He released another movie, Prime Video’s Divorce in the Black, starring Meagan Good and Cory Hardrict. The film has been universally panned by critics, earning a rare 0% on Rotten Tomatoes. And yes, like many of Perry’s other projects, it traffics in played-out tropes, featuring abused Black women and illogical plot turns. As always, Perry’s newest film has reignited the debate about the value of his movies and their placement on the scale that ranges from uplifting and fun to an embarrassment to Black people. These conversations have existed since Perry first donned a wig and called himself Madea. But the more interesting question is: What value does Tyler Perry find in his art, and what will propel him to make that art better?

Divorce in the Black is standard Tyler Perry fare. It’s a movie about a woman (Good) who is abused by her husband (Hardrict), and her only salvation comes in the form of a new man. The source of the abusive man’s trauma seems to have come from his mother, of course. The movie’s most striking moment happens in the first scene, which takes place during a funeral and ends with a mother taking her son’s body out of the casket. The scene, which has gone viral for its ridiculousness, is outrageous, poorly acted, and doesn’t factor into the rest of the movie’s plot. And it’s indicative of the movie as a whole. Divorce in the Black was full of plot holes, lacked any backstory and was overall incoherent. I laughed more than I felt an actual connection to the story and its characters. And this has been my experience with most of Perry’s films, especially in the last few years.

Since bursting on the scene, Perry has made over 50 films — many with poor scripts, shaky camera work, and varying production. Pressing play on a Tyler Perry DVD from 2005 doesn’t provide any different quality than queuing one up on a streaming platform today.

But that doesn’t seem to be why Perry makes movies. In the same way Starbucks effectively operates as a bank that sells coffee, Perry is a businessman with a dynamic personality who also makes movies. As the owner of Tyler Perry Studios, the multimillion-dollar complex in Atlanta where everything from Marvel Entertainment movies to his films are shot, Perry is also a real estate mogul. And he’s a motivational speaker, using his story to uplift Black folks worldwide. The movies are part of the brand, but they’re one tenet of the Perry-verse he’s been creating for decades.

I first heard of Perry in the early aughts as bootlegged videos of his plays went platinum in Black households across the South. Black Christian plays had always been popular, but Perry’s productions, especially those involving his Madea character, immediately stood out for being as hilarious as they were full of drama. The plot of each play was secondary to the enjoyment fans got from watching them and the religious messages they delivered at the end. This is how Perry cultivated his passionate fanbase — many still loyal to him to this day, watching his films despite the bad reviews or perceived shortcomings.

That’s because to have followed Perry for this long is to buy into his journey as much as his output. And it’s hard to hear his story and not find it inspirational. The man who wrote his early works while living in his car and went into massive debt to fund his plays made it — and we’ve watched him the entire step of the way. And to be a fan of Perry also means to have heard his story, in his own words, which is a gift in itself as he is legitimately a great public speaker. Even as someone critical of his art, I’ve still been enthralled by Perry’s speeches.

Added to Perry’s powerful story is the outpouring of love he receives from his peers. His movies often give actors second chances or simply line their pockets when they’re in need. Taraji P. Henson has credited Perry with being the first director to pay her what she felt she was worth.

“I was asking for half a million,” she told Variety in 2019. “I didn’t get paid that until I did my first Tyler Perry film. He was the first person that broke the standard that I was getting paid for films.”

Hardrict has gone on record to say his salary for Divorce in the Black was the most he’d been paid as an actor to date. Perry also gave actors like Teyana Taylor, Lance Gross and Tessa Thompson their first featured roles. And while Idris Elba had already starred as Stringer Bell for three seasons on The Wire, it was Perry who first made him a leading man on film. Perry’s altruism towards Black folks in Hollywood has made it so that any time his name is mentioned by its most powerful Black stars, it’s mentioned with praise and glowing anecdotes about his character.

The genuine love Perry’s peers and fans feel towards him is part of a carefully curated ecosystem and the lens through which his movies are judged. Sure, the films generally don’t give us good writing or deep plots, but they aren’t judged merely by what we see on the screen. They’re viewed as extensions of the Perry experience, and to criticize his movies is to criticize all that he represents. Bringing attention to the plot holes then becomes about something more: it’s seen as trying to take money out of the pockets of a man who uses that money to uplift Black people.

It doesn’t matter that Perry has also used his considerable wealth and influence in battles with writers and writer unions. He allegedly fired four writers for union activity in 2008. He also reportedly wouldn’t sign Writers Guild of America contracts, choosing instead to work with non-union talent. The Actors’ Union also boycotted his 2015 play, Madea On The Run, as he didn’t sign a contract with them either. His ability to write and direct his own projects is branded as a testament to his work ethic, but it also allows him to side-step dealing with unions, which fight for fair compensation and benefits for their members.

Then there’s the matter of the movies — and not just the quality of their storytelling. Beyond the plot shortcomings, Perry’s films often perpetuate colorism, misogyny, moralizing and stereotypes about Blackness, gender and who deserves retribution. These are genuine and valid critiques of Perry’s work. And they deserve interrogation.

However, part of Perry’s brand positioning is an understanding that there’s a cap on the quality of his movies. Nobody watches them expecting an Academy Award-winning film or anything remotely close to it. Even his fans will tell you that his best movies are good “for Tyler Perry.” See, his universe includes its own unique rating system. And if Rotten Tomatoes gives a movie 0%, then the movie has sold itself, as that’s even more incentive for fans to either defend his work or for critics to tune in to see just how bad the movie could be. That level of engagement is music to any streamer’s ears, as all they want is eyes on their product, which Perry provides.

At this point, Tyler Perry is too powerful for anyone to make him do anything he doesn’t want to do. And he doesn’t seem to want to make better art. He can regurgitate the same tropes to varying levels of outlandishness and guard himself with his legacy and good deeds. He can make poorly-reviewed movies because people are still going to watch them. He can cover his issues with unions in charity to the most forward-facing actors in his employ. And he can continue to be the powerful, self-sufficient Hollywood force with no path to slowing down.

That’s the Tyler Perry experience. And it’s something to remember next time a movie opens with something as nonsensical as a family pulling a dead man from his casket.

Many marriages end poorly with heartbreak, sadness and often bitterness. But the end doesn’t mean the path to that conclusion was a failure. If enough time passes, the former couple can sometimes look back on the success they had: the families they built, the love they shared and the moments that felt like love would last forever.

One day, the Golden State Warriors and free agent guard Klay Thompson, who reportedly has joined the Dallas Mavericks after a sign-and-trade with the Warriors, will be able to come together to celebrate the wins they curated together. But for now, the split after 13 years together has felt as emotional a separation as we’ll see in an NBA full of short-term contracts and player-personnel juggling. As a result, we are in the bitter throes of a nasty divorce a year in the making, one that both parties will have to heal from before being able to celebrate their generational successes.

A year ago, it seemed impossible for Thompson to part from the Warriors – to part from his fellow Splash Brother, guard Stephen Curry, and break up the trio they built with forward Draymond Green. However, bitter feelings, mistrust and disrespect has caused enough damage in the past year to the point that a bridge was broken. But it wasn’t broken in one devastating crash. The hinges wore down. The cables withered. And the structure couldn’t withstand the weight of the tension that was a year in the making.

There was Thompson watching the Warriors prioritize the Green and Jordan Poole contracts. There was Thompson being benched and replaced with rookie Brandin Podziemski. There was a year of discontent – news conferences where Thompson held his head down, ruminated on his future and let the world know he was feeling the anxiety of the negotiations. All leading to an offseason of relative silence where neither side moved toward one another all while Golden State was openly lobbying for trades to obtain LA Clippers guard Paul George, a player who would certainly replace Thompson.

Until finally, it was over. Thompson wanted out and he got out, heading to a Dallas team that just made the NBA Finals and is all but guaranteed to end the year better off than the reeling Warriors.

This next season will be full of surreal moments. We’ll see Thompson guarding Curry. We’ll see Green fouling Thompson. The Warriors’ one-time rival, Mavericks guard Kyrie Irving, who hit the game-winner against the Warriors in Game 7 of the 2016 Finals, will be dapping up and celebrating along with Thompson. And we may even see Game 6 Klay being Game 6 Klay for a team other than the Warriors.

It’ll all be hard for Warriors fans to stomach, and rightfully so. The situation is similar to the way Ray Allen left the Boston Celtics in 2012. He was part of an iconic Big 3, though it wasn’t as long-standing as the Warriors’ trio. He left as a free agent to join the rival Heat and Celtics fans had to watch Allen nail a clutch shot that helped the Heat win a championship in 2013. The relationship between Allen and his teammates remained severed for years, until time healed the wounds.

While Thompson, his Warriors teammates and the organization as a whole probably won’t have the type of frigid years that the Celtics had with Allen, there will at least be some awkwardness – maybe even some things said that both sides would like to take back. But eventually they’ll come back to each other. Maybe it’ll be a symbolic 10-day contract at the end of Thompson’s career. Maybe it’ll come when his jersey is retired, or even when the statue is built in front of Chase Center (Thompson should get two, by the way: one by himself and one statue that features him, Green, Curry and maybe Andre Iguodala, together). Whenever that moment comes, everyone will be able to reflect on the moments that made Thompson one of the most beloved players any franchise has ever had.

They’ll be able to look back on the 37 points in one quarter. The Game 6 vs. the Thunder in 2016 that changed the course of the NBA. The championships. The return from the tunnel with a torn ACL where Thompson tried to get back on defense before being pulled off the court for his own good. His return more than two years later from the ACL injury and a torn Achilles. And the final championship in 2022 after he and the rest of the Warriors had been counted out, building themselves back into a title team.

It’s these moments that will last beyond the sadness and shock that everyone is feeling right now. Thompson, the Warriors and their fans will eventually move past what they are experiencing now and look back at their relationship with the fondness they had before he left.

What will last is the love they shared, and that’s all you can ask for in any partnership. That will never go away, no matter how much despair is in the air right now.

Two years later, as Smith celebrates the success of Bad Boys: Ride or Die with Martin Lawrence and a return to music at the BET Awards stage Sunday, the slap is still litigated in the court of public opinion. However, the movie’s success reminds us that Smith would never lose the support of Black folks, especially in light of the glaring double standards he has been facing.

Smith is one of the brightest stars Hollywood has ever seen, dropping $100 million-grossing movies before it was the norm. In the 1990s, Smith had a top-rated TV show, chart-topping music singles and some of the biggest box office hits of any given summer. Through it all, Smith became one of the most beloved figures in pop culture, especially in Black pop culture.

However, that relationship with Black fans would become strained in later years as the man who was once given the blessing to play legendary boxer Muhammad Ali would lean into bizarre, questionable career pivots. He made a slew of poorly-received movies such as After Earth in 2013, and his front-page headlines were mostly reserved for rumors about his marriage to Jada Pinkett Smith and speculation about connections to Scientology. During these years, Smith struggled to maintain the reverence and relevance he had received through his prime years of popularity.

“I think that Black people have this understanding that the more successful you are within Black Hollywood you are also more isolated from Black people and Black culture,” said Saida Grundy, associate professor of sociology at Boston University. “We still love you, but we understand this is part of Hollywood.”

Smith underwent a career reinvention in 2017 when he officially launched his Instagram page with a carefully curated series of viral videos, inspirational messages and a glimpse into the charismatic Will Smith we grew up with. Even as Smith and Pinkett Smith overshared about their marriage in internet-breaking moments of drama that no one asked for, he still struggled to find his return to box office dominance. Still, the genius of his social media team (and a best-selling memoir) maintained that connection with his fans.

Then the Oscars happened.

Smith entered Oscar night in March 2022 as the prohibitive favorite. He became the sixth Black man to win the Best Actor award for portraying tennis players Venus and Serena Williams’ father, Richard, in King Richard. The movie was a clear push for that Oscar win that eluded Smith, and his victory felt like a foregone conclusion, a coronation of a multiple-decade run. But, as you know, things went wrong.

Rock made the G.I. Jane joke about Pinkett Smith, comparing her hair to the Demi Moore movie character’s buzz cut. Will approached the stage and slapped Rock before screaming the now-infamous phrase, “Keep my wife’s name out of your f—ing mouth.” And millions of people were left shocked.

It was one of the most bizarre, unexpected, jarring moments in such a public, celebrity-filled venue. Even now, when I watch the video again, it feels like artificial intelligence. The Slap was more than a viral moment. It was a cultural firestorm. Even Smith’s most diehard fans would have to admit he did something wrong. Yes, Rock made a joke about his wife. Yes, there seems to be legitimate bad blood somewhere under the surface. But it’s hard — if not impossible — to defend Smith’s antics.

Then the reactions poured in, and it was clear that as wrong as Smith was, the double standards and racial politics would inevitably be the elephant in the room. And if there’s one thing that will get Black people to rally around another Black person — especially one who hasn’t affronted Black people as a whole — it’s the presence of double standards and mistreatment based on said person’s Blackness. 

“White supremacy has always operated by associating bad manners, untowards behavior and violence with the people they are oppressing,” Grundy said. “There was something to them that was jarring about a Black man having the freedom and liberty to walk on that stage. We understand the unspoken.”

When director Judd Apatow tweeted and deleted that Smith could have “killed’ Rock with a sentence like “That’s pure out of control rage and violence,” or when comedian Amy Schumer posted that she still felt “triggered and traumatized” days later, it felt like overblown reactions. And to Black folks, it felt like exaggerated responses based on a history of racial politics that pinpoint Black men as savagely violent, yes, even when other Black people piled on.

Smith was wrong, but the words used to describe what happened left Black folks wondering if these same words would be used for a white man who did the same thing. The subsequent Oscars ban — Smith can’t attend the ceremony for 10 years — also revealed a double standard in light of who has and hasn’t faced bans. Smith’s name is now grouped with a list of convicted sex offenders like former film producer Harvey Weinstein and comedian Bill Cosby. And he’s on a list that doesn’t include any of the men who have been accused of having abused women.

So when Smith was set to release Bad Boys: Ride or Die this summer, his first full-on attempt at a summer blockbuster since the slap, publications were quick to bring the incident back up, with headlines such as the one in Variety that wondered if fans are willing to “forgive” him for the slap two years ago. The questions were accompanied by box office prognostications that the movie would make anywhere from $30 million to $45 million in its opening week. The movie surpassed those predictions with $56 million.

It’s another reminder of the disconnect between the media, Hollywood and Black audiences, especially in how we see Smith, his star power and the slap. 

While Hollywood may not have been ready to forgive Smith, Black audiences showed that we’d moved on from a bad moment two years ago. If you want proof, look at the fact that Black viewers made up 44% of the audience for Bad Boys: Ride or Die. Smith has leaned into those audiences for the movie’s rollout, surprising audiences in mostly Black theaters and appearing on Black outlets like Sway in the Morning on SiriusXM. It didn’t hurt that Will’s latest blockbuster is also a return to a franchise that was always geared at Black audiences, one that started with the two biggest Black TV stars of the 1990s and always resonated with Black viewers. The same Black viewers who, for the most part, chastised and criticized Smith for The Slap and moved on.

So, is Hollywood ready to forgive Will Smith? It doesn’t totally matter. He has the support of Black fans who were already there. And it’s clearly enough for him to reclaim his status as a summer blockbuster star.

Less than a day after “Meet the Grahams” hit the internet, Lamar dropped “Not Like Us,” and everything changed. The song was the final knockout blow to Drake. And on Juneteenth when he performed it five times to end Wednesday’s “The Pop Out: Ken and Friends” show, presented by Amazon Music, turning a track — and a moment — centered on his disdain for a rival rapper into a moment of unity. And love.

When it was announced that Lamar would host a concert in the Kia Forum in Inglewood, California, fans immediately began speculating about what Kung Fu Kenny would do at the show. After all, his dissection of Drake had been so strategic, calculated, and relentless that anything was possible. Would he drop a new song? Would he parade out every rapper who’s ever dissed Drake? Would there be a release of some new, devastating information about Toronto’s very own?

Lamar did none of those things. Instead, he performed his Drake disses interspersed between some of his biggest hits to create a show that rivaled any we’ve seen in rap and the best rap concert I’ve ever enjoyed through a TV screen.

But don’t get it twisted: He started with the Drake stuff. Namely, opening his set with the full six-minute version of “Euphoria,” his first full song in the battle. Artists usually don’t perform rap songs this long, especially those that are mostly just bars, at concerts. And they definitely don’t have the audience belting out every word. But “Euphoria” is different. It’s one of the greatest diss tracks ever released and full of lines like “what is it, the braids?” that are endlessly quotable. Lamar’s breath control during the show allowed him to articulate every line of the song with perfect inflection. And while “Euphoria” includes an endless barrage of Drake jabs, if you looked at the fans as they rapped along, they were screaming out lyrics with pure joy on their faces. Because Lamar’s concert was about more than a vicious round of attacks on an enemy. It was a celebration.

Most of the show’s body was a trip down Lamar’s memory lane. He reminded us that he has always had hits and anthemic songs like “Money Trees” and “Humble.” The former came with a guest appearance from Jay Rock with the rest of Black Hippy, Schoolboy Q and AB-Soul, jumping in and out of songs for a long-awaited group reunion. Finally, we got a shock Dr. Dre appearance, which was the show’s only blemish as it’s another example of alleged abusers being platformed in moments that are supposed to promote ideas of Black unity, again putting all of us, especially Black women, in a place of having to overlook harm to get to the enjoyment.

After Dr. Dre exited the stage, it was time for the main event: “Not Like Us.”

When Lamar dropped the song a few weeks ago, there was that dark cloud over the battle. If “Euphoria” was Lamar as rap’s big, bad boogeyman, “Not Like Us” was him as a gentle but dangerous giant putting the entire West Coast on his back, crushing anything in his way.

With one infectious, silly, playful song, Lamar turned the feud into a moment of joy. Yes, the song includes some of the most pointed and ferocious lyrics of the battle — besides asserting that Drake tried to colonize the Atlanta sound, Lamar also straight-up calls him a pedophile. But it’s also become something more than a track about Drake.

“Not Like Us” is a rebuke of culture vultures. It’s a song about reclaiming Black American culture from people who dive in, glean what they want from it, and try to steal it for themselves. It’s a song that evokes pride and joy beyond a simple one-on-one rap squabble. Yes, Drake was the bomb’s target, but the shrapnel of “Not Like Us” can land on anyone within a five-mile ideological radius. When the song was released, viral clips showed parties full of Black people joyously singing along, dancing and embracing. “Not Like Us” became a No. 1 hit and the song of the summer.

Lamar understood the cultural impact of the song. So he finished his set with five performances of “Not Like Us.” The first three seconds of the first rendition took the roof off the Forum as fans erupted having heard the song they showed up to sing along to — but Lamar stopped after the first verse. Then he started the song over and was silent as the entire crowd rapped every word. May I remind you, the song is 6 weeks old. The third time, he rapped the song with producer DJ Mustard on stage.

He did it again as the stage began to fill up with as many luminaries from all walks of West Coast life, from NBA ballers Russell Westbrook and DeMar DeRozan to rappers YG and Schoolboy Q and, yes, even Tommy the Clown. Lamar made it a point to mention that the stage was full of people from different sections of the LA area, representing different gangs, some of them rivals, all coming together peacefully and celebratory for a Juneteenth party. Then we got the song again. And again.

Even though Lamar was rapping about Drake, it didn’t feel like Drake was anywhere near the song anymore. Instead, the lyrics “they not like us” were a rallying cry for maintaining culture and identity in the face of those who try to take it away. It was a moment of triumph in a city where some of the biggest streaming events of the past few years were funerals for rapper Nipsey Hussle and Los Angeles Lakers legend Kobe Bryant. It felt like a balm for a whole region.

The Pop Out concert, especially the ending, was a moment for Kendrick and the entire West Coast to remind us that they are bigger than their tragedies. They’re resilient in their peace. Unyielding in their happiness. They’re unwavering in their love of the culture and unabashed in their willingness to dance when joy is at their feet. These are the things they popped out and showed us. 

Five times.

Five performances of a song that is the unofficial Juneteenth ’24 anthem. “Not Like Us” is a defining West Coast song that will never go away. It’ll be remembered for how it closed out Lamar’s victory lap over Drake. It’ll be remembered for the unforgettable moments and the dancing we saw on stage Wednesday night. But it’ll also be remembered as the song that turned a battle of negativity into a chance to remind ourselves that we are dope.

As Lamar and about 50 of his closest friends exited the stage at the Kia Forum, “Not Like Us” played one last time. It reminded us that while the song’s initial goal was to put the final nail in Drake’s proverbial coffin, Drake’s destruction is now a byproduct of a song that united, restored and reminded.

This is how a battle based on hate turned into an anthem that showed us love.

Through it all, I’ve vacillated between aspiring to be like Kendrick Lamar and envying him for the way he’s punished someone he feels so strongly about. I’ve dreamed about wanting to inflict this type of embarrassment and harm on people I despise, but watching the fallout from Rap’s Big Feud has made me reconsider.

Let me explain.

There are a handful of people in the world who I actively hate. 

Former friends. Former family members. People I once trusted. And people who have felt the comfort of cold silences and passive aggression for years. The thing they have in common is an acute ability to gaslight to the point that they can pretend any act of vengeance would be unprompted. But I know what they’ve done to me. And I know what they deserve. 

If you’re reading this, I’m sure you’ve been here, too. The problem with these cold wars is that the person who finally pushes the button to heat things up looks like the unprompted aggressor. So we wait. We wait for the moment the enemy slips up and reveals themselves deserving of our wrath. But when you wait too long, that desire to attack begins to eat at you. Until that anger becomes part of you.

I find myself creating fictional interactions where I’m prompted to unload on the people I despise. Where I can finally tell them — and, honestly, the world — how I feel and why these people deserve the bad things my particular wrath would bring to their lives.

When I’m in the shower, I let the water wash over my face while I mouth what I’d say to my enemies if the moment came when their plausible deniability disappeared, and they did the thing that allowed me to be my most brutal self to them. 

I’ve dreamed about it. A lot. 

But I’ve also spent the last few weeks thinking about Drake’s retreat and where that leaves Kendrick Lamar. Professionally, Lamar will probably bask in his victory — there’s a rumored “Not Like Us” video dropping soon — before fading back to his life of calm in between albums. He’ll still have to weather some of the rumors from the feud, namely Drake’s allegations that Lamar abused his partner. Though, admittedly, the burden of responsibility to deny isn’t as heavy for Lamar, considering Drake is the only source of the rumor. Still, a subset of fans will always demand answers from the Compton MC. Lamar will also have to reckon with his own musical contradictions, namely his willingness to get into rumors, mud-slinging, and moralizing about the treatment of women to tear down Drake even though Lamar featured Kodak Black, who plead guilty to first-degree assault and battery of a high school girl in 2021, on his last album, Mr. Morale And The Big Steppers.

These controversies will, for the most part, blow over as Lamar has arguably become rap’s new top dog. It’ll be interesting to see how the rapper who said, “Only you like being famous,” to Drake on the diss record “Euphoria” has now become as famous as Drake and maybe as famous as any rapper has ever been, thanks to the beef that has been the pop culture story of 2024. Lamar’s next album will be as anticipated as any album in rap history. It will likely be brilliant, as he hasn’t given us any reason to expect otherwise.

These predictions are good fodder for barbershop debates and discussions about the state of hip-hop.

What I’m fascinated by is what’s on Kendrick Lamar’s heart and how he’s caring for it.

It’s clear that Lamar has had a deep disdain for Drake since their cold war started a decade ago. As the two traded subliminal jabs, Lamar’s always seemed to contain a deeper vitriol that warned that if/when he and Drake butted heads, it would be a no holds barred fight. When Drake told his rival, “Your sh– is not that inspiring,” Lamar would snarl on beats and drop lines like, “They liable to bury him, they nominated six to carry him,” alluding to Toronto, known as “the Six,” where Drake resides and the idea that he’ll one day die because of their feud.

Lamar carried on like this for years. Every project — from his albums like DAMN and signature “Heart” freestyles to the Black Panther soundtrack — had a handful of disses and warnings aimed at Drake. But it was unclear how much animosity Lamar had built up for all those years until he unleashed his first full-throated diss, “Euphoria,” a few weeks after Drake’s first direct salvo, “Push Ups” dropped. While Drake was rapping about Lamar’s shoe size and his record label earnings, Lamar was saying things like, “I hate the way that you walk, the way you talk, I hate the way that you dress,” in a song that ripped Drake for wanting to appropriate Black American culture and for his feuds with Black women. “Euphoria” felt like Lamar finally exhaling something that had been sitting in his lungs for ten years, burning on its way out.

On “Not Like Us,” the final song of Lamar’s barrage, he raps that he has five more songs recorded to diss Drake. But a few days after its historic release, Drake had seemingly removed himself from the fight. “This sh– was some good exercise,” he rapped on “The Heart Part 6,” his last song in the feud. 

I wonder how Lamar reacted to his opponent backing down and what he feels now, having only released half the songs he’s recorded to let the world know how he feels about Drake. Two of the unreleased songs are rumored to be particularly devastating, but Lamar has already said a lot about Drake — enough to nearly snuff out his superstardom or at least put some clouds in the way of his shine. But knowing he still has twice as many songs in the vault makes me wonder if Kendrick Lamar is content with his victory or if the points at the end of the final nails in the Drake coffin still poke at his flesh. Does he still write lyrics about Drake in his notebook? Is there closure?

It wasn’t until I started thinking about the aftermath of the Kendrick Lamar and Drake feud, particularly the former’s reaction to his victory, that I started thinking beyond my revenge fantasies for those I wanted to aim my own “diss records” toward. I started thinking about what would happen to me after I’ve said what I had to say. When I’ve confronted, fought, embarrassed, humiliated, or even ruined the people I feel deserve it. I don’t know if I’d stop playing out future arguments in the shower. I don’t know if I’d hold on to that hope that they’d ask for it again so I could unload any new slights or deeper cuts. I don’t know what victory would even feel like in matters of emotional violence.

I’d always thought that blasting my enemies would free me of those things I held deep inside. But when I think about Kendrick Lamar and what he’s still holding and what he may or not still be feeling about Drake, I wonder if the sweetness of his victory is accompanied by the freedom from his ill feelings. I’m not gonna lie: despite what my therapists, friends and confidants tell me, I still want to hit people with my own version of “Euphoria.” But I also know it won’t bring me the peace I thought it would. I have to release that on my own. I don’t envy Kendrick Lamar anymore. I envy those who know how to find release without dropping the bombs first. 

I have to want something more than clapbacks, disses and aggression. I have to want the same thing I want for Kendrick, Drake and everyone carrying the weight of disdain for an enemy. 

I have to want to be unburdened by the weight that bogs us down and keeps us knee-deep in mud. My freedom depends on it.

Six games into her rookie season with the Indiana Fever, however, the talk about Clark’s career has been less about her play and more about where she sits in the center of our own sociopolitical projections, with male athletes such as Charles Barkley and LeBron James even chiming in about the way she’s perceived, treated and embraced. Much of the consternation is about the notion that Clark is somehow being mistreated, but the question is who supposedly she is being mistreated by and what it says about what we feel toward the rest of the players in the WNBA.

“You women out there, y’all petty, man,” Barkley said, his brow furrowed as he stared into the camera during the pregame show for Game 1 of the Western Conference finals last Wednesday. “Y’all should be thanking that girl [Clark] for getting y’all ass private charters. All the money and visibility she’s bringing to the WNBA, don’t be petty like dudes. Listen, what she’s accomplished, give her her flowers.”

Barkley’s comments came on the heels of LeBron’s own about Clark on his “Mind The Game” podcast with JJ Redick: “Don’t get it f—ed up. Caitlin Clark is the reason why a lot of great things is going to happen for the WNBA. But for her individually, I don’t think she should get involved on nothing that’s being said. Just go have fun.”

Both James and Barkley allude to negative comments, especially those coming from women in the WNBA toward Clark, but it’s unclear where exactly they think the pettiness is coming from. Who are the women hating on Clark?

You can scour the WNBA discourse online for quotes and be hard-pressed to find comments critical of Clark or any that can be anywhere remotely close to being characterized as “pettiness” or “hating.” Over the past few days, social media has been repeating the same handful of comments that have been misconstrued as negative about Clark. It only takes a few extra seconds to evaluate what was actually said to see that the comments are harmless, and valid.

When Clark’s college rival Angel Reese and her Chicago Sky beat the New York Liberty over the weekend, Reese tweeted out, “And that’s on getting a win in a packed arena, not just cause of one player on our charter flight.” The since-deleted tweet was largely perceived as a slight at Clark, but it was in direct response to Barkley’s statement that it was Clark who’s responsible for the chartered flights. 

Two other widely shared instances of supposed hate didn’t even come from WNBA players. One was a comment from The Atlantic columnist Jemele Hill to the L.A. Times: “We would all be very naive if we didn’t say race and her sexuality played a role in her popularity. While so many people are happy for Caitlin’s success — including the players; this has had such an enormous impact on the game — there is a part of it that is a little problematic because of what it says about the worth and the marketability of the players who are already there.”

Those comments led to a debate on “The View” in which co-host Sunny Hostin said. “I do think that she is more relatable to more people because she’s white, because she’s attractive.”

Both comments essentially say the same thing: race and sexuality play a role in Clark’s popularity. She’s an all-time great college player and a singularly popular star based on her own generational talent, but that’s also aided by her being a straight white woman. That’s how these things work in America. History has shown that if she were a non-white, non-straight superstar with the same talent, she would not be as popular or the megastar she is now. Both Hill and Hostin go out of their way to acknowledge Clark’s greatness, too. That doesn’t stop publications and people on social media from mischaracterizing their comments. Like this. 

If anything, the majority of the commentary about Clark has not only supported her but it’s crept into the unfortunate space of coddling a resilient, tough-as-nails athlete who doesn’t need it. When Clark gets hit with a hard foul, it’s somehow an indictment on the league. When her team struggles (the Fever are 1-6 at the time of this writing), it’s supposed to be a reason for the league to panic, and even rethink its scheduling. This is all despite the fact that hard fouls and early-season losses happen all the time to rookies across all sports – it just happened to Reese on May 25 after Alyssa Thomas delivered a flagrant 2 blow during the game. Yet it’s somehow a uniquely cruel thing when it happens to Clark.

Which brings me back to Barkley’s and James’ comments. They didn’t pinpoint exactly who the haters are because they don’t seem to exist. We’re seeing more fabricated slights at Clark — like anger over Chicago Sky player Brianna Turner’s tweet about pasta being misconstrued as a diss to Clark – than actual direct comments from any WNBA player.

Instead, what we’re dealing with is an age-old stereotype where race and gender are front and center. Because the idea of pettiness toward Clark isn’t about Clark herself, but just about how we treat the women we allege are upset by her success — namely Black women.

One of the prevailing stereotypes about Black women is that they have an inherent jealousy of white women, especially white women they’re supposed to be in competition with. When Black women wear certain hairstyles, they’re told they’re trying to look like white women — Chris Rock made a whole movie perpetuating this notion. When Black men date or marry white women, they sometimes project the idea that Black women are jealous and upset by the interracial relationship — Taye Diggs and Alfonso Ribeiro, among others, have maintained this stance without offering so much as an anecdotal example. And there’s a prevalent belief that the WNBA, which is 70% Black, is full of women who are jealous and threatened by Clark’s superstardom in spite of the fact there isn’t any tangible example to back it up. 

Because if these women were prone to being threatened by any rookie megastar that enters the league, we’d be accusing them of being jealous and petty toward Reese. While she’s not as popular or famous as Clark, Reese is still a superstar who’s garnered mainstream attention, rubbing elbows with celebrities and elevating the star power in the WNBA. Yet there’s no discussion about pettiness or jealousy toward her. Just Clark. And that’s not by mistake.

On May 25, Las Vegas Aces coach Becky Hammon outlined the racial politics in play. “It’s construed as some of our minority Black and brown women are hating on her because she’s white and that is not the case,” she said after the Aces’ 99-80 win against Clark’s Fever. The “hatred” toward Clark only exists in the minds of people who have their own beliefs about how Black women feel about white women, even in the absence of any evidence to back up said beliefs.

But it’s not just the other women in the WNBA who are suffering from how we coddle Clark. It’s Clark herself who suffers. 

Clark, for her part, has done everything right so far. She’s taken her lumps and losses in stride. She’s fought through rough games, excessive turnovers and stout defense to only get better. There’s already a stark difference from the player who was struggling to get by the defense in her first game and the player who hit the dagger shot from the logo to secure the Fever’s first win on May 24. The Fever have back-to-back No. 1 picks in Clark and Aliyah Boston, and most likely another high pick in next year’s draft. The team will be good. Clark will get better. She still has a great chance to be Rookie of the Year and her ceiling is still a multi-time MVP and WNBA champion. Greatness is right around the corner. 

Unfortunately, she’s having to sit at the center of a sociological firestorm. She hasn’t complained or asked for preferential treatment, but when it’s thrust on her it only places more of a microscope on every mistake and loss. When trolls attack Boston for the Fever’s record, causing her to leave social media, or spend years attacking Reese for daring to taunt Clark a year ago, it’s an unfair byproduct of fanatical defenses of Clark. When Reese gets blasted with a flagrant 2 foul, the same people up in arms over how Clark is getting treated on the court don’t find it in their hearts to get outraged over a superstar rookie potentially getting hurt by an aggressive player. When media personalities or fanatics act like Clark is under some unfair duress because she’s losing, it looks like she’s being babied. 

Again, Clark isn’t asking for any of that. She’s just trying to play basketball and be her best self. All of the other stuff takes away from her goal. If you want someone to start getting actual haters and disdain, then treating them like an untouchable savior who should be exalted every time she graces the league with her presence is a surefire place to start.

But let’s imagine that Clark was actually getting targeted. Why would that even be a bad thing? Any time a player has entered any league as the supposed chosen star, they’ve had to prove themselves to be just that. It’s how competition works. ESPN’s Elle Duncan laid out how the pearl-clutching over anyone wanting to unceremoniously welcome Clark to the league reveals a double standard about how women are perceived in sports. 

“It is embarrassing, because if this was the men and you just watched a bunch of other dudes fawn over someone all the time … if that was men, you’d call them weak. That would be a soft move,” Duncan said.

Clark is going to continue being a game-changer for the WNBA. She’s going to be something beautiful for a league that is full of players, past and present, who have paved the way for her to make the splash she’s already made. All we as fans have to do is enjoy it without reducing all parties involved to unsubstantiated characterizations.

Clark doesn’t need our protection, and she especially doesn’t need it from a group of nonexistent aggressors who are based on stereotypes and regressive politics. She and every single woman involved in the WNBA have and always will deserve better.

Butker’s comments have been met with an NFL statement that’s tepid in its rebuking. And while some commentators have ironically turned the “stick to sports” phrase usually aimed at Black athletes who speak up about injustices around on Butker, he most likely won’t suffer any tangible consequences for his comments. It’s a reminder that athletes, especially white athletes, can speak out as much as they want about any number of marginalized groups as long as they are punching down at those who society deems unworthy of defending.

First, it’s important to get into exactly what Butker said and how it reveals larger contradictions about who gets to enjoy freedom of speech in sports. Butker’s commencement speech targeted queer folks, trans folks and women with vitriolic nonsense. The kicker, who is Catholic, encouraged graduates to have Catholic pride but “not the deadly sin sort of pride that has an entire month dedicated to it” — a direct jab at Pride Month. He referred to diversity, equity and inclusion as “tyranny.” He said women’s rights to choose what to do with their bodies as well as “a growing support for degenerate cultural values and media, all stem from the pervasiveness of disorder.”

When speaking about women, Butker encouraged them to embrace serving men as homemakers as their true goal in life: “Some of you may go on to lead successful careers in the world, but I would venture to guess that the majority of you are most excited about your marriage and the children you will bring into this world.”

The entire speech was a barrage of harmful sentences and ventured far beyond the world of opinion and free speech into hate speech (his speech was denounced by the Benedictine sisters of Mount St. Scholastica, a sponsor of Benedictine College, on Friday). The rhetoric Butker employs here is the same type of rhetoric that incites violence against marginalized people across the world. And yet, the NFL released a lukewarm statement, distancing itself from the comments without actually making any strong stance: “Harrison Butker gave a speech in his personal capacity. His views are not those of the NFL as an organization. The NFL is steadfast in our commitment to inclusion, which only makes our league stronger.”

When athletes like Butker use their platforms as a means to disparage marginalized groups, it’s always going to conjure up comparisons to one of the NFL’s most unforgettable sins: the excommunication of Colin Kaepernick.

The former 49ers quarterback famously had the audacity to kneel during the national anthem — a direct protest action to bring attention to the oppression of Black people in America. His public protest — which, again, was to bring attention to actual injustices — resulted in him being labeled a “distraction” and essentially made him persona non grata in the NFL, ending his career.

The NFL’s — and so much of America’s — treatment of Kaepernick will always be the elephant in the room whenever an NFL player is politically outspoken. We’ll always remember the lengths the league went to suppress Kaep and ban kneeling across the league. The comments about “inmates running the prison” and the panic over players inserting politics into sports will echo across the league forever. But that panic doesn’t seem to extend to players when they use abusive language against marginalized communities.

I know that some will say that Kaepernick was different because he did this on the field, but we live in a social media world of total access. Players don’t leave their politics at the stadium door before taking the field, just like they don’t stop being an athlete when they sit in front of a podcast mic or a commencement speech podium. 

You can’t ignore the hypocrisy of people like Kaepernick being told to stick to sports while Butker is praised by those same ideologues for ranting about the LGBTQIA+ community as an abomination. Some people will read this and talk about Kaepernick being unpatriotic or un-American, but that falls flat on the same week that New York Jets quarterback and full-time podcaster Aaron Rodgers praised Russian president Vladimir Putin while criticizing President Joe Biden. That’s got to be actually unpatriotic, no?

And just as Rodgers has been able to insert politics and conspiracies on every platform he feels like, Butker will never have to worry about his politics impacting his football career. And any number of men, no matter their race, will continue to have careers unabated by their abuses of women because that’s how sports and the NFL operate.

The only players who feel the wrath of “cancel culture” are those who actually uplift marginalized communities. The rest who use language and violence to harm the most vulnerable among us won’t feel the wrath of so-called cancellation. That’s just not how this has ever worked. 

Stick to sports. Shut up and dribble. Accusations of being unpatriotic. Being called a distraction. These are all words that gaslight. They’re coded language that poorly masks what’s actually being said: Your career is only in jeopardy if you speak up for those who actually need it.

Butker will have a career in the NFL as long as he can kick a football. He’ll also use his abhorrent comments as a jumpstart to his post-NFL career of giving speeches … about how his freedom of speech is being jeopardized.

We’ve been waiting for Lamar and Drake to air out their grievances for a decade, ever since Lamar called out Drake on Big Sean’s “Control” in 2013. The two have been trading subtle jabs since, and it was only a matter of time before we got a full-on battle. The fight would always happen — think Manny Pacquiao versus Floyd Mayweather, which boxing fans demanded for years — the two best in the world circling each other with rap fans anticipating the eventual matchup. But unlike the boxing match, Drake and Lamar are meeting in their prime. Their jabs are as crisp as ever, and their haymakers are still to be feared.

At the start of this battle, it was clear Lamar had a plan. Each song he dropped left a breadcrumb for a later one and a hint that a big left hook was waiting. Drake’s responses, especially his poorly executed “Taylor Made Freestyle,” which used artificial intelligence to mimic Tupac Shakur and Snoop Dogg’s voices, have felt more off-the-cuff and reactive. That tension between calculation and spontaneity played out Friday as the day started with Lamar’s “6:16 in LA.” He posted the song to Instagram along with a zoomed-in picture of a pair of Maybach driving gloves and spent three minutes alleging Drake can’t trust his friends and he has leaks in his camp. The song, again, was precise and sent the internet on a scavenger hunt to find hidden meanings: Did 6:16 refer to Shakur’s birthday, Father’s Day, the date “Euphoria” aired, Bible scriptures or any other theory hip-hop Reddit could uncover? The song made it known that Lamar at least had an idea of what Drake was planning, and it was all because his inner circle wasn’t so inner: “Are you finally ready to play have-you-ever? Let’s see / Have you ever thought that OVO is workin’ for me?”

“6:16 in LA” dropped days after Lamar’s “Euphoria,” making it two records in a row. This flipped Drake’s most famous victory, his 2015 “Back To Back” moment where he released two consecutive songs dissing Meek Mill. Lamar also continued his deep character analysis and deconstruction of Drake. Still, it felt like he was holding something back, promising there was more he wasn’t saying.

As the day went on, it seemed inevitable that we’d hear Drake’s response sooner rather than later. DJ Akademiks, the Brian Windhorst to Drake’s LeBron James, alluded to something happening. And as we crept closer to midnight, the response felt inevitable.

In Friday’s late hours, Drake unveiled a seven-minute music video called “Family Matters,” where he unloaded on everyone from Rick Ross to The Weeknd and A$AP Rocky. In a vacuum, this song would be one of the strongest diss records of all time as each of those artists caught serious heat from Drake (“I ain’t even know you rapped still ’cause they only talkin’ ’bout your ‘fit again,” he hilariously tells A$AP Rocky). But those were appetizers. The song would always be made by what he would say to and about Lamar.

“Family Matters” is some of the best rapping Drake’s done in his career. He knew he was up against the premier lyricist of our era, and he stepped up tremendously. “They shook about what I’ma say, but textin’ your phone like, ‘We already won,’” he raps with a command of the beat that flexes why he’s more than the singing and dancing pop act Lamar has tried to portray him as. The song isn’t without some cringeworthy moments, not the least of which is the line, “Always rappin’ like you ’bout to get the slaves freed,” as a pejorative. It’s just an odd line to employ, especially as many of the jabs aimed at Drake focuses on his relation to Blackness. It’s also reminiscent of his “whipped and chained like Black American slaves” line from last year’s “Slime You Out.”

That line was buried, though, by so many of the other noteworthy moments in the song. Drake used “Family Matters” to levy some major accusations at Lamar, namely that he abuses his partner and that his child’s father is supposedly Lamar’s longtime collaborator and business partner, Dave Free. The song had everything that a knockout blow in 2024 requires, for better or worse: accusations, tea, lyricism, wittiness and vitriol. The song should have been the talk of the weekend.

But, again, Lamar was ready. Mere minutes after “Family Matters” dropped, Lamar released his second diss record of the day with “Meet the Grahams.” This time, the album art is the same as “6:16 in LA,” but the image is zoomed out to show alleged prescriptions to Ozempic and other medications in Drake’s name. The song features a haunting beat by Alchemist (the producer supposedly sent it to Lamar without knowing what it’d be used for) that has the Compton, California, MC in a near-whisper taking turns addressing everyone in Drake’s family, from his son to his mother, his father, and an alleged 11-year-old daughter Drake kept a secret.

The song is not enjoyable to listen to and doesn’t feel like it was intended to be. 

Hearing “Meet the Grahams” feels like listening to a terrifying voice note meant for one person to consume. Lamar opens the song, talking to Drake’s son Adonis telling the 6-year-old, “Dear Adonis, I’m sorry that that man is your father, let me be honest / It takes a man to be a man, your dad is not responsive.”

Lamar follows with more revelations and accusations, this time claiming Drake and his label, OVO Sound, are involved in sex trafficking. He even compares Drake to Harvey Weinstein, the former film producer and convicted sex offender. This was it. This was everything Lamar had been alluding to in his previous songs, and it was uncomfortable to hear. The sheer power and viciousness of “Meet the Grahams” and the timing, adding to the belief that Kendrick had access to people in Drake’s camp, overshadowed Drake’s release.

And it felt like the definitive victory for Lamar.

The adrenaline from Friday — rap’s biggest luminaries trading diss records in real time — was exhilarating. It was one of the most exciting nights in rap. But we’ll be left with some tough realities when that rush wears off. The allegations the two men levied at each other — domestic violence, sex trafficking, general mistreatment of women — are severe. And it’s even more troubling to address when each man’s feigned concern for women falls apart under interrogation. Drake raps like he’s appalled by Lamar allegedly beating women in the same song he shouts-out rapper Chris Brown and after years of defending Tory Lanez, who shot Megan Thee Stallion. Lamar can talk about his concern for women, but that falls flat when he used his last album as a way to platform Kodak Black, who had been accused of raping a high school girl before pleading guilty to a lesser charge of first-degree assault and battery in 2021.

Neither man has any moral high ground when it comes to this issue. They just sound like they’re parading out Black women’s trauma to one-up each other in a hypermasculine rap feud. And it will only serve to have rabid fans digging up dirt on the women who get name-checked in each song while also looking up clues to identify an unnamed 11-year-old girl who may or may not exist.

This is how rap feuds go, of course, with women as props for male rappers to insult one another. And it’s a trope that’s as tiresome as it is unnecessary, childish and harmful for no reason. Shakur did it to Faith Evans when he dissed Biggie. Jay-Z did it to Carmen Bryan when he went at Nas. And Pusha T did it to Sophie Brussaux when he dissed Drake. Rappers sling mud, reveal dark secrets, and go for the proverbial death blow, with women being both the nuclear bomb and the collateral damage.

If this is the final stage of this feud, then we’ve seen enough. It’s over, and it’s time to call it anyway. Lamar out-rapped and out-executed Drake from beginning to end — that’s hard to debate. But we’ve also veered so far away from what we came here for — a battle of lyrics and wit — that there’s no point in continuing.

We’ve had our heavyweight fight. We’ve had a night we won’t forget. If Drake and Lamar want to return to show who can rap better, let’s do it. But we may have strayed too far into something else, something too personal entirely, and it doesn’t feel like the next moves will be fun.

“Euphoria” is a chaotic surgical dissection of Aubrey Graham. It’s at once playful — Kendrick talking about how much he likes Drake’s singing and wanting him to keep doing that is hilarious — and venomous. Lamar layers insult on top of insult. Some of them are as direct as possible: “I hate the way that you walk, the way that you talk, I hate the way that you dress, I hate the way that you sneak diss.” Other insults take longer to decipher, like when Kendrick says, “V12, it’s a fast one,” he’s not talking about an engine, he’s actually talking about a machine that helps people lose weight, referring to the rumored cosmetic procedures Drake has had in recent years.

The challenge of dissing someone as culturally omnipresent as Drake is that we’ve already heard it all. He’s one of the most memed rappers ever, having already weathered Pusha T’s allegations that he is an absent father and Meek Mill’s claims that he uses ghostwriters. Recently, Rick Ross dissed Drake by repeatedly calling him a “white boy,” and clowning his private jet. So grabbing a unique insult was always going to be a challenge. But Lamar takes all the low-hanging fruit and adds something to each one.

For instance, instead of calling Drake “white boy,” Lamar insinuates that Drake uses Black culture — specifically Black American culture — as a costume for fame. “How many more Black features till you finally feel that you’re Black enough?” he asks Drake on the song. When Lamar says that he doesn’t think his opponent likes women, it’s not a jab at Drake’s sexuality. It’s about his history of insults and feuds with women. And beneath the surface of it all are the veiled threats that he’s willing to talk about Drake’s history of interactions with underage girls that are questionable at best. Like the double entendre of the word “pacify” in the line “you make music that pacify ’em.” At more than six minutes long, “Euphoria” is sensory overload and lyrically dense.

His follow-up, “6:16 in LA,” released via Instagram, is a calmer, kinder open-heart surgery. The song is another warning to Drake that he has disloyal friends in his circle, and Lamar has dirt on the Toronto rapper that he’s unafraid of scooping up and dumping on the world. And he did it all over multifaceted bars that will take days to dissect.

Throughout both tracks, Lamar slips in and out of pockets and styles, using multisyllabic internal rhymes and metaphors to construct a song that’s as blistering as it is layered.

Frankly, they’re the type of songs Drake has never seemed to be able to pull off.

This isn’t a slight to Drake, who is a great rapper in his own right and can make great music without the lyrical flexing Lamar does. There aren’t many artists in the world who can put words together like Lamar.

Drake certainly tried. After “Like That” dropped, Toronto’s own responded in 21 days with “Push Ups,” but it was light work instead of the knockout blow some were hoping for. Drake had to respond to Lamar but didn’t want to play his entire hand. So he decided to toss in sophomoric insults about Lamar’s shoe size and height, which are fair game and entertaining enough, before talking about Lamar owing half of his publishing to his former label, Top Dawg Records. Drake followed it up with “Taylor Made Freestyle,” which employed AI versions of Tupac Shakur and Snoop Dogg to diss Lamar. The song was mainly a troll, a play on social media to bait Lamar into a response. It seemed like Drake was just checking off the boxes required of him so far: He had to respond to Kendrick in some fashion, especially after the embarrassment of bowing out of the Pusha T feud without a definitive comeback. However, the tenor of his battle with Lamar would always be predicated on how aggressively the Compton, California, MC would approach the battle and how Drake would have to respond.

For now, that’s where the battle is being held, with the two megastars fixing their narratives to convince fans of how they should determine a victor.

“Push Ups” is fought on Drake’s home turf, where he raps about publishing deals, topping charts and who holds the most power in the industry. It makes sense for Drake to want to keep the fight there, as his chart numbers are untouchable. So when Rick Ross claims to have more money than Drake, it feels hollow and unbelievable. Lamar knows this and isn’t concerned about fighting about charts and money (“only you like being famous,” he raps on “Euphoria”). He said as much on “Like That” when he said, “Prince outlived Mike Jack,” alluding to the fact that artistic respect was more important than record sales to him.

My artistic preference leans toward Lamar’s version of this beef. I don’t care about the rappers’ record deals or who has the most hits. I care about who will deploy the most masterful teardowns of their opponents. And these teardowns need to be set to music. Drake won’t win with memes and social media jokes. His destruction of Meek Mill was complete, thanks to two great diss songs and a shrewd understanding of the internet. Those social media accouterments won’t work in this battle. This is about music. And now it’s Drake’s turn to show that he can make the music that makes rap’s lyrical demigod bleed.

Even if Drake fails, he will try, showing him at his most motivated to prove doubters wrong. So, at the very least, we get new music from two of rap’s biggest stars who are determined to be their best. When the dust settles, both of their careers will be fine. They’ll both be safe. 

It’ll be us, the fans, who stand to benefit from the same type of competition that rap was built upon. For now, we wait. because it’s only going to get better.

Minnesota Timberwolves guard Anthony Edwards’ series-ending dunk on Phoenix Suns forward Kevin Durant on Sunday, completing the Timberwolves’ four-game sweep over the Suns, was not peaceful. It was a violent, explosive dunk that grabbed the torch flame-first and cemented Edwards as the future, while leaving Durant empty-handed at the twilight of his career.

Even though Durant’s Suns came into the series against Edwards’ Timberwolves as the lower sixth seed, it was the most likely upset in the first round. The Timberwolves had been unproven, young, and prone to late-season meltdowns like they did two years ago when they blew the most fourth-quarter double digits leads ever in a playoff series against the Memphis Grizzlies and last year when their team imploded after Wolves center Rudy Gobert threw punches at his teammate, forward Kyle Anderson. If any team was going to fold against a veteran squad like Phoenix — led by Durant, who’s had four NBA Finals appearances and two championships — it would be the Timberwolves.

That’s where Edwards comes in. 

At just 22 years old, Edwards has become the emotional leader and the most important player on a team that already had 16-year point guard, Mike Conley, four-time All-Star Karl-Anthony Towns and the aforementioned Gobert, who has won defensive player of the year three times. Edwards has made no secret of his admiration and idolization of Durant, who entered the league when Edwards was still in elementary school. But Edwards still went at his hero — talking trash from the moment he got his first isolation play on Durant — and he never relented, culminating in a decisive 40-point performance in Game 4 that snuffed out Durant’s respectable 33-point effort.

We’ve never seen Durant so thoroughly outplayed in a playoff series before, especially since he entered his prime. The thought of anyone being able to seemingly demoralize one of the greatest scorers the league has ever seen felt impossible when the series started, let alone years ago when Durant was lording over the NBA with the Golden State Warriors. But it happened with complete destruction.

Which brings us back to the dunk. 

Every year brings a number of unforgettable dunks, but it’s rare that one single moment of airborne impact can shift the trajectory of the sport. 

In 1983, NBA great Julius Erving had his legendary dunk over Los Angeles Lakers guard Michael Cooper, marking that it was his year to be the best in the league and its champion. In 1991, Chicago Bulls star Michael Jordan shook two New York Knicks players before dunking on rival Knicks center Patrick Ewing on his way to his first championship. The dunk signified Jordan’s emergence as the new king of the game. In 1994, Warriors center Chris Webber invoked another changing of the guard taking the ball behind-the-back before dunking on Suns forward Charles Barkley, signaling that a new generation of power forwards who took their influence from Barkley, the Round Mound of Rebound, would soon take over the NBA.

Edwards over KD caused the same type of tectonic shift. 

With just about two minutes left in Game 4, Edwards took Beal on an isolation. Between the legs dribble. Hesitation with the left hand. A first step that moved at supersonic speed. And an elevation. Durant started to jump to block, but realized he couldn’t reach Edwards’ apex. So he bailed mid-jump. But his body was still present enough to get eviscerated by the furiousness of the impact.

It’s an apt metaphor for the series: Durant realizing, for once in his career, that he can’t reach the heights of his adversary.

It has to be a humbling feeling, and one felt across the league as my generation’s luminaries are seeing their sports mortality. We’re already facing a playoffs in which LeBron James, Stephen Curry and Durant won’t make it out of the first round. We’re a few days away from the possibility that Denver Nuggets center Nikola Jokić will be the only MVP winner to make it to the second round this season. Maybe the previous champions have second and third winds in the coming years, but those deep playoff runs feel more like one-offs than signifiers of new dynasties. Durant, though, has had the most unusual career of those champions, and a future that seems the most dire.

Durant’s Suns have no first round draft picks from 2025 to 2030. He’s already expressed frustration with the way he was used in the Phoenix offense. Will he force his way out, which would mean sending him to his third team since leaving Golden State in 2019 and the fifth team in his career, or will he stay with a Suns organization that doesn’t seem to have a path to a championship and his “only” two titles coming after joining a Warriors team that had just broken the record for regular-season games. Either way, Durant will have had a career that’s hard to quantify.

He’ll end his career well within the top 10 of total points ever scored and having taken two franchises to the Finals, yet he may never have a statue built in front of any NBA arena. Durant has been on some version of a superteam or Big 3 for the past 15 years and hasn’t made it out of the second round since he left the Warriors in 2019. Sure, there are some very unique circumstances behind the disappointments, but Durant has been the leader of each of these teams.

This season, teaming up with Devin Booker (who scored 49 points on Sunday) and Bradley Beal was supposed to be his best chance to break that spell. But it all fell apart sooner than anyone expected. Now, Durant is left looking up at the future crashing down on his head.

The unknown in all of this is what does Edwards do now? He was always going to eventually land after taking off to dunk on Durant, but his career is primed to keep rising indefinitely. His next opponent is the league’s current immovable object in two-time MVP Jokic.

While the Nuggets are going to be favorites, the results of this series won’t be as telling as what will happen in the years to come. Edwards, with his gritty defense, million-dollar smile, atomic dunks and unnerved demeanor, started the season up next, but he’s up now. He finds himself somewhere that’s become familiar to him in any given game: looking down at anyone who dares to block his path before they realize there’s no point in even trying.

This is what happens when you have a torch, and you’re ready to set fire to anything in your way.