different. After the Achilles tear in 2013, Kobe was still a legendary player — but his body was fading. And the shoes started fading too. The 9s were ultra high tops, stiff and cerebral. The 10s were minimal and cold. The 11s tried to bridge the old and the new, but they couldn’t recapture the chaos, the flair, the bite of earlier models. It was like watching your favorite action hero in a retirement film. Still dangerous. But no longer chasing moments — just preserving legacy.

And maybe that’s the perfect metaphor. The Kobe VI was a moment. The moment where design, performance, storytelling, and killer instinct all intersected. When Kobe was in full myth-building mode. When he was chasing that 6th ring, dunking on 7-footers, breaking ankles, snarling in the Garden, barking at his teammates, and barking for them. It’s when the Mamba wasn’t just an alter ego — it was a global brand, an identity, a movement.

When I lace up my Kobe VIs, it’s not just a sneaker rotation decision. It’s a vibe check. It’s that feeling of: I’m about to go all out. I’m here to win. I’m not afraid to take the shot. Or the heat. Or the blame. That’s what the Kobe VI brought to the floor. And that’s why no matter how many retros, collabs, or "Protro" re-releases drop, nothing will touch the original run of the 6. It was art. It was war paint. It was a fucking statement. And in a sneaker world filled with hype and collabs and colorway fatigue, the Kobe VI still slithers ahead — unapologetically iconic, eternally Mamba.

Let’s also talk tech for a sec, because the Kobe VI wasn’t just pretty — it was engineered for war. It had Zoom Air in the heel and forefoot, giving it that ultra-responsive feel that let Kobe spring up for a fadeaway like he was on a trampoline made of Mamba fangs. The Phylon midsole was sleek but sturdy, keeping it light while still protecting against the constant poundings of NBA hardwood. And then there was that polyurethane snake-scale upper — which was just as aggressive as it looked. It gave support without sacrificing flexibility, wrapping your foot like a second skin. Every inch of it was about speed, control, and precision. If the Jordan XI is tuxedo swagger, the Kobe VI is a stealth bomber.

Beyond the court, the VI became part of style language. You didn’t even have to hoop to wear ‘em. They looked good with jeans. They made noise on red carpets and in tunnel fits. People started to clock colorways like they did album drops. When the Grinches got retro’d in 2020, it was like a sneaker Coachella reunion — even people who had been sleeping on Kobe’s line were suddenly wide awake. And let’s not pretend Nike didn’t notice. The VI became the anchor of the “Protro” line — Kobe’s own idea to remix his greatest hits with updated performance tweaks for modern players. The VI was so iconic, they had to bring it back multiple times.

It’s also worth noting how the Kobe VI uniquely bridged eras and generations. You had kids in 2011 saving up for their first pair of Kobe VIs — and now those same players are in the league, still wearing the exact same silhouette. That’s not normal. Basketball shoes don’t usually have this kind of longevity. The VI became a legacy item, a link in the chain. A rite of passage. It’s the sneaker equivalent of studying film on Kobe himself — you put on the VIs, and suddenly, you’re trying to jab-step like Mamba, pull up with that same elbow lean. The shoe made you feel like you were part of something bigger.

And then, of course, came the tragedy. When Kobe passed in 2020, it was like a nuke was dropped on the basketball world. For fans, for players, for anyone who’d ever watched him play, the grief was physical. People weren’t just mourning a legend — they were mourning what he stood for. That relentless pursuit of excellence. That rare mix of killer and teacher. The Kobe VI instantly became more than a shoe. It became a memorial. A way to stay connected. A tribute you could wear on your feet. Try getting a pair now — any pair. Prices are astronomical, even for beaters. Because people aren’t just buying shoes. They’re buying pieces of memory, legacy, identity.

Even Nike had to pivot. They paused Kobe sneaker releases out of respect and reevaluation. Fans were hoarding their pairs like precious heirlooms. Pro players were crying during warmups wearing Grinches. It got real. And when the partnership between Nike and the Bryant estate got renewed in 2022, guess which sneaker they re-released first? The VI. That’s how much it meant. It wasn’t just hype. It was heritage.

You could argue that every great athlete has a defining sneaker. Jordan has the XI. LeBron has the VII. Iverson had the Question. Penny had the Foamposite. But Kobe? He wasn’t supposed to have one. His game was too adaptable, too varied. And yet, the Kobe VI captured the essence of him better than anything else — vicious, beautiful, dangerous. Whether it was the performance tech, the bold storytelling, or the fact that he rocked them during his final dominant stretch before the injuries hit, the VI is the distilled soul of Kobe Bryant.

I’ll leave it at this: If Kobe were a sneaker, he’d be the VI. And if you ever get a chance to lace up a pair — don’t just walk in them. Hunt in them.

[shahinourian]

My new short story – Terminator 3: Future War

I've been a big time movie fan for as long as I can remember, with The Terminator and Terminator 2: Judgment Day being two of my favorite films. The sequels were always either letdowns or total disasters, none of which were developed and directed by James Cameron.

So I thought it would be a fun challenge to write a true sequel story, following the events of Terminator 2, wrapping it all up as a cohesive trilogy. Keeping it in the vein of the Cameron films, I wrote this short story called Terminator 3: Future War.

It's completely free for you to download, available via the following formats:

EPUB • MOBI • AZW3 • PDF

I hope you enjoy reading my eBook!

DISCLAIMER:

This work, Terminator 3: Future War, is an unofficial, non-commercial fan-written story inspired by the Terminator film franchise.

Terminator, Skynet, and all associated characters, settings, and concepts are the property of their respective copyright and trademark holders, including StudioCanal (Canal+), Skydance Media, James Cameron and Gale Anne Hurd.

This story is shared freely for entertainment purposes only and is not affiliated with, endorsed by, or produced in partnership with the rights holders.

No copyright infringement is intended.

[shahinourian]

The Purple & Gold Standard: Luka’s Path to Lakers Greatness and Beyond

Some players get traded to the Lakers. Some sign as free agents. And some… just feel like they were always meant to be here. Luka Dončić is one of those. Like Jack Nicholson seatside in shades. Like palm trees silhouetted by golden hour. Like Kobe pulling up for a fadeaway with two defenders draped on him like a bad idea. Luka didn’t just arrive in L.A.—he slipped right into the script.

It wasn’t always obvious, though. Dallas adored him—until they didn’t. They drafted him, watched him evolve into a basketball savant, a 6'7" vision of balletic stepbacks and no-look lasers. But instead of building around him like he was the heir to Dirk Nowitzki’s throne (which he was), the Mavericks tripped over their own front office shoelaces. Dysfunction. Wasted seasons. Empty playoff exits. At some point, it started to feel less like a dynasty in the making and more like a Netflix series with too many showrunners. Luka gave them greatness. They gave him mediocrity.

And so when the trade happened—when Luka officially landed in L.A.—it felt less like a blockbuster and more like a long-overdue reunion. The kind of thing that just made sense. He’d flirted with Lakers greatness for years from afar: torching them at Crypto, swapping jerseys with LeBron, hitting insane buzzer-beaters that sent Lakers fans spiraling. And now? He’s one of us. And not in a hey-wear-the-jersey kind of way. In a "yo, he’s got that Laker DNA" kind of way.

Luka plays like a mix-tape. There's a little Magic in the way he passes—eyes always two seconds ahead of reality. There’s some Van Exel swagger in those deep threes and late-game moments where he dares defenders to stop him. The footwork and angles feel like James Worthy on a caffeine drip. He’s a little bit of everything L.A. loves: unselfish but lethal, dramatic but not fake, slick but grounded. He even carries himself like a player who knows the moment’s watching. Showtime, baby.

But here’s the thing: it takes more than vibes and buckets to become a Lakers legend. There's a whole damn rubric. To just be a star Laker? You need flash, flair, and a couple highlight reels that live rent-free in NBA Twitter’s memory. To become an All-Star Laker? Now we’re talking narrative. League-wide respect. Iconic moments. For jersey retirement? Rings. Blood. Sweat. Tears. History. For a statue outside the arena? Transcendence. You don’t just win games. You become religion.

Luka knows this. You can see it. This summer, he trimmed the baby fat. Hit the gym with purpose. He’s not just preparing for a revenge tour. He’s plotting a legacy run. The kind of season where MVP chants follow him into away games. Where the Luka slander vanishes because he left no air to breathe in the conversation. Where he’s the reason the Lakers are back in the Finals, and he’s the guy every kid at Venice Beach wants to be. The story’s already building.

But legends don’t get made on highlight reels alone. They need a stage. They need stakes. And they need love. What Luka’s already got is a city ready to embrace him. Lakers fans are not casual. They don’t just want stars—they want icons. They want someone who bleeds purple and gold, who understands the weight of those banners hanging up high. They want someone who respects Magic, worships Kobe, daps Kareem, nods at Shaq, and salutes Pau. Someone who gets the mythology and still wants to write their own chapter.

And Luka? He’s weirdly built for that. He’s not Hollywood by nature, but he’s cinematic as hell. He plays with that old-school edge—like every game means something. That killer grin after a dagger three. That defiance when the refs call a soft foul. The fire that sometimes boils over because he wants it so bad. The man has a temper. But legends usually do. Ask Kobe. Ask Jerry West.

What would make him a beloved Laker, though—more than just a great one? It’s the grind. The comeback. The blood-on-the-jersey fourth quarters. The fight through injuries. The chip on the shoulder when the media doubts him. The loyalty to the city. The iconic playoff series. The moment—because it always comes—where he says “F**k it, I got this” and delivers. That’s when legends are born.

So what does he want? Rings. Respect. Revenge. And maybe—just maybe—immortality. Luka has always been a basketball obsessive, raised in a European system that teaches fundamentals and pride before filters and mixtapes. He’s been a pro since he was 13. You don’t live like that without thinking about legacy. And now he’s on a team with 17 titles, ghosts of greatness whispering in every hallway, and a fanbase that will love you forever—if you deliver.

The Luka era is still just beginning in L.A., but the blueprint is there. Stay hungry. Win big. Show up in the clutch. Make it undeniable. And maybe one day, we’ll be standing outside the arena, looking up at the bronze statue of #77, frozen in time… maybe not skying for a dunk like Kobe, or pulling the skyhook like Kareem, but mid-stepback, mid-smirk, mid-magic. Luka Magic, that is.

But Luka can’t coast on talent alone. Not in this town. Not with this franchise. In L.A., you’re not just hooping — you’re performing. Every night’s a movie, and the court is the biggest stage in Hollywood not made of wood and rigging. It’s not enough to be good. You have to matter. You have to be unforgettable. That’s why Robert Horry, with his handful of rings and cold-blooded clutch moments, still lives in the heads of Lakers fans rent-free. That’s why Derek Fisher’s 0.4 shot is a spiritual timestamp. Luka’s got the skills to make those moments. Now he just needs the moments themselves.

And the beauty of Luka is that he wants it. He’s not shying away from the pressure. He thrives on it. He smiles in it. He’s got that rare gene where the game slows down when the world speeds up. That’s the thing about the greats — they don’t flinch when it matters. Magic didn’t. Kobe never did. LeBron, despite the early criticisms, eventually became a master at it. And Luka? He’s already got that ice in his veins. He just needs the right playoff battles in L.A. to crystallize it into legend.

What’s wild is how he fits L.A. without even trying. He’s not chasing fame, but the camera loves him. He’s not overly polished, but everything he does feels like a highlight. There’s something rugged and cool about him, like a European version of James Dean with a basketball. He’s unpredictable, sarcastic, unbothered — but deadly when it’s time to strike. The fans feel that. It’s not fake. It's not forced. That authenticity is what builds cult followings in this town.

And let’s not forget the cultural impact. This is a city of crossover stars. Athletes become icons. Kobe wasn’t just a player — he was an ethos. He had books, shoes, documentaries, Oscar trophies. Magic had late-night talk shows and Starbucks franchises. Shaq had albums and movies. Luka doesn’t have to follow that exact blueprint, but if he wins here — really wins — that door swings open. Because winning in L.A. doesn’t just make you a legend. It makes you global.

What makes this all even more poetic is the timing. Luka didn’t come to the Lakers as a wide-eyed 19-year-old. He arrived as a man who had seen how things could go wrong. He’s not naïve. He’s not distracted. He knows exactly what he wants — to win, to build something lasting, to finally play in a system and city that elevates him instead of wasting him. The alignment between what he needs and what the Lakers demand is freakishly perfect.

The fans already love him — but they’re also watching closely. Because in L.A., loyalty is earned. This city has had superstars walk in and out like guest stars on a hit show. What they want from Luka is commitment. Fight. Heart. They want to know he’s not just using the Lakers to rehab his brand — they want to believe he is the brand now. That when he steps onto that court, he feels the weight of West, the fire of Kobe, the legacy of Magic in his blood.

So what does the path look like from here? First, a deep playoff run. Make a statement. Turn a second-round series into a blood feud. Drop a 50-point closeout game that goes down in Laker legend. Then? Stay. Build. Bring in another star or elevate the ones you’ve got. Make the Lakers your team. And if you want that banner, that statue, that god-tier status… you have to bring home a ring. One minimum. Two to lock it in. Three to be eternal.

Luka doesn’t need to become Kobe. He shouldn’t try. That script’s been written. But he can become the next pillar of the Lakers mythos — the international superstar who rewrote the Lakers timeline in his own accent, his own style, his own stubborn brilliance. He can be the guy who brought purple and gold glory to a whole new generation who missed the old dynasties. The kids in Slovenia rocking #77 Lakers jerseys today? They’re the future. They’re waiting to be inspired.And when it’s all said and done — years from now, when the banners are counted, and the stories are told, and the debates rage on — there’s a version of this timeline where Luka Dončić isn’t just a great NBA player who played for the Lakers. He’s a Laker. Full stop. Capital L. A story that started in Slovenia, detoured in Dallas, but was always destined to find its Hollywood ending here in Los Angeles.

[shahinourian]

Kobe vs. LeBron: The Greatest NBA Finals Match-Up That Never Happened

Back when LeBron James was still a headband-wearing, powder-tossing prodigy in Cleveland and Kobe Bryant was still tearing through the league with that permanently furrowed Mamba glare, the entire basketball world waited for the inevitable: Kobe vs. LeBron in the NBA Finals. It was supposed to happen. It was destined to happen. MVPuppets made it feel real. Nike all but told us to mark our calendars. But it never came to pass — and that’s part of what makes the legend of it so potent. Like a mixtape that never dropped, a dream collab shelved in the archives, or a crossover episode that never made it out of the writers’ room. This was the showdown — and we never got it.

Let’s be real: Magic vs. Bird was the high-water mark of player rivalries. They met in college, then three times in the Finals. They were complete opposites, from their personalities to their playstyles, and the league needed them. They literally saved the NBA when the Finals were still on tape delay. Jordan, for all his greatness, never had a true Finals rival. He just beat the hell out of everyone. Clyde? Barkley? Malone? Respectfully… not quite Magic and Bird. Shaq and Duncan were titans, but they mostly stayed in the same conference and never had that national commercial-feeding kind of energy. It wasn’t until Kobe and LeBron both became apex predators of the league — faces of the two most important franchises at the time — that the balance started tilting toward something electric.

In 2009, it was finally lining up. Kobe had clawed his way back to the top. No more Shaq, no more drama. He’d matured into the ultimate assassin, leading a deep Lakers squad with Pau Gasol, Lamar Odom, Andrew Bynum, and the most smugly dependable version of Derek Fisher. That team was locked in. It was a revenge season after the Celtics broke their hearts the year before, and Kobe was on a mission. LeBron? He was dragging the Cavs to the best record in the league with Mo Williams as his second-best player, which… I mean, come on. He had no business being that good. He was putting up 28-7-7, dunking from the free throw line, sending soul-shattering chase-down blocks into the fourth row, and doing it with the pressure of an entire city on his shoulders. That Eastern Conference was his to take.

And then… the Magic happened.

Freakin’ Dwight Howard and Hedo Türkoğlu. Stan Van Gundy’s scowl. Rashard Lewis draining daggers. Rafer “Skip 2 My Lou” Alston playing like he was back in the AND1 tapes. That Orlando team was built for spacing and chaos, and they clowned the Cavs in six. LeBron did everything — averaged nearly 39 points per game in the series — and it still wasn’t enough. The dream died on that parquet floor in Amway Arena.

Kobe, on the other hand, took care of business. The Lakers ran through the West and then cooked the Magic in five. Kobe finally got his first ring without Shaq and solidified a legacy reboot that was damn near mythical. But all anyone could talk about was what we didn’t get: Kobe vs. LeBron. That Finals MVP speech felt like it should’ve ended with “I hope LeBron’s watching.”

We could’ve maybe had it in 2010, but the Celtics were on a blood feud quest for vengeance. That core of KG, Pierce, Ray, and Rondo was never gonna let the Cavs live, not with LeBron still dragging that same sad-sack Cleveland roster behind him like a busted shopping cart. The Celtics weren’t just trying to win — they were trying to remind everyone who beat Kobe the year before. That’s how much hate was fueling that team.

Then came 2011. Now this was interesting. LeBron had taken his talents to South Beach and was flanked by Dwyane Wade and Chris Bosh. It was a superteam before we were even comfortable saying the word. LeBron was still trying to find his footing in Miami, but he was more dangerous than ever. Meanwhile, Kobe’s Lakers were coming off a back-to-back and looking for a three-peat. But time, man… it’s undefeated. That Lakers squad ran out of gas against Dirk and the Mavericks, who were playing possessed. They steamrolled the Lakers, then finished the job against LeBron’s Heat. But you could feel the window closing. Kobe was starting to slow, and the NBA had officially become LeBron’s league.

So let’s talk hypotheticals. Let’s play the what-if game. 2009? That would’ve been a bloodbath. Kobe’s Lakers were a machine. Deep, balanced, playoff-tested, and Kobe was arguably at his most complete. LeBron’s Cavs were held together with duct tape and dreams. That series would’ve been quick — Lakers in 5, maybe even a sweep. Kobe would’ve averaged 31. LeBron would’ve fought like hell, but it wouldn’t be close. He just didn’t have the help. Think Iverson vs. the Lakers in 2001. One heroic win. Then reality.

2011? Totally different story. That Heat squad was ridiculous. LeBron had found another gear. Wade was still Flash. Bosh was the perfect stretch big. And the Lakers were slowing down. If Kobe had somehow led them back to the Finals for a three-peat and still taken out the Heat? That’s “carve his face into Mount Rushmore” territory. But more likely, the Heat take it in 6 or 7. Too much firepower. Too much youth. Too much Bron.

But what stings the most is what we should’ve seen: a rivalry. Multiple matchups. Legacy-shaping duels. Two alpha dogs on opposite coasts, opposite styles, opposite philosophies — but the same hunger. Kobe was all edge, all obsession, all ice. LeBron was poetry in motion, power and finesse, the chosen one who somehow lived up to the prophecy. And yet… they never crossed paths when it mattered most.

That Nike MVPuppets campaign in 2009? It felt like fate. Those commercials had a chokehold on the culture. Kobe as the smug older brother. LeBron as the loud, fun-loving little bro. Chalk dust, championship rings, Christmas specials. It was hilarious and perfect and — in retrospect — kind of cruel. Because it teased us with a reality that never came. We were this close. That Finals would’ve been a cultural event, a legacy-defining war, and the ultimate barbershop debate settler. Instead? We’re left wondering.

Kobe vs. LeBron never happened in the Finals, but maybe that’s part of the mystique. Maybe that’s what keeps it alive. Because with Kobe gone, we don’t get another chapter. We don’t get a sit-down interview where they laugh about it. We don’t get the “what would’ve happened if…” moment on The Shop or All the Smoke. What we have instead is the unspoken tension — the shared era that never peaked. And in a way, that’s as mythic as any series could’ve been.

Maybe it’s better this way. The dream lives. Kobe remains untouchable in that realm. LeBron’s legacy kept evolving in new directions. But still, every June when the Finals roll around, there’s a little part of every fan that wonders… What if?

What if the Mamba and the King finally met on the game’s biggest stage?

What if destiny hadn’t flinched?

What if we actually got the matchup that would’ve changed everything?

We’ll never know.

And that’s why we’ll never forget.

It’s not like they didn’t respect each other, either. In fact, it was the opposite. Kobe once said LeBron was like a little brother to him — but not in that passive, throwaway sense. He studied Bron. Picked apart his game. Even told stories about texting him midseason after a loss, offering encouragement and advice like a Jedi texting a young Padawan from exile. LeBron, for his part, idolized Kobe before they ever shared a floor. That 2008 Redeem Team Olympic run? That’s where the fire was lit. They trained together, practiced together, hunted together. LeBron saw the way Kobe moved, the way he prepared, the way he devoured the game — and something changed in him. Everyone noticed. He leveled up.

That’s what stings most. It’s not like these guys were ships passing in the night. They shared a league for thirteen seasons. Thirteen! It wasn’t timing that killed the dream — it was circumstance, conference chaos, and cruel playoff math. They circled each other like prizefighters who never got locked into the same ring. They shared All-Star courts, Olympic podiums, maybe even dinners and late-night phone calls — but not the Finals. Not when it mattered most.

And when LeBron finally made it over the mountain in 2012 — after getting punched in the soul by Dirk, after being painted as a villain, after all the “not clutch” talk — Kobe was already entering his final chapter. That version of Kobe, still deadly but a step slower, was no longer poised for a Finals run. His Achilles tear in 2013 was the final nail. After that, the only Finals LeBron and Kobe shared were on NBA 2K.

That’s why the MVPuppets commercials are so haunting now. At the time, they were funny — they were everywhere. “Three championship rings!” “You need to practice your crab dribble!” We all laughed. But looking back, it feels like marketing manifesting something the basketball gods had no intention of delivering. It was like a trailer for a movie that never got made. And when you rewatch those now, you realize something else: they captured a dynamic that would’ve been unreal in a real series. Kobe, cocky and cutting. LeBron, explosive and silly but clearly coming for the throne. That chemistry was so natural, it’s almost tragic we never saw it in competition.

You can argue about who would’ve won, who had the better prime, whose legacy is “greater.” That’s what barbershops and podcasts are for. But Finals matchups are different. They don’t just crown a winner — they define legacies. LeBron vs. Kobe wouldn’t have been about numbers or accolades. It would’ve been about moments. Game 5 dagger threes. Defensive stops in crunch time. Staring each other down at the free throw line with 12 seconds left and the whole damn world watching. That’s the stuff that immortalizes players. We know what Jordan did to Drexler, to Barkley, to Payton and Kemp. We never got that tape from Kobe vs. Bron.

And maybe part of Kobe’s mystique is wrapped up in this absence. In not giving us every battle. Not settling every score. Not checking every box. Kobe left some questions unanswered — but in doing so, he made the mythology bigger. He wasn’t just chasing Jordan. He was becoming something else. A legend built on killer instinct, on 5 a.m. workouts and broken fingers taped together. He didn’t need LeBron to validate him — but man, imagine if he had beaten him too.

Even LeBron knows it. When Kobe died in 2020, LeBron was visibly wrecked. He spoke about how much Kobe meant to him, how his loss hit deeper than just basketball. That wasn’t just a peer dying — that was a mentor, a myth, a mirror. And LeBron’s tribute game after that — the emotion, the shoes, the speech — it felt like a passing of something intangible. Not a torch, but a responsibility. To honor Kobe by playing at that level of obsession, that same furious grace.

Now, years later, with Kobe gone and LeBron still defying gravity in his 40s, the matchup we never got feels heavier. Not because of what it would’ve meant for their legacies — but because of what it would’ve meant to us. To fans who lived through the MVPuppets. To those who watched them dominate from opposite ends of the country. To the generation that needed that next Magic vs. Bird — and came so close.

So maybe we tell the story anyway. Maybe we keep having the debate. Maybe we run the simulations on NBA 2K, or rewatch the 2009 playoffs just to imagine what could’ve been. Because in a league defined by its biggest stages and brightest stars, nothing shines quite like a rivalry that never got to be.

And that’s why “Kobe vs. LeBron” will always live — not as a stat line or a series, but as a shared dream. As the Finals that never were, and never will be.

[shahinourian]

The Mystique of The Black Mamba: How Kobe Bryant Transcended Basketball and Became a Living Myth

There are NBA greats. And then there’s Kobe.

You can rattle off championships, point totals, All-Star nods, and buzzer-beaters — and still barely graze the surface of who he was or why he mattered. He was no longer just an athlete by the time his career hit its twilight years; he was something else entirely. Not just a Laker. Not just a champion. Not just a global superstar. Kobe Bryant was a singular force of will, shaped in his own image and wrapped in a mythology that felt ancient and futuristic all at once. His presence loomed not just because he was great, but because he decided he would be — and then turned that decision into a lifestyle so raw, so intense, it came with a name: The Black Mamba.

It wasn’t just a nickname. It wasn’t marketing fluff. It was war paint. It was a code of honor. It was a coping mechanism, a tool, a shield, and a sword. Kobe coined it himself, as part reinvention and part survival — a way to separate the man from the storm. During one of the most scrutinized, isolating periods of his life, he created an alter ego that would outwork, outlast, and outthink everyone. The Black Mamba didn’t flinch. The Mamba didn’t bleed. The Mamba never asked for sympathy or permission. And most of all, the Mamba never stopped.

It was pure ethos. And it caught on like wildfire. Not because of flashy dunks or endorsements, but because fans — and even other players — felt it. They wanted to believe in something bigger than talent. Bigger than circumstance. Bigger than excuses. The Mamba Mentality was exactly that. Ruthless accountability. Insane discipline. Monastic repetition. Obsessive pursuit of growth. To those who understood it, Kobe wasn’t just inspiring — he was damn near divine.

The mystique came from contradiction. He was ice cold and volcanic at once. He’d smirk while breaking your heart. He was both artist and assassin. He could drop 81 on your favorite team and still be upset he missed a free throw in the third quarter. He’d train at 4 AM, film himself on grainy VHS tapes mimicking Jordan’s footwork frame by frame, fly to Europe to get knee treatments unheard of in the U.S., and then fly back the same night to still show up for practice. He was the blueprint for obsession, wrapped in Lakers purple and gold.

And let’s not pretend his death didn’t elevate that legend into immortality. It wasn’t supposed to end like that. Not for someone like him. Not with his daughter. Not in that way. When the news hit, the world didn’t just stop — it cracked. And something seeped in. Something reverent. Something bigger than basketball. The tributes weren’t just about stats. They were about the grind. The mindset. The standard he set that we didn’t realize we were holding ourselves to until he was gone.

There’s a reason murals of Kobe are on the sides of taco shops and barber shops all across L.A. There’s a reason every 8-year-old playing rec ball yells “KOBE!” when they shoot. There's a reason he lives on in tattoos, Instagram bios, pregame speeches, and midnight workout montages. He taught people — not just hoopers, but people — how to fight for what they love. How to hold themselves to an impossible standard and never apologize for it.

What he left behind wasn’t just his resume. It was a belief system. A cultural language. A way to honor the fire inside you. When Naomi Osaka wrote “Mamba Mentality” on her shoes. When Jayson Tatum and Devin Booker made Kobe their ghost trainer. When a fan in the Philippines hit fadeaways on a dirt court wearing a tattered #24 jersey. That’s the mystique. That’s the Black Mamba still breathing through us.

And part of what keeps that mystique frozen in perfection is that he died too young. Just like Bruce Lee. Just like Tupac. Just like Kurt Cobain. When someone reaches unbelievable heights and then leaves before time can humble them, before nostalgia can calcify them into relics — they become eternal. Their flame doesn’t fade; it explodes into legend. Kobe didn’t get to grow old. He didn’t get to soften. He didn’t get the awkward coaching comeback or the messy retirement tour with a new team. He left us with that final game — 60 points, his way, the crowd chanting “MVP” one last time. Curtain. Legend.

He made sure to leave nothing undone. The work ethic, the championships, the storytelling after retirement — even his Oscar win was proof he was just getting started in Act Two. That ambition, that artistic hunger, that sense of destiny… it’s why people still get goosebumps talking about him.

The mystique isn’t mystery. It’s memory. Muscle memory. Cultural memory. It’s knowing someone gave their whole being to something, and then vanished — leaving behind not ashes, but blueprint. The Black Mamba wasn’t born on a court. It was born in the shadows. In the moments no one saw. The lonely grind. The torn Achilles. The missed game-winner. The workouts with no cameras. That’s the part that lives forever.

Because at the end of the day, we don’t remember Kobe just because he was great. We remember him because he refused not to be. Because he taught us that greatness isn’t a gift — it’s a decision. A thousand hard decisions made every single day. And maybe that’s the true magic of the Mamba Mentality.

It makes us believe we can make that decision too.

And part of that belief — that decision to pursue greatness with reckless commitment — is why Kobe’s story never stayed contained to just the basketball world. You saw it in business rooms, music studios, training camps, classrooms. Entrepreneurs, artists, underdogs, single moms — people from all walks of life began invoking the Mamba Mentality as a guiding star. Because it wasn't about hoops. It was about obsession with improvement. Mastery through pain. Respect earned, not demanded. Kobe made excellence feel doable, but only if you were willing to endure the kind of sacrifice most people are too afraid to even consider.

Even his haters respected him. Because how could you not? The same people who booed him in arenas would stay glued to their screens when he had the ball in the final minute. He forced you to care. He thrived on your doubt. He wanted your venom. The Mamba fed on that. It made him stronger. It made the victories sweeter. And that’s part of what made his mystique so magnetic — he was more gladiator than celebrity. You knew you were watching someone who didn’t just play the game, but lived for the battle.

What’s wild is that Kobe wasn’t universally loved during most of his career. He was polarizing. Guarded. Brutal. Too cold for some, too alpha for others. His relationships with teammates were tense at times. He wasn’t there to make friends. He wanted killers next to him. Winners. He wanted you to be as locked in as he was, or get out of the way. That rubbed some people the wrong way. But history has a way of recontextualizing things. Especially when you realize how rare — and maybe even extinct — that kind of mentality has become.

Because we live in an era now where load management, brand deals, curated social media personas, and player empowerment are the norm. But Kobe came from the school of 82 games a year, full throttle, every night. Torn ligaments? Tape it up. No rest days. No sitting back-to-backs. You shoot the free throws on a torn Achilles. You stay in the game. That wasn’t for show — that was the show. And for those of us who saw that, who felt that, it changed us.

Even in retirement, the mystique only intensified. It turns out Kobe wasn’t just a world-class basketball player — he was a brilliant creator. His Dear Basketball short film, narrated in his voice and beautifully animated, won an Oscar. Of course it did. He attacked storytelling with the same precision he used to dissect defenders. It wasn’t enough to leave the game — he wanted to elevate a new one. He was becoming a mogul. A teacher. A father who was visibly loving and present, building gyms and writing books and coaching his daughter’s team. That’s the other side of the mystique — the warmth behind the warrior. The girl dad. The poet. The craftsman. It made the Mamba even more mythic, because now he was whole.

And let’s talk about legacy. Not just in the “how many rings?” kind of way. Legacy as in — whose spirit lingers long after they’re gone? Whose quotes get tattooed on ribcages and graffitied on walls? Who gets invoked when someone needs strength at their lowest? Kobe did that. He still does that. Whether it's an NBA rookie wearing #24 to honor him, or a high school kid grinding in an empty gym at 6AM, blasting Kobe workout montages on YouTube, he's everywhere.

Part of the reason he became such a transcendent figure is because he was fluent in different worlds. He spoke Italian. He connected with international fans. He was raised partly in Europe. He was as comfortable talking to soccer players as he was with hip-hop artists. He was a bridge — between eras, cultures, generations. Jordan was the standard. LeBron was the phenom. Kobe was the fire. The translator. The spiritual cousin of both, yet fully his own category.

And yes, death immortalized him. It always does. Just like James Dean, or Aaliyah, or Selena — when legends are taken too early, they become eternal. Not because they were perfect, but because they were unfinished. And in Kobe’s case, that sharp cutoff made people reassess him. See him again. Feel the weight of everything he’d been trying to say all along. All the speeches, the practice clips, the cold stare in the huddle — it wasn’t just bravado. It was a philosophy. One that now had a ghostly permanence to it.

What’s left now is the mythology. The altar. The candlelight. The black-and-gold jerseys worn like armor. The slow fadeaway that kids mimic in driveways from L.A. to Lagos. The murals — hundreds of them — each one trying to capture the glare, the grit, the glow. And all of us trying to live up to that mantra in our own way. Be better. Be relentless. Be legendary. Be Mamba.Because Kobe Bryant didn’t just play basketball. He transcended it. He made greatness feel raw. He made struggle look sacred. And through it all — the sweat, the tears, the torn tendons and championships and losses and final bows — he gave us a blueprint. Not just for how to play. But how to be.

[shahinourian]

Fixing the Future of the WNBA: Truth, Change, and the Path to Real Growth

Last night I was watching the end of the Sparks vs. Wings game. Sparks down by one. Clock winding down. Kelsey Plum has the ball, 5… 4… working around a taller defender, 3… 2… She gets into the lane, puts up a high arcing floater, 1… and it drops as the buzzer sounds! Sparks win, 81-80!! Everyone on the bench goes nuts… But I didn’t.

Something was missing. It didn’t feel electric, or explosive. It was a buzzer-beater in name only, the kind of shot that floats like a soft underhand toss at the YMCA. The game-winner was a moment of skill, sure, but it wasn’t a moment of power, of awe. A tomahawk dunk? A shocking alley-oop? That would’ve blown the roof off. A layup or a floater just don’t have the same kaboom feeling. But we’ll get back to that. Let’s back up.

I want the WNBA to succeed. I truly do. But if we’re being honest, the product on the court today doesn’t hold a candle to the NBA. The comparisons are brutal. The energy, the pace, the physicality, the highlight plays — it’s all just so lopsided. And for the WNBA to get to where it wants to go, hard truths need to be faced. This isn’t about hating, this is about rebuilding from the foundation up.

Let’s remember that the NBA wasn’t born a juggernaut either. It took the better part of 50 years before it truly became what it is now. The league was founded in 1946, but it wasn’t until the 1980s — the era of Magic Johnson and Larry Bird — that it began to carve out real national attention. Those battles saved the league. Then Michael Jordan came in and did what Jordan does. From there, the NBA exploded into a global phenomenon.

The WNBA, founded in 1997, is still young in comparison. But here’s the difference: The NBA grew slowly over decades before its players had the leverage to make serious money demands. The WNBA, by contrast, has operated at a net loss every single year since its inception, bleeding tens of millions annually — subsidized by the NBA. And now, the players want a share of the revenue. Revenue. Not profit. That’s a crucial difference. Because if you're not sharing in the costs — the flights, the venues, the salaries, the marketing, the losses — what exactly entitles you to a piece of revenue?

Let’s call it what it is: There’s no profit to share. None. And yet, players are demanding financial stakes as if this league is some cash cow. The WNBA asking for a cut of revenue without profitability is like a restaurant server asking for a raise when the restaurant’s been operating at a loss for 27 straight years. If you want to share in the upside, you also have to be willing to accept the risk and pain when the books are bleeding red ink.

Recently, Caitlin Clark brought a tidal wave of attention to the WNBA. And just like Magic vs. Bird did for the NBA, this is the moment where the league has a chance to evolve. But instead of lifting her up, some WNBA players have turned bitter. They’ve hit her with cheap shots. They’ve downplayed her contributions. Why? Jealousy? Petty resentment? Insecurity? Maybe all of the above. But fans don’t care about excuses. They care about stars. They care about entertainment. Caitlin’s bringing in viewers, selling out arenas, and pushing the league to new heights. That’s the game-changer the WNBA desperately needs.

Just look at the numbers:

WNBA Game Viewership (2024 Season)

Average non-Caitlin games: ~450,000 viewers

Caitlin Clark games: 1.56 million average

WNBA record: 2.45 million viewers — Caitlin’s debut

Attendance (2024 Season)

Indiana Fever games (home or away): Average 15,187

League-wide average (non-Fever games): ~6,250

Chicago Sky vs. Indiana Fever (June 23): 17,274 attendees

Ticket Prices

Average WNBA ticket price: ~$37

Average Caitlin Clark game ticket: ~$171

The league’s value is skyrocketing — but largely because of one player. If anything happens to her — injury, burnout, overseas poaching — the entire house of cards shakes. And if the response from some players is to assault her on the court or call the attention she’s getting unfair, they’re missing the point entirely. Fans don’t owe you anything. You earn it.

Which brings us to the product. And look, the truth is simple: The WNBA is boring. Not all the time, not every player — but the style of play is often slow, overly fundamental, and lacking flair. There are very few dunks. There are few deep bombs like Steph Curry or Dame Lillard range. The casual fan tunes in to see something they can’t do. Layups and midrange jumpers? We can all do those. What we can’t do is throw down a thunderous jam or hit a 30-footer with a defender in our face.

That’s not entirely the players’ fault — the sport was built with the exact same rim height as the NBA: 10 feet. But the average male NBA player is taller, longer, more explosive. That rim height works for them. It doesn’t work for most WNBA players. It’s time to change it.

Let’s talk facts:

Current NBA vs. WNBA Rim Height

NBA: 10 feet

WNBA: 10 feet

NBA vs. WNBA Average Player Heights:

NBA: ~6’6” (wingspans often 7’+)

WNBA: ~6’0”

WNBA average:

Average Dunking Ability by Position (NBA vs. WNBA)

Centers: 100% NBA vs. ~30% WNBA

Forwards: ~95% NBA vs. ~10% WNBA

Guards: ~90% NBA vs. ~1% WNBA

League Average: ~95% NBA vs. ~7% WNBA* * Fewer than 10 players in the WNBA have dunked in league history

Estimated Dunking Ability at Lowered Rim Heights (WNBA)

10'0" rim: 30% Cs – 10% Fs – 1% Gs – 7% league avg

9'9" rim: 70% Cs – 50% Fs – 20% Gs – 47% league avg

9'6" rim: 90% Cs – 70% Fs – 40% Gs – 67% league avg

9'3" rim: 100% Cs – 90% Fs – 60% Gs – 83% league avg

9'0" rim: 100% Cs – 100% Fs – 80% Gs – 93% league avg

<< To see all the math and calculations that got us these percentages, click here >>

Lowering the rims to 9'3" or even 9 feet would change the entire game. Dunks. Oops. Blocks above the rim. Real athletic play. It would showcase women's athleticism at its peak. Not in comparison to men — but within their own space, on their own stage.

Now, before the inevitable pushback — remember that the WNBA already uses a ball that is smaller and lighter than the NBA’s. Why? Because women have smaller hands and different strength profiles. That wasn’t a scandal. It was smart. Logical. Just like lowering the rims would be. You’re not changing the game to demean women — you’re adjusting to optimize it. If equality is the goal, then the right adjustments must be made to allow players to perform at their best.

And if they’re still insistent on "being just like the men," fine. Make the ball the same size and weight. See how the game flows. See how many shots clang off the rim. Or how many airballs will come from deep. See the turnovers pile up. Then ask fans to sit through that disaster while prices go up. You can’t argue with Physics. Biology. Economics.

Even the NBA faced massive resistance when introducing the three-point line in 1979. Old heads like Oscar Robertson and Red Auerbach were vocal in their disdain. They thought it was a gimmick, a joke. Fast forward a few decades and now the league revolves around it. Stephen Curry changed the geometry of basketball. Legends like Reggie Miller, Ray Allen, and Dirk Nowitzki are household names in part because of the three. And even the salty old-schoolers now pay respect. Because the game evolved. It grew. And the fans responded.

The WNBA must evolve too. Desperately. So here’s the plan:

A 20-Year Proposal to Save and Grow the WNBA

Lower the Rims •  Trial 9’3” for one season. Measure dunk rate, fan response, pace of play, etc. •  If successful, permanently lower to 9’3” or 9’.

Create a Performance-Based BRI Agreement • Current player share of BRI: 9.3% • Proposed structure: - Year 0–5: 9.3% (test phase) - Year 6–10: 15% if profitability improves - Year 11–15: 25% if sustained profitability and growth - Year 16–20: 35%, then capped at 45% after Year 20

Focus on Breakout Stars • Protect and promote talent like Caitlin Clark. • Discourage physical targeting, encourage elite matchups. • Build rivalries, not resentment.

Allow Brand/Team Collabs • Partner with brands that cater to young female and sports-savvy audiences. • Elevate team storytelling, visual identity, and merch culture.

Track and Reward Growth • Tie BRI increases to actual revenue and profit milestones, not just good intentions.

If the players won’t agree to this — if they won’t evolve — then what’s the alternative? Keep riding Caitlin Clark until she bails for Europe, gets injured, or burns out? Hope another unicorn saves the league again while the rest of the product flatlines?

Eventually, investors will get tired of this. They’ll stop funneling cash into a never-ending money pit. When that day comes, the NBA will make the financially smart move and cut the cord. The WNBA will fold. And all that’ll be left are bitter players, empty arenas, and a league that refused to adapt.

But it doesn’t have to go that way. Change is possible. Growth is possible. But first, the WNBA has to stop pretending everything’s fine and start putting in the work. Lower the rims. Embrace your stars. And build a product that fans — casual and hardcore — want to watch.

That’s not hate. That’s the blueprint.

[shahinourian]

Purple, Gold, and Palm Trees: Where the Best Damn Team Met the Best Damn Burger

I don’t remember what day of the week it was, but I do remember what I was having when it hit me — a Double-Double animal style, fries with a side of spread, and an ice-cold Coke. Sitting there at the In-N-Out near Venice Beach, the smell of sizzling meat patties in the air and palm trees swaying just outside the window, it just clicked: Why hasn’t anyone mashed these two L.A. icons together?

It felt so obvious in that moment that I couldn’t even finish my burger before I started tapping ideas into my phone’s Notes app. The Lakers and In-N-Out — two things that are as much a part of Southern California’s DNA as sand, sunsets, and traffic on the 405. That’s how the idea for my In-N-Out–inspired Lakers jersey was born.

People always say you don’t fully appreciate what’s right in front of you until you step back and look at it. That’s how I feel about In-N-Out and the Lakers — they’re just there, so woven into the everyday life of this city that you almost forget how lucky you are to have them.

For me, In-N-Out has been a constant since childhood. There’s no better burger anywhere — and yes, I’ve heard the arguments. Texans will tell you Whataburger is better, with the same cult-like obsession In-N-Out has in California. But they’re wrong. And not in a subjective “everyone has their own taste” kind of way — they’re just objectively wrong. Whataburger is fine, but In-N-Out is art. The flash is in the simplicity: fresh ingredients, great taste, a menu that respects you enough not to overwhelm you with options. Even their “secret” menu, with the famous animal style that surfers supposedly invented decades ago — extra spread, grilled onions, mustard fried into the patty — is part of the charm. It’s not a gimmick. It’s just better.

And if you’re from here, it feels like In-N-Out has always existed — just like the Lakers. The Lakers, of course, came from Minneapolis, but over the decades they’ve become synonymous with Los Angeles, maybe more than anything else besides the Dodgers. When the Lakers moved here in 1960, they were a good team. But when Jerry West and Elgin Baylor started putting up highlights? When Magic Johnson and Kareem turned them into Showtime? When Kobe and Shaq ruled the 2000s? That’s when they became L.A.

In-N-Out Burger was founded in 1948, in Baldwin Park, but it was the California surfer culture boom of the 1960s that made them synonymous with the SoCal beach lifestyle. So in a way, the Lakers and In-N-Out both came into their own during those hippie and beachside years, exemplifying the laid-back confidence, flash, and cool that defined Southern California. They weren’t just businesses anymore — they became cultural landmarks. You couldn’t drive past the Forum without seeing palm trees and imagining Jerry West hitting a full court shot or Magic Johnson throwing a no-look pass, just like you couldn’t sit in an In-N-Out parking lot without tasting the ocean salt in the air and hearing surf rock on someone’s radio. They became two sides of the same L.A. coin: one on the hardwood, one on the grill.

I’ve been obsessed with both for as long as I can remember. And for years, I’ve been designing alternate Lakers jerseys for fun — posting them on my Instagram, experimenting with ideas, trying to come up with something that felt worthy of the brand but also more daring than what Nike and the NBA had been putting out lately. The Lakers’ main uniforms, of the past and present — gold, purple, and white — are perfect, but the alternates? Hit or miss. Outside of the Black Mamba jerseys, which are flawless, most of the City Edition uniforms feel like they’re afraid to take risks. And that’s what’s so frustrating. The Lakers have a brand so big, so iconic, they can afford to push the envelope.

So sometime in early 2021, I started experimenting with mash-ups — taking other brands or cultural touchstones and reimagining them as Lakers jerseys. I did Oreos, Cocoa Puffs, Bruce Lee, and a few others. They got some positive feedback, a couple hundred likes here and there, but nothing earth-shattering.

Then came that In-N-Out lunch.

I couldn’t stop looking at my drink cup — the red palm trees, the white background, the wavy red lines. The way it already felt like a uniform. Clean, bold, confident. Everything a Lakers jersey should be. So I went home, opened up Photoshop, and started building it. Version after version. Adjusting the balance between classy and playful, making sure it didn’t just look like an In-N-Out uniform, but a Lakers jersey that happened to be inspired by In-N-Out. I kept revising until it felt right — bold yet understated, clean yet authentic, cool yet wearable.

When I finally posted it on Instagram, I figured it would get a few hundred likes if I was lucky. Maybe some comments from people saying it was fun. But I was wrong.

It exploded.

It hit millions of users. Tens of thousands of likes. Thousands of comments — most of them begging the Lakers and In-N-Out to make it real, telling me they’d buy it immediately if it existed. People shared it everywhere — Power 106 posted about it, ESPN Los Angeles commented on it, Reddit threads popped up, DMs started pouring in. People were texting me screenshots from accounts I didn’t even follow saying, “Dude, this is yours, right??”

Suddenly I was fielding messages from strangers telling me to get in touch with the Lakers or In-N-Out and make it happen, as if I had a direct line to Jeanie Buss or the Snyder family. One guy even said, “If this doesn’t become the official City Edition next year, the league has failed us.” That was wild. It became a phenomenon for a few weeks — my phone buzzing constantly, colleagues I hadn’t spoken to in years reaching out just to say how cool it was. It felt surreal. I’d created it just for fun — as a little personal project to entertain myself — and suddenly it was everywhere.

I’d even prepared two alternate colorways — black with red and red with white — but the white-and-red original was the one everyone fell in love with. The simplicity of it seemed to resonate. The same way In-N-Out resonates. The same way the Lakers resonate. Both are at their best when they’re not overthinking it — just delivering quality, confidence, and joy.

Of course, neither the Lakers nor In-N-Out ended up making it real. And that’s okay. I know the reality of business, sponsorship deals, creative control — it’s complicated. It would take years and layers of approvals to ever get something like that done. But people still bring it up to me all the time — telling me it’s their favorite Lakers jersey concept since the Black Mamba uniforms, telling me they hope one day it’ll happen. And maybe it still could. Because what made that design special wasn’t just the colors or the palm trees — it was what it represented. Two Southern California institutions. Two brands built on excellence, loyalty, and love. Both started here, grew here, and became something bigger than just a basketball team or a burger stand. They became part of who we are here — and part of who I am.

When I look back on that moment now, what I remember isn’t just the numbers — the likes, the comments, the shares — but the way it felt to watch something I created connect with people who love the same things I love. That was worth more than anything else. I still think it could happen someday. Maybe one day I’ll get that call from the Lakers or In-N-Out, asking me to help make it official. But even if it doesn’t, I’ll always have that moment — that rush of seeing two of my favorite things come together in a way that felt right.

And I’ll always have my go-to order: double-double, animal style. Just like the jersey — bold yet simple, clean yet authentic, classy yet cool.

P.S. If you'd like to check out some of the posts re: the jersey design, you can see them here: 1 2 3 4

[shahinourian]

Showtime and Beyond: A Father, a Son, and the Team That Held Us Together

When people ask me how I became a Lakers fan, I can’t give them a simple answer. It’s not because I don’t know, or because the reasons are complicated — it’s because the answer is a story. A story about my father, about Magic Johnson, about Kobe Bryant, and about me. A story that started long before I was even born, before my Dad ever set foot in Los Angeles, before the Lakers were even part of his life — and by extension, mine.

My father came to the United States from Iran in the late 1960s, just a teenager at the time, sent here to finish high school in Hackensack, New Jersey. From there he went to Iowa State in Ames for college, living in a world that couldn’t have been more different from the one he’d grown up in. Iran was all soccer. In America, though, sports meant everything. And he fell in love with it all. Football, baseball, basketball — he devoured it. This was his America. After graduating, he went back to Iran, got his MBA through Harvard’s international program in Tehran. But in 1979, the Revolution came, and his entire world turned upside down. The country cut ties with the West, the MBA program was shut down, and he and the rest of his family fled.

That’s how he arrived in Los Angeles — battered but unbroken — at the exact same time that a rookie named Magic Johnson arrived on the Lakers. My Dad always had an eye for the dazzling, for the charismatic, and Magic was both of those things in one. He fell in love with the team immediately. The Showtime Lakers felt like America in all its flash and possibility — fast, brilliant, joyous, confident — and they became his team. My Dad became a Lakers fan at the same moment the Lakers became THE LAKERS, and when I was born a couple of years later, he shared that same love with me.

I don’t even remember the first Lakers game I watched with him — it just always felt like part of my life. Like the air conditioning humming in the background, or the smell of his Drakkar Noir cologne on the couch (hey, it was the 1980s!). He’d narrate the game for me like a bedtime story, teaching me who the players were, what the plays meant, and what made the Lakers different (better) than everyone else. My Dad taught me why the Celtics were the bane of our existence, why green was the forbidden color. Magic Johnson, of course, became my favorite player. How could he not? That smile, that flash, the way he could whip a no-look pass across the court and make it feel like theater. Magic was everything I wanted to be — confident, joyful, magnetic. He was a superstar, but he still felt human somehow.

And I think part of why I connected to him so much was because he reminded me of my Dad. The same charm, the same smile, the same impossible confidence that no matter what life threw at him, he’d find a way to win. Since Magic was much closer in age to my Dad than to me, he became this figure I looked up to — a little like a father, a little like an uncle, a little like a magician you couldn’t take your eyes off of.

Then came 1991. Magic announced he was retiring after testing positive for HIV. I was a couple weeks shy of my ninth birthday. I remember crying in my room, night after night, crying at school, day after day, terrified he would die. Back then, everyone thought HIV was a death sentence. But just like my Dad had done when his own life had been upended, Magic stood there smiling, confident, defiant, telling the world he would go on living. And somehow, I believed him.

The first Lakers game I ever attended in person wasn’t until a few years later. It was January 30, 1996 — Magic’s comeback game after four and a half years away. I still don’t know how my Dad got us tickets — he must have called in every favor he had in Los Angeles — but somehow we ended up there, high in the rafters, binoculars in hand, watching Magic step back onto the court. He was older, slower, but still himself. Still dazzling. The building vibrated with love and screams of joy that night, and so did I. After the game, I even got to meet Vlade Divac. He bent down to shake my hand and I swear I thought I’d met a giant.

After Magic retired for good that year, the Lakers were in transition. I stayed loyal, watching through the rough patches, but I didn’t feel the same connection yet. Then came a 17-year-old kid out of Lower Merion named Kobe Bryant, traded to the Lakers on draft day for Vlade Divac (sorry Vlade!). And everything changed for me again.

Kobe wasn’t like Magic. He wasn’t like my Dad. He was more like me. He was closer to my age, just a few years older, brash and headstrong, impatient and determined to be great. Magic had felt like an uncle — someone you admire but could never be — but Kobe felt like a brother. As he grew up, so did I. When Kobe made the Finals for the first time, I was starting college. When he won three championships with Shaq, I was thriving in school and taking my first big trip to backpack through Europe with my closest friends.

I saw myself in his struggles, too. He had setbacks, scandals, criticism, stretches where it felt like the world was against him — and he just kept going. Kept working. Kept pushing forward. I didn’t feel like I was him, exactly, but watching him showed me what it looked like to fight your way through the hard parts of life. My love for the Lakers started as my Dad’s gift to me, but by the time Kobe was leading the team, it had become my own.

And then came 2020 — one of the worst years of my life.

In January, Kobe died in a helicopter crash. The whole city — the whole world — seemed to stop. I was coming back from a trip to New York City, getting a flurry of text messages with the news Kobe had died. I angrily dismissed them as cruel jokes, but the texts wouldn’t stop. During the taxi ride to JFK news of the tragedy was confirmed, and I broke down crying as I entered the terminal. This huge, massive, busy airport – one of the most noisy in the world – was nearly silent with every single person glued to their phone screens. Other than airport announcements I either heard painful sobbing or stunned silence from everyone around me. By the time I got home, the feelings were even more intense. At Staples Center, at coffee shops, at restaurants, strangers would sit next to me (just before COVID hit the U.S.), tears streaming down their faces, like we all knew him personally. And in some ways, we did.

Then in October, my Dad died. After a five-year fight with leukemia, he passed away at City of Hope. To lose them both in the same year — first Kobe in January, then my Dad in October — left me hollow. He was my hero, my biggest supporter, and my biggest protector when things were at their lowest for me. But at the same time, I wasn’t alone. Just like with Kobe, when my Dad passed it felt like everyone he’d touched came out of the woodwork to grieve with me. His friends, our family, acquaintances I’d never met — they all called, all showed up. He had been the glue that held our family together, and now we were all leaning on each other to get through it.

And in a strange way, the Lakers were there with me too. During my Dad’s final weeks, we sat together in his hospital room watching the Lakers make their run through the bubble playoffs. When they won the championship on October 11, exactly one week before my Dad died, it felt like the team had won it for him. For Kobe. For me. For all of us who needed something to hold onto that year. That last championship — sitting in a hospital chair next to him, both of us smiling through the pain — was our final shared moment together.

Life moves forward. The Lakers are still here. I still watch nearly every game. Still yell at the TV. Still wear my Lakers legends jerseys. And it’s more than just a team to me — it’s a thread that runs through my life, from my Dad to me, from Magic to Kobe, from nine-year-old me crying in my room to grown-up me holding my Dad’s hand at City of Hope.

It’s just basketball, sure. Just entertainment. But there’s a lot of meaning in that entertainment when you look closer. A lot of love. A lot of memories. A lot of lessons. Something my Dad gave me without even knowing he was giving it. Something that became mine. Something that will always connect me to him, to Magic, to Kobe — and to the best and hardest parts of my life.

So when people ask, I tell them for all these reasons, all these emotions, and all these memories, that’s why I’ll always be a Lakers fan.

[shahinourian]

Street Legend: How NBA Street Vol. 2 crowned kings, ruined friendships, and taught me the art of basketball

I can still hear the opening beat of They Reminisce Over You (T.R.O.Y.) by Pete Rock and CL Smooth. That bassline. Those horns. That gritty-but-smooth hook echoing off the walls of my college apartment, letting everyone within earshot know the king of the court was about to clock in. The NBA Street Vol. 2 menu screen lit up my PlayStation 2 and for the next few hours, everything else disappeared — just me, two controllers, and a rotating cast of dudes who thought they had a shot. They didn’t. Not really. Well — except for one.

When NBA Street Vol. 2 dropped in spring 2003, I was in college, living with one of my best friends since high school — Noz. He actually bought it for me as a surprise, the day it came out, from the Best Buy in Costa Mesa. He knew how much I loved the first one, and he also knew buying me the second one would basically guarantee him weeks of free entertainment: me and our friends yelling and screaming at each other, arguing over who’s got next, trash talk echoing through the apartment at all hours. It was a win-win for him. I tore the shrinkwrap off that thing like it owed me money and fired it up before I even took my shoes off. Honestly, it almost made up for the fact that as a roommate, Noz drove me absolutely insane as often as he made me laugh — leaving half-full cups of water all over the place like the little kid from M. Night Shyamalan’s Signs. But I digress.

From the first tip-off, it was clear this wasn’t just a sequel to NBA Street, this was something else entirely. The first game had been fun, sure — it brought playground hoops to consoles with 3-on-3 gameplay, crazy dunks, and trash talk baked into every possession. But Vol. 2? That was a revolution. It was smoother, sharper, louder, smarter. It took everything the first game got right and added soul. Snazzier courts, a treasure trove of NBA legends, more swagger, more everything. It dropped at the exact moment AND1 mixtapes were blowing up, with Hot Sauce and Skip 2 My Lou breaking ankles on ESPN2 every week. The energy of those streetball tapes bled into Vol. 2. You could feel it in the courts, see it in the throwback jerseys, hear it in the soundtrack that sounded like DJ Clue cut it himself.

Don’t forget the endlessly creative game calls of Bobbito Garcia, aka DJ Cucumber Slice, who made you feel like you were really at the game. His constant stream of shout outs like ‘Yo my man, your ankles just got broke!’, ‘He’s hammin’ up like it’s Thanksgiving!’, ‘The defender looks like he’s on ice skates with no laces!’, and so sooooo many more! And yet despite the high energy, the trash talking, the slang, and the reminders of who was getting punked, Bobbito never wore out his welcome. He felt like your homie sitting next to you on the couch, an equal opportunity jokester everyone loved and hated at the same time. He was the guy that would fall over laughing at a missed dunk, high five the hell out of someone who got a block by swatting the ball into the next area code, and giving due props to both players on a game well played. Bobbito was a part of everybody’s crew, even though he wasn’t really hanging out with you.

And the gameplay — man. Moving from the two-on-two chaos of NBA Jam or NBA Hangtime to 3-on-3 actually added layers. It felt more strategic than just cheesing turbo dunks or corner threes. You had to think. Manage matchups. Decide who was your playmaker, who was your finisher, who was there to intimidate with defense. For me, the answer was obvious: The Los Angeles Lakers. Always the Lakers. This was the pinnacle of the Shaq and Kobe era — Shaq still in peak MVP mode, Kobe just past the Afro phase and fully locked in as a killer, rounding out the trio with whichever role player fit the vibe that day: Horry for clutch shots, Fox for the sneaky defense, Fisher when I felt like raining lefty jumpers just to be disrespectful. If I wasn’t rolling with the official Lakers squad, I built my own custom one.

And here’s where it got tough. Because the legends roster in Vol. 2 was loaded. Lakers greats alone ran off like a list of pure (Purple and) Gold: Magic. Wilt. West. Worthy. Elgin. Shaq. Kobe. Other all-timers in the ‘Old School’ section ran the gamut, from Bird to Dr. J, The Big O to Russell (Bill, not Westbrook), Moses to Pistol Pete… it was the greatest who’s who from the 1950s through the 1990s. Also, the legends collection somehow had three versions of Michael Jordan! Rookie MJ from ’85, peak championship MJ from ’96, and Wizards MJ from his comeback. My biggest gripe was that Kareem was missing — licensing, most likely — and so was Charles Barkley, which also stung.

But even with all that legendary talent to pull from, my squad was clear: Shaq, Kobe, Wilt, Magic, and me. Magic and Kobe were my two favorite Lakers of all time. Shaq and Wilt were twin towers who could absolutely ruin someone’s day on both ends of the court. And then there was my custom player — built to look as much like me as the engine allowed, running point, deadly from outside, great handles. More of a guard’s game, letting the legends clean up everything else. When I picked that lineup, you might as well just hand me the win before tip-off.

Unless, of course, your name was Muneeb. My arch rival and nemesis, the Bird to my Magic, the everyone to my Kobe… you get the picture.

Muneeb was different. Against everyone else in our group, he was just okay — middle of the pack, won about as often as he lost. But against me? He was a demon. Not because he was better. But because he wouldn’t shut up. Ever. He talked more than anybody I’d ever met in my life. If he was winning, he’d gloat. If he was losing, he’d whine. Every Gamebreaker, every block, every turnover, he’d have a running commentary about how the game was cheating him, or how he was about to humiliate me. And the worst part? It worked. I’m convinced half of my losses to Muneeb came from the fact that he distracted me into making dumb mistakes.

One time I just snapped. He was up like 18–12 and still going, still gloating, still whining all in the same breath. I stood up, shut off the PS2, stared him dead in the eye, and told him to get the fuck out of my apartment. That was “the suspension.” Weeks later, I let him back in — on probationary terms. He did improve after that, at least somewhat. When he started getting out of pocket, I’d shoot him a look and he’d clam up just enough to make it tolerable. And after that, our battles became legendary. Much more even.

But one match still stands out — the night we went head to head for over an hour. First to 21, win by two, but Gamebreakers kept swinging the momentum. Nobody wanted to lose, and the final score ended something absurd like 47–45. Both of us were absolutely exhausted, hands cramping, and our friends on the couch cheering like it was Game 7 of the NBA Finals. That was one of my sweetest wins, even if Muneeb still found a way to blame the controller, the game, the lighting, whatever. Classic Muneeb.

But the beauty of Vol. 2 wasn’t just the trash talk or the wins — it was the strategy. Unlike NBA Jam, where you just turboed and jacked threes, here you had to manage the Gamebreaker meter. You could cash in early for a Level 1 — quick, decent, but blockable — or grind longer for a Level 2 that was unstoppable and worth more points. But the longer you held it, the more time you gave your opponent to build theirs or sneak a win. Balancing when to unleash it, when to hold it, when to bait your opponent into a bad shot just so you could charge up your tricks — it was like chess, only with windmill dunks and chain nets.

And the vibe… man, nothing felt like Vol. 2. The soundtrack alone was worth the price of admission. Pete Rock & CL Smooth. Black Sheep. Nelly. MC Lyte. Funky, grimy, perfect. It felt like a mixtape straight from Fat Beats, and it still holds up twenty years later. The courts were alive — graffiti on the walls, crowds screaming, car horns honking and beepers going off (yes, beepers!) in the background. You could unlock throwback jerseys, rock fresh haircuts, and get flashy with the smoothest facial hair. Even the sneakers — while limited because of licensing — added flavor. I still wish they’d packed in Jordans, Nikes, Reeboks, and Adidas. But at least you could style on people while wearing a Magic Johnson throwback and breaking ankles while sporting your pick from a wide variety of stylish (by early 2000s standards) kicks.

That’s why it still hits, even now, over two decades later. NBA Street Vol. 2 struck this perfect balance between arcade energy and competitive depth. Anyone could pick it up and have fun — but if you wanted to master it, if you wanted to really embarrass your friends with full GB meter filling-point trick combos and perfectly timed Gamebreakers, the game gave you that runway too. No gimmicks. No bloat. Just beautiful, joyful chaos. The kind of game that made you forget how long you’d been playing, even if your hands were cramping and your friends were begging you to let someone else have a turn.

Unfortunately, that magic didn’t last forever. When NBA Street Vol. 3 rolled out, you could tell they wanted to ride the wave of what made Vol. 2 special, but they also tried too hard to reinvent it. They made that game’s theme about “the next generation” — LeBron James, Carmelo Anthony, Dwayne Wade, and others — which was fine in theory, but then they bogged everything down with weird new systems. Instead of the beautiful Vol. 2 cover with stylized art drawings of Stretch (the unofficial Street series mascot), a soaring Michael Jordan, and another street baller… Baron Davis (a dope phenom for the then-New Orleans Hornets AND I went to high school with at Crossroads in Santa Monica!) was the cover athlete in a grunge-landed artwork style, even though the game itself was more cartoony than ever.

EA BIG (the game developer’s extreme sports division) added these Reputation scores that felt arbitrary, and button combo Gamebreakers that were more frustrating than fun. Instead of just building your tricks and unleashing a perfectly-timed, devastating Gamebreaker like in Vol. 2, you were now pausing mid-dunk to punch in Street Fighter–style commands, hoping you didn’t mess it up. The clean elegance of Vol. 2’s Gamebreaker — build, unleash, dominate — was gone. And with it, a lot of the magic.

By the time the next entry — NBA Street Homecourt — dropped, the series had completely lost its way. It leaned the complete opposite direction into a super gritty streetball game, with washed out colors and more realistic looking players on dull street courts instead of vibrant and unique playgrounds. It somehow made the game feel both over-produced and soulless. The joy, the music, the art — all of it got stripped down and replaced with something that felt manufactured. What Vol. 2 understood — and what the later entries forgot — was that the blacktop wasn’t just a location. It was a vibe. A culture. A feeling. You could feel it in the art, hear it in the soundtrack, see it in the chain nets and crowds.

Vol. 2 remains in that sweet spot. Bigger and bolder than the original, but still raw and playful. Unpolished enough to feel authentic, but polished enough to feel complete. When people talk about the NBA Street series now — when they post those wistful YouTube retrospectives or rank the best basketball games ever — it’s Vol. 2 they’re really talking about. It’s the one people still boot up on emulators. It’s the one that made everyone in the room stop what they were doing when a Level 2 Gamebreaker came down. And for me? It’s the one that still lives rent-free in my memory — every dunk, every beat of the soundtrack, and every single time I got the last laugh over Muneeb.

All these years later, I still have a PS2 — probably my fourth or fifth by now. The disc is scratched to hell and still barely boots up. When it doesn’t? No big deal. I’ve got it emulated now on my Retroid Pocket Pro 4, running flawlessly wherever I go. Yeah, I know they made NBA Street Showdown for PSP, but that came later — after Shaq was traded and the Lakers fell apart. That roster was sad, with washed-up Vlade trying to fill Shaq’s shoes, no Pau yet. Just not the same.

Sometimes now, when everyone’s busy with families and real life, I fire it up solo. No trash talk, no crowd, just me, Shaq, Kobe, and my custom version of me wrecking fools on the blacktop. And even then, in the back of my head, I swear I can still hear Muneeb whining that the game cheated him.

Shout out to Muneeb. I still hate you.

If you ever want to settle it though — you know where to find me. And this time? No excuses. Just bring your A-game. Because when my Gamebreaker meter hits and the chain net rattles, you’ll remember real quick what NBA Street Vol. 2 was all about.

[shahinourian]

NBA Hangtime: The Better Game Nobody Talked About

Somewhere in my closet, buried in an old shoebox next to a tangle of controller cables and faded Lakers programs, sits a gray PlayStation memory card that still says the following when I boot up a certain basketball game:

SHAHIN — 1,024–137

That was me. That was my record. That was my banner hanging in the rafters of my childhood room, my quiet little monument to one of the most underrated video games ever made. Not NBA Jam. Not NBA Jam Tournament Edition. Not some clunky Midway spin-off that nobody remembers. No — this was NBA Hangtime. The better game. The one real hoop heads and arcade rats knew about but nobody else seemed to care for.

It was the one with tighter controls, deeper gameplay, updated rosters that included the Class of ’96 — Kobe, Iverson, Marbury, Ray Allen — guys who were just a few years older than me. The one that let me create Shaq, Magic, Kareem, and Worthy myself because Midway couldn’t, and finally unleash my dream Lakers lineup. The one that opened with M-Doc’s theme song — “Whatcha Gonna Do?” — a goofy-but-perfect 90s boom-rap anthem that set the tone the second you fired up the console. Hangtime was basketball, hip hop, and just a little bit cartoonish, perfectly encapsulating everything fun about that era, even if it never got the respect it deserved.

Everybody played NBA Jam. Even people who couldn’t name five NBA players outside of Jordan and Barkley knew it. Even your uncle who still thought Magic and Kareem played at The Forum knew it. Jam was everywhere — the catchphrases (“Boomshakalaka!” “He’s on fire!”) became part of pop culture, shouted in living rooms, arcades, and classrooms. It was a sensation. Kids wore the shirts. Parents bought the cartridges. Even Michael Jordan, famously absent from the game, reportedly groused about how much love it got. Then came Tournament Edition, which polished things up, added hidden characters, expanded rosters, and extended Jam’s moment in the sun.

But Hangtime? That was different. That was the younger cousin everyone underestimated until he smoked you in front of your whole family on Thanksgiving. At first glance it looked the same — two-on-two, outrageous dunks, big heads, secret courts — but the moment you actually played it, you knew this wasn’t just Jam 3. The controls were sharper, the players more distinct, the strategies deeper. This time players didn’t just feel like “fast” or “slow” or “good at threes” or “good at dunks” — they actually moved differently. You could break ankles with smooth spin moves, switch from dunks to layups in mid-air, and throw alley-oops that ended in rim-bending jams. You could even put both players on Team Fire and completely demoralize your opponent for a full 30 seconds.

I was in high school when it dropped, late ’90s, and while I loved the occasional arcade session, I lived for the PlayStation version. Some of my friends had the N64 version, which loaded faster, but the PSX was cleaner — sharper graphics, better sound, and controls that just felt right. We’d pack into the arcade after school and crowd around the machine, trash-talking and arguing about which duos were best. There were two kinds of players: the ones who lived at the three-point line, bombing away with Stockton & Malone or Reggie Miller & Rik Smits, and the ones who bullied you inside with Ewing & Oakley or Pippen & Rodman. I was firmly in the second camp, and for good reason.

Because I had my secret weapon: a custom-created Shaq, the announcer calling him by my chosen player nickname BIG DADDY, paired with rookie Kobe Bryant.

You see, Shaq and Jordan weren’t officially in the game — licensing drama. Shaq was busy building his own brand (this was the Shaq Fu era, after all), and Jordan’s personal marketing empire made licensing him a nightmare. Some kids at the Westwood Village arcade took that as a personal affront. I watched more than one storm off in a rage when they couldn’t select Jordan. One kid even threw his soda at the cabinet and walked out cursing “No Shaq? What is this crap?” Meanwhile, I smiled quietly, loaded up my custom Shaquille O’Neal created player (code: SHAQ 0306), and went to work. I couldn’t roll with Kobe Bryant in the arcade version (he and the other ‘96 rookies hit the N64 and PlayStation later) but pairing Shaq with the Lakers’ high stats beast Cedric Ceballos was good enough.

Create-A-Player was genius. You started with just enough points to build a decent player, but to max them out, you had to grind. Every win unlocked more points. It was brilliant because it forced you to keep playing, to keep winning, and it made you emotionally invested in your player. I maxed out height and weight, chose Chris Webber’s face (the closest Shaq stand-in), and selected the announcer name BIG DADDY since the game wouldn’t announce “SHAQ.” Over dozens of games in both my preferred arcade’s cabinet AND my PlayStation version at home, I built him into a monster. Paired with Kobe on my home version — who in real life was still a bench player — they became unstoppable.

And then there was Team Fire.

Most people knew about “On Fire” — hit three straight shots without letting your opponent score, and you’d catch fire: unlimited turbo, better accuracy, no goaltending calls. But Team Fire? That was something else entirely. Three alley-oops in a row, no response from your opponent, and BOOM — both players caught fire. For 30 full seconds it was chaos: threes dropped like free throws, every dunk shook the screen, and the other guy had no hope unless he managed to throw down an alley-oop of his own to break the spell. You could feel the panic ripple through the arcade every time flames shot out of my players’ feet and I yelled “TEAM FIRE, BABY!”

Winning mattered. Hangtime tracked your record and displayed it proudly on the Top Players screen. At home, my name — SHAHIN — sat at the top, 1,024–137, like a banner in Staples Center. My friends would bail after a couple of games to play NFL Blitz or Final Fantasy VII, but I stayed, grinding against the CPU, unlocking the game’s secrets, and maxing out my numerous custom players (oh yeah, I made more than just Shaq!). All the while M-Doc’s “Whatcha Gonna Do?” looped in the background — a slightly awkward but undeniably catchy mix of 90s swagger and arcade goofiness. It sounded like a B-side from Lost Boyz or something you’d hear over the credits of Above the Rim, and I loved it.

So why didn’t Hangtime take off?

It should have. It was better — better graphics, better mechanics, better depth. But it arrived at the wrong time and under the wrong name. After the success of Jam, Acclaim bought the rights to the NBA Jam name, leaving Midway — the original developer — stuck. They had the talent and the engine, but they legally couldn’t use the name anymore. So instead of fiery branding everyone recognized, they slapped on Hangtime. And just like that, the magic — at least on the surface — was gone.

The name hurt it. And so did the voice.

Tim Kitzrow, the unforgettable announcer behind “Boomshakalaka!” and “He’s heating up!” didn’t return. The new announcer was… fine. But it wasn’t the same. You don’t replace Michael Buffer with some guy from accounting and expect the same electricity. Even the cabinet design felt muted compared to Jam’s flaming basketballs and bold art.

And by 1997, the video game landscape had shifted. Arcades were fading. People wanted “realistic” sports sims like NBA Live. RPGs and fighting games were dominating at home. And the casual players who had made Jam a phenomenon had moved on.

So Hangtime became a game for die-hards.

We were the ones who noticed the subtleties — the way player movement felt sharper, the way the rosters reflected the NBA’s generational shift, the way Team Fire added a new layer of strategy. We appreciated Create-A-Player. We lived for the updated rosters that gave us rookie Kobe, AI, Marbury, and Ray Allen.

What’s wild is how perfectly Hangtime captured that moment in basketball. The NBA was transitioning from the old heads — Pippen, Ewing, Stockton — to the young guns like Kobe and Iverson. The league was shifting toward something faster, flashier, more dynamic. Hangtime let me live out that change in real time, building my own Lakers dynasty while the real one was still figuring itself out.

I can still picture it: BIG DADDY catching a lob and throwing down so hard the entire screen shook. Kobe draining a corner three. The announcer yelling “BRYANT!” while my opponent groaned and M-Doc’s hook asked him: “Whatcha gonna do… when we come for you?”

It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t mainstream. It didn’t sell millions of t-shirts.

But for the die-hards? It was perfect.

And now, all these years later, it’s finally getting its due.

I see it — YouTube retrospectives, video game blog posts, Reddit discussions — NBA Jam fans revisiting it and realizing: Oh… this was actually better. The graphics still hold up. The gameplay still feels tight. The hidden features and strategies still shine.

It’s about time.

So if you ever want to settle it, dust off that PSX or N64. Load your memory card. Pick your Stockton & Malone lineup and rain threes on me if you want. But know this: Shaq and Kobe are still waiting.

And when I drop three alley-oops in a row and flames shoot out of my players’ feet while the announcer screams TEAM FIRE! — you’ll finally understand what this game was really about.

"Whatcha gonna do… when we come for you?"