Dear Sauce,

Before I get to your recent posts about politics, I want to share a quote you may not have heard. No, it’s not from Amber Rose, whose appearance at the Republican National Convention felt like a cynical attempt to court young Black voters. But during the opening night of the gathering on Monday, Sen. Tim Scott of South Carolina — the only Black Republican in the Senate — said this:

“America is not a racist country.”

He’s been pushing this rhetoric for years now. Massive applause from the overwhelmingly white crowd co-signed the statement — not because it was historically accurate, but because it appeased their senses. But Scott was selling Black people short to win the approval of those who are actively working to limit our rights (just Google Project 2025). While Scott’s statement is easy to debunk, it’s also extremely disrespectful, given how much blood has soaked American soil because of racism. Without turning this into a full-fledged Tim Scott roasting session, it does present the perfect entry point for why I’m writing to you in the first place, Sauce.

In life, it’s great to be right. It’s understandable to be wrong — as long as we learn from the mistakes we will inevitably make. But what’s completely unacceptable is being willfully ignorant. Scott is willfully ignorant. Or maybe he’s just calculating. Or maybe it’s a combination of both. But your tweets resonated with me. Not because I believe you lack reason, logic or intellectual curiosity. It’s the exact opposite, actually. You’re young. You’re still finding your way in the world, much like myself, and you don’t know what you don’t know. But feigning ignorance is not enough when it comes to matters of life and death.

First, nothing said here is meant to come off as finger-wagging. And I’m not here to tell you how to do your job, because you’re already one of the best in the NFL at that. But as you requested in your tweets, this is my attempt to “fill you in.”

I’m not here to ask you to vote Democrat or Republican because even that comes with a long, complex and ridiculously complicated history of America’s political system. But it is necessary — even if you don’t vote — to familiarize yourself with politics, especially as a Black man in a country that didn’t intend for people who look like us to sniff the process to begin with. Awareness is a means of survival.

After the assassination attempt on Donald Trump, you tweeted the photo of the former president raising his fist moments after a gunman in Butler, Pennsylvania, tried to take his life. Your caption read, “ladies & gentlemen … President Donald Trump.” On the surface, you didn’t say anything wrong. He is a former POTUS who could return to the position in a matter of months. But Sauce, you must understand who Donald Trump is as a person and a politician.

At 23, you’re just a few years older than the Central Park Five, now the Exonerated Five, a group of teens who were wrongfully convicted and served several years in prison in the brutal assault and rape of Trisha Meili. Trump called for their execution in 1989 and, as of 2019, refused to apologize. He’s also a man whose ties to racism, sexism, xenophobia, a seemingly endless list of sexual assault and rape accusations, and outright egregious policies date back years before you or I were born.

This isn’t to say President Joe Biden is perfect, because he is not. He’s old (so is Trump), and he’s gaffe-prone. The 1986 and 1994 crime bills, which Biden championed, helped ravage Black communities by exploding the incarceration rate. He eventually apologized, calling the laws “a big mistake” that “trapped an entire generation,” but the damage lingers. His administration’s handling of Israel’s ongoing bombing campaign in Gaza is another misstep. My point is this: Politicians are people, and people are inherently flawed no matter how genuine their actions may be. You acknowledged a similar sentiment. But politics and politicians are two completely different conversations.

In my eyes, politicians are the messengers. Politics and policies are what really move the proverbial needle and have a legitimate impact on our lives. So when you tweeted, “I do think it’s odd to judge people based on who they vote for,” that resonated with me. It seems reasonable, especially for someone who admitted to being “unfamiliar with politics.” Yet, people vote for politicians based on the policies they support, and not all those policies are good or helpful, especially to Black folks.

Second, politics isn’t only a conversation that’s had every four years when it’s time to vote for who gets to live on 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. Politics and its accompanying policies impact every waking second of our lives. It impacts the economic conditions in neighborhoods across the country. It affects everything from local school board policies to highway funding. Politics governs police departments — how they’re funded and how they function. You’re a Detroit native, so please believe issues such as the water crisis in Flint, Michigan, oversight of public schools, and your city’s role in determining the 2020 election are all rooted in politics.

Sports, believe it or not, are grounds for political discourse as well. As an athlete, you understand the value of your “prime.” Boxer Muhammad Ali lost the prime years of his career after taking on the government and refusing to participate in the Vietnam War. So much of what we know about the expansion of women’s sports traces back to a singular piece of legislation called Title IX. Swimming pools, and more importantly, who could use them, were once political. In 2020, WNBA players helped flip a U.S. Senate seat. More recently, the decision to allow college athletes to make money from their name, image, and likeness ties directly into economics, the labor movement, and, yes, politics.

In short, if it deals with Black life in America, politics are always involved.

Sauce, hopefully you’ll have a long, successful career that will result in you getting a gold jacket in Canton, Ohio, one day. But more of your life will be spent off the gridiron. And politics will play a role in your life, whether you ever step foot in a voting booth or not.

I don’t believe you need to be the next sports legend like NBA great Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or Ali. You don’t need to be an activist. I’m not even saying you have to speak out on current issues. But what you (or any Black person) can’t afford to do is move as if these issues don’t impact you or the people you care about. We live in a country that had to pass legislation to prohibit discrimination in all walks of life, including at the ballot box just 60 years ago. What we have now is what we were never intended to have.

I revisit a quote from a man who has had more of an impact on my life than I can genuinely articulate. In April 1964, Malcolm X delivered a speech — perhaps the most famous of his lifetime — titled The Ballot or the Bullet. I suggest you check it out when you have the time. Of the political philosophy of Black nationalism, Malcolm X said, “… [it] only means that the Black man should control the politics and the politicians in his own community. The time when white people can come in our community and get us to vote for them so that they can be our political leaders and tell us what to do and what not to do is long gone.”

Sadly, that time is still very much here. 

Sauce, you can be whatever you want in life, and I’m rooting for you to ball out this season. I’m not expecting you to be like former quarterback Colin Kaepernick, who became a civil rights activist, or become the next great outspoken athlete. I’m just asking you to be aware of the world we live in. Being apolitical isn’t an option. You can’t be willfully ignorant of the history of political power, political suppression and political violence in America as it pertains to Black men, Black women and Black babies.

Most importantly, you certainly cannot be someone like Tim Scott — a Black man who’d much rather live a lie than ever acknowledge the truth. I don’t want that to be part of your legacy, Sauce. And you sure shouldn’t either.

Best,

Justin Tinsley

“But every family ain’t filled with gangstas, that’s real/ And that’s real and I would never turn my back,” Lil Wayne rapped then. “Or turn you down even if you turned around, motherf—er / But history is history / I miss you and I know you missin’ me.“

Two decades later, the song — which Lil Wayne once performed with B.G. in the mid-2000s — is having a full-circle moment. All four members will reunite on stage in their hometown of New Orleans at the 2024 Essence Festival, which began July Fourth. The official billing calls the show a celebration of 30 years of Cash Money Records. Label co-founder Bryan “Birdman” Williams is the headliner, and Cash Money’s all-everything producer, Mannie Fresh, will appear. Yet, calling the reunion of one of rap history’s more celebrated and complex groups historic only tells half the story. It’s one of time, aging, and, surprisingly, one of a reunion that’s happening in the first place.

By the late 1990s, American pop culture had a boy band addiction. Groups such as the Backstreet Boys, N’Sync and 98 Degrees lived on shows such as MTV’s Total Request Live, but hip-hop’s chaotic and bouncing answer to cookie-cutter pop hits were the Hot Boys. They were young, intense, and extremely and unapologetically Black. To varying degrees, each member became a star on his own. As a unit, The Hot Boys were rock stars. Albums such as Get It How You Live!, Guerilla Warfare, 400 Degreez and Chopper City in the Ghetto were unrelenting. Singles like “I Need A Hot Girl,” “Back That Azz Up” and “Bling Bling” not only soundtracked the turn of the millennium, but they also altered the lexicon.

Grand success in the music industry is often the preamble for an even grander fall. The Hot Boys disbanded in 2003 after their final album, Let ‘Em Burn — and this is where the story becomes complicated. Turk was involved in a shooting with a Memphis, Tennessee, SWAT officer in 2004 and the incident would eventually land him in prison for nine years. B.G. and Juvenile blamed Cash Money Records’ alleged financial improprieties (a claim that has followed the label for most of its existence) for their exits. Lil Wayne called himself “a prisoner” to the label in 2014, marking the start of years of airing his grievances against the company he carried on his back for much of the 2000s. B.G. was sentenced to 14 years in federal prison in 2012 for possession of a firearm as a convicted felon. Lil Wayne — who eventually became the most famous Hot Boy — served eight months in Rikers Island following a gun conviction in New York. Juvenile is the only member of the group who hasn’t served time.

Because of this and the various animosities with the label and each other, an actual reunion has never occurred until now. (All four members did reunite on Turk’s song “Zip It” in 2012.) A homecoming of this magnitude happening at all is an act of God. Retrace the history of the Hot Boys, and the hit records and albums are the most famous chapters of the story. Nevertheless, it’s a depressingly dark story at points, too. Drug use plagued the group and essentially eliminated a lot of its potential. B.G.’s and Turk’s admitted use of cocaine and heroin were unavoidable issues within the label’s internal politics. They would later come to understand how those substances warped their careers and lives.

“[Birdman and Slim] wasn’t with it. They used to hate that s—,” Turk said in a 2022 Drink Champs interview. “Why would a person condone their money getting high when it’s f—ing their money up?”

“It started after one of my lil homies got killed, and he snorted dope. After his funeral, [we said], ‘We gon’ snort a bag for our partner,’ ” B.G. said in a 2009 interview, then six years clean. “I would’ve never started snorting dope [when I was 15] if I knew it was gonna take me on the road it took me down … It played a role in my career. It made me not as creative, not as heavy [into] hustle mentality [as] I would’ve if I was of sober mind.”

Even today, hurdles remain. Earlier this year, the expectation was that B.G. would have to return to federal prison after violating his probation. A probation officer said that B.G., now a Las Vegas resident, didn’t obtain proper permission to perform with Lil Boosie in February. On Tuesday, the situation was reported as resolved: B.G. wouldn’t have to return to prison, but he’d have to submit any lyrics he writes for songs to his probation officer for review. The decision calls into question an age-old argument that has only intensified over time regarding rappers, rap lyrics and how they are handled in the legal system. It’s another stark reminder that nothing has ever been a straight path northward for the Hot Boys — not even their success.

“We spoke about [doing a tour] a couple times. Everybody got situations — like B.G. just coming home. So he gotta work it out,” Lil Wayne said of a possible reunion. “Can he travel? Can he tour? Juvie ready. Turk ready. We just gotta see if Geezy can move around or not.”

Yet, success realized is still success worth celebrating. Juvenile’s late-career resurgence, led by his 2023 Tiny Desk performance and congressional resolution in his honor, warmed my heart. Lil Wayne’s peak is in the rearview mirror, but features on records such as Flau’jae’s “Came Out a Beast” prove that being a naturally gifted wordsmith will always be in his arsenal. And in a genre that has lost so many key figures at such young ages, all four Hot Boys on stage will be a critical moment. Groups like UGK, A Tribe Called Quest, Mobb Deep, De La Soul, and even R&B stars such as TLC are forever missing part of what made them legendary. And since this event will be held in New Orleans, the city the Hot Boys helped put on the world’s stage, only sweetens this gumbo-flavored pot.

“Me, Wayne, Turk and B.G., all of us gon’ be on stage with Mannie Fresh and Birdman,” Juvenile said in a video in June. “And we done already started working on the Hot Boys album.”

The Hot Boys grew up in a grotesque music industry, and there’s no way to value how much was taken from them. Their music was specifically graphic, giving listeners a glimpse into four young Black lives from the bottom of the map. But they are also Bayou artifacts. Ones who helped transform places like the Magnolia Projects, Hollygrove, and the 17th Ward from places of economic impoverishment into birthplaces of transformative art. Ones who made soulja rags and white t-shirts high fashion. Ones who had an entire generation of Black youth and young adults far beyond the Big Easy’s city limits calling themselves “hot boys” and “hot girls.” Ones who brought pride to their city — even while simultaneously carrying their demons, self-inflicted and societal — long before the New Orleans Saints won the Super Bowl. And ones who survived New Orleans when it was a murder capital and not the city most infamously associated with Hurricane Katrina.

“That Hot Boy s— still in me n—a, word to Giggity, n—a / And I ain’t got time to speak the history,” Lil Wayne rapped in 2004 on “I Miss My Dawgs.” “I miss you and I know you missin’ me.”

It only took 20 years, but now Lil Wayne can say this to their faces. Not every story ends like that.

Lamar’s Juneteenth concert, “The Pop Out,” wasn’t a funeral. Dubbed “Gangchella” on social media for its heavy focus on artists from various Los Angeles neighborhoods and gang sets, it was a lyrical and figurative declaration of allegiance, thus making Wednesday night a pivotal shift in Drake’s career. It also begs the simple yet complex question.

What’s next for Drake?

Of all the questionable decisions Drake made during the battle, perhaps the most baffling was attempting to use Lamar’s hometown against him. From fashion to social media, artificial intelligence and even on wax — Get more love in the city that you from, n—a, he rapped on “Push Ups” — Drake’s miscalculation played out on the world’s stage and directly into Lamar’s favor.

On the battle’s final punch, Drake waved a proverbial white flag on “The Heart Part 6.” By then, the venom of “Euphoria” was still very much potent. The vindictiveness of “Meet The Grahams” — released only minutes after Drake’s heater of a diss in “Family Matters” — made sure the beef hit a point of no return. And “Not Like Us,” had already become a firestorm he couldn’t extinguish. Wednesday’s concert for Lamar was yet another wicked display of bullying that made Drake’s loss all the more poignant.

Much like in 2015 with Meek Mill and certainly in 2018 with Pusha T, Drake’s supposed character flaws were the primary target of Lamar’s siege. Lyrics such as “Only YOU like being famous” (“Euphoria”), “Take that mask off, I wanna see what’s under them achievements/ Why believe you? You never gave us nothin’ to believe in“ (“Meet The Grahams”), “Your reality can’t hide behind Wi-Fi (“6:16 In L.A.”) or the ubiquitous A-minooorrr and the Atlanta-centric third verse bomb (“Not Like Us”) cut with a sadistic edge. Where Drake asserted dominance for years, reminding peers and foes of chart success or his bank account, none of that mattered to Lamar, a superstar in his own right.

Now, Drake sits in a position he’s never been in. The wave of disdain is inescapable given Lamar’s massive star power and the potency of the laundry list of improprieties levied at Drake. The issue with Lamar, as it was with Pusha T before him, wasn’t that Drake is biracial. How Drake viewed his Blackness became not just a topic of discussion but a weapon aimed against him. Punctuating that with an instant-classic concert streamed on Amazon Prime on Juneteenth is as calculated as anything Lamar has done.

“You are silent in all Black issues, Drake. You really are,” Pusha T said in an interview shortly after their spat. “You don’t stand for nothing. You don’t say nothing about nothing … You have all the platform in the world. You were so passionate back then? No, you weren’t… You gotta think about who a person really is. That’s why it’s OK for you to take that [blackface] photo like this. You don’t know where you stand at.”

“How many more fairy tale stories ’bout your life till we had enough?“ Lamar asked rhetorically during the beef. “How many more Black features till you finally feel that you Black enough?“

Listen to much of Drake’s music in the last several years, and much of it is based on moving wiser and more strategically than his foes. However, on the biggest of stages against the most dangerous of his enemies, Drake showed that the art of war is not his trump card. He was outclassed, outthought and out-barred, leaving him in quite an unfamiliar spot for himself, fans, and critics.

“Business as usual” isn’t an option for Drake. There’s no dropping a song or even an album, expecting that to erase whatever mistakes the past may be polluted by. After his spat with Pusha T, the dwindling quality of his music came louder and louder into question. But Drake continued to hold a viselike residency at or near the top of the charts. The stain of the past, though, haunted Drake. Fans relentlessly reminded him of the loss he admitted to taking on a 2019 Rap Radar interview. Drake continued to take not-so-veiled shots at Pusha T on records like Travis Scott’s “Meltdown” and Jack Harlow’s “Churchill Downs.”

This is wholly different. Lamar was not only the superior rapper in the battle. Lamar warped Drake at his own game with an anthem that’s already the song of the summer and the No. 1 song in the country. “Not Like Us” could be nominated for Song of the Year at the 2025 Grammys, likely among several other awards. At every social gathering and many sporting events nationwide, there are bound to be endless people partying to a hit record, calling Drake a pedophile, fake friend and “colonizer.” Outside of that exists records and no-turning-back bars attacking every fabric of his persona — down to surgically constructed abdominal muscles.

A constant theme in Drake’s music has been his part paranoia/part aggression toward the music industry praying for his downfall. Maybe it was jealousy or Drake’s own actions. Whatever the answer, those chickens came home to roost. There is no erasing that from the moment “Like That” was released in March, aside from The Game and Snoop Dogg, the rush to publicly support Drake’s defense was insignificant. In the most intense moment of his career, the greatest hitmaker in rap history was a man with no country and a general with no army.

It is essential to note Drake’s career is not “over.” He is still a “star.” Whatever direction he decides to undertake in music will be in demand. That being said, the value of a Drake feature (aka “the Drake stimulus package”) and single moving forward — once the most powerful commodity in rap — is unclear. Sexyy Red’s “U My Everything” and Snowd4y’s “Wah Gwan Delilah” were both released after the beef. Neither became major hits, and the latter was widely panned. Even Drake’s feature on the remix to 4Batz’s “date @ 8” in March was dubbed “lukewarm” by Billboard.

Nevertheless, the coveted title of the greatest of all time he chases is no longer in reach. The losses don’t eliminate Drake from such contention. His music becoming baseless, starved of motivation and deprived of meaningful creativity lately has done that. It’s how he moved in said clashes and how, at times, doltish those moves were. In hindsight, they come off even more so. As if they weren’t already, his lyrics will be dissected to an intense degree, and how he stood and fell against Lamar will be judged. Talking recklessly on records is par for the course in hip-hop. Yet, the moment Drake does so again — and it will — he’ll be reminded of how spring 2024 objectively changed the direction of his mammoth career. This logic, fair or not, will follow Drake.

“I like Drake with the melodies,” Lamar rapped on “Euphoria.” “I don’t like Drake when he act tough.”

As Lamar and seemingly all of Los Angeles took a victory lap, Crip and Blood-walking on the charred remains of the beef on stage at “The Pop Out,” so came the questions of when Drake would show face and in what fashion. Regardless, the rest of Drake’s career has already begun. His cultural cachet has never been under this sort of pressure, but where Drake goes from here is entirely up to Drake.

The only place he can’t go back to is what and who he once was. There is no escaping this. Not now, not ever. He can thank Lamar — and himself — for that.

The news of Allen’s death sent ripples throughout the football universe. The impact of his death is three-pronged: his massive legacy on the field, in Cowboys lore and a deeply personal connection extending far beyond football itself. Few résumés ever resembled Allen’s, a man known leaguewide as “The NFL’s Strongest Man,” who once benched 700 pounds. The 1994 second-round pick symbolized dominance in a game with no shortage of real-life demigods in its century of existence.

By many metrics, Allen is the greatest offensive lineman the NFL has ever seen, with All-Decade honors in the 1990s and 2000s and 11 Pro Bowls. His six consecutive First-Team All-Pro nods solidified him as one of the game’s nearly unstoppable forces — as did his average of 3.2 sacks allowed per season and only 13 holding penalties in 207 starts.

That, though, only taps into statistical dominance. In the days after his death, clips have sprouted across the internet detailing Allen’s respected ferociousness from Hall of Famers such as former defensive tackle John Randle and former teammates such as former tight end Delanie Walker. The most beautiful (and hilarious) stems from an interview with former New York Giants defensive lineman and two-time Super Bowl champion Justin Tuck.

“If you look on the sideline and see people like [Michael] Strahan and the coaches, and they’re like, ‘Good job!’ ” Tuck said years ago, in an appearance on sportscaster Dan Le Batard’s TV show, Highly Questionable, what were considered “victories” against Allen. “Like this man just got five [or] seven yards, and you telling me, ‘Good job.’ But they didn’t score. You’re still alive.”

Allen’s lore is unrivaled. Former teammates such as Troy Aikman and Emmitt Smith immediately expressed their grief. Team owner Jerry Jones released a statement through the team, calling Allen a “legend” and an “inspiration.” Cowboys fans understood the same reality. Allen is a foundational tenant to the 1990s era of the Dallas Cowboys, changing the franchise and the NFL as a machine.

Philosophically, he was a wall of a man who could not be scaled by even the game’s greatest rushers (sans Reggie White during Allen’s rookie season). Yet, Allen’s dominance, grace and strength are almost Marvel-like. Famously, he spoke few words, and his actions became soundtracks. They continue to define success that seemed like a birthright for a franchise that won its third of three Super Bowls with Allen as the conductor of its trenches. But he also became a cherished relic, a pristine symbol of sustained excellence during the years when postseason success became everything but a guarantee.

Allen’s death is a direct reminder of what the Cowboys are in constant pursuit of. That dominance is equal parts obsession and homage. And, now, a tribute. The line Allen anchored paved the way for Smith’s NFL career rushing crown — a record that will never be broken as the game has fully dedicated itself to the passing game first and running game maybe. Allen was the first point of attack for fullback Daryl Johnston’s blocking for Aikman’s passing, which gave wide receiver Michael Irvin and tight end Jay Novacek the time to find cracks in defenses.

The NFL is an indomitable factor of American culture. Telling the league’s story without the Dallas Cowboys is equally disingenuous and inaccurate. This means Allen is as consequential a tour de force as the NFL has seen. Offensive linemen rarely get much credit, yet a dominant offensive line is often the difference between eternity and afterthought. It makes sense that Allen now represents another of the game’s heavenly, spiritual figures. Concerning his impact on football, however, comes the even more brutal realization of the humanity his death brings.

Growing up a Cowboys fan, Allen was a player who seemed much older than he was. The truth is Allen was only 14 years my senior. It could be looking at his death through the frame that we would’ve lived in the same household had we been siblings for at least a few years. But really, it’s been how I view time and aging and how that’s changed so dramatically recently. When I’m 52 years old, my son will be 15 and his sister 13. Death isn’t scary. It’s normal. The thought of those left behind to pick up shattered pieces is crippling. This reality is more than the blocks that gave me some of the greatest football moments of my life.

Nevertheless, this is why these guys — modern-day gladiators — matter. In a way far more embracing than antagonistic, our DNA consists of sports. They’re family heirlooms. My mom recalling memories of going to summer camps sponsored by former Cowboys coach Tom Landry replays on repeat. Before his death in 2008, my grandfather, a former college football coach, would do much of the same and proudly declare how one of his former players at Elizabeth City State College, Jethro Pugh, was drafted by the Cowboys, thus beginning a family fandom portal. Sports define times, moments and relationships. Only a few things in life provide invaluable currency like this. Allen is one of those guys who makes deposits possible.

Allen dying at 52 while on a family vacation is a sobering keepsake of his 2013 Hall of Fame speech. His words that day in Canton, Ohio, were far more than a love letter to football. Allen’s focus on family throughout the 16-minute speech was a letter of appreciation for their motivation and sacrifice. He nearly died at birth and later survived multiple stab wounds while defending his younger brother during an altercation with a neighborhood bully in Compton, California. Allen was one of those guys who clearly valued family far more deeply than a prestigious speech or flashy photo opportunity. That commitment to family is palpable. Wanting to do right by them and knowing they’re protected by someone who loves them is, too.

His death marks far more than an iconic football player leaving what we deem “far too soon.” It’s proof that superheroes are mortal. It’s further proof that memories are merely a collection of the experiences we are fortunate enough to have. And it’s proof grief is a part of life none of us can escape, no matter how strong or fast we may be.

Allen’s football lore will live longer than he ever intended to. But his death is piercing and a reminder of a lifetime ahead that will never be. What cannot be denied is this: Heaven just received one of its biggest angels — literally.

Rooting for Edwards is easy. There’s a sadistic delight to him that runs parallel to a game that’s, to quote another Atlanta native, “cooler than a polar bear’s toenails.” The way Edwards plays is so calm and controlled — yet addictively explosive — that you’re left to wonder what his prime years will hold if he’s this good already. He’s improved facets of his game every season since being the top pick in 2020. But this year, his fourth, saw Edwards take the proverbial leap. His free throw percentage increased by nearly 7% to 83.6%. Likewise, his efficiency and playmaking have also improved (his assists led to 1,024 points compared to starting point guard Mike Conley’s 1,049 points), and Edwards firmly took control of a franchise that hasn’t seen this sort of success and excitement since the early 2000s of Wolves forward Kevin Garnett and team president Flip Saunders, who later was named coach. In Minnesota’s first-round series against the Phoenix Suns, Edwards set playoff career highs nearly across the board. Simply put, Edwards is no longer knocking on the NBA’s door. He pays the mortgage here now.

“I’m probably at 40%” of his prime, Edwards said in April on NBA Today. “I’m not even touching my prime yet.”

When asked about how long it would take for him to become the NBA’s best player, Edwards didn’t hesitate. “About two or three years,” he said.

There’s a familiar coolness around Edwards that is not predicated on basketball. We’ve all met someone like him at some point in our lives. He’s that co-worker, cousin, college classmate or friend whose supreme confidence is endearing instead of off-putting. At just 22, Edwards is the conductor of the Timberwolves’ offensive and defensive orchestra — the team finished the season as the third seed in the Western Conference and all that’s standing in front of the franchise’s first conference finals appearance in 20 years is the presumptive MVP and reigning champion.

A few days before the playoffs began, Edwards laughed at the thought of his growing importance in the league. It’s not that he doesn’t care — he does, deeply. And he’s not struggling with imposter syndrome, either. It’s an amazement that this much weight sits on his shoulders at 22. 

“It’s fun,” he told Andscape. “[I] just gotta be ready for it because I know it’s a lot of responsibility off the court.”

Edwards is basketball photosynthesis — everyone else gains life from the light his heroics produce. While the world seems to be in turmoil at the moment — from college campuses to conflicts abroad and in our hometowns — watching Edwards offers fleeting but necessary moments of happiness. Edwards is that happiness. Fairly and unfairly, he has that responsibility.

It’s so easy to feel protective of Edwards because we know it’s impossible to protect everyone from everything. He’s made mistakes since becoming a pro, such as tossing chairs after a tough loss and using anti-gay language on social media, which he later apologized for. But most 22-year-olds are different from the leaders of organizations. Most don’t have NBA legend Michael Jordan fawning over them or readily admit how much they want to “kill” the competition and then go out and do it like Edwards just did with Phoenix Suns guard Devin Booker. And most 22-year-olds aren’t in the running for the very short list of who will be the face of a multibillion-dollar international sports league. Though Edwards is on the cusp of superstardom, the line between basketball heaven and cautionary tale hell is razor-thin.

One of the most interesting things about Edwards’ story is how it’s all materialized. He experienced tremendous grief following the deaths of his mother Yvette and grandmother Shirley to cancer in 2015 when he was in eighth grade. Edwards channeled that trauma into joy as a tribute to the two women who raised him to do just that. He’s known unconditional protection and love through his siblings who stepped up to raise him and provided the stability that’s allowed him to grow into the man he is today. And now, Edwards is on the edge of a worldwide takeover. After dispatching his favorite player, Suns forward Kevin Durant, in the first round of the playoffs, Edwards now faces the most complex challenge of his still-young career, the Denver Nuggets. A rematch of last year’s playoffs, it is the most anticipated second-round clash with a test of wills at its core that tugs at basketball’s soul. One side is led by the best player on the planet, Nuggets center Nikola Jokić — and the playoffs’ most clutch player, guard Jamal Murray — seeking to assume control of the decade’s first half with another title. On the other side are Edwards and the Timberwolves, who are close to basketball nirvana but know they must walk through hell first.

Every game from now until the Timberwolves’ season ends could include some of the biggest moments of Edwards’ life. After the playoffs conclude, the 2024 Paris Olympics await, where Edwards will play a significant role — perhaps even starting — in Team USA’s charge for a gold medal. Then there’s the NBA’s looming media rights deal and how players like Edwards figure into the league’s future.

Compared to where he was a decade ago, Edwards’ life has changed dramatically in a short amount of time. And, of course, he’s still getting used to it.

“Seeing how people treat me, seeing how I interact with kids, and seeing their reaction,” Edwards said, gives him goose bumps. “I’d say most people’s reaction when they meet me, honestly. I never would have imagined people crying and being super-happy when they see me.”

“That’s the best feeling ever,” he said, flashing his megawatt, mischievous grin, which could one day join Los Angeles Lakers great Magic Johnson’s smile as the game’s most recognizable.

It’s so easy to be protective of Edwards because of the goose bumps he gives us when we watch him play. Since the playoffs started, only Lakers forward LeBron James is ahead of Edwards’ 100 million views generated on social media. No one has gained more followers on Instagram since the start of the playoffs since Edwards. However, online clout without real-life results is far more a curse than a gift. Minnesota won’t get by Denver, or beyond, off Edwards’ cocktail of talent, heroics and tenacity alone. He’ll need his teammates, whom Edwards praises endlessly. They subscribe to the same ideology, and the euphoria they chase requires a brotherhood, not a dictatorship.

Edwards has always said this moment was coming. However, living in the moment is not the same as getting stuck in it. He knows that one day he’ll wake up and be the old guard in the league everyone hunts down. A player out there will talk trash to him like he did with Durant. And, like Durant, Edwards will have to salute him when the time comes. The game is the game, he knows that.

When he thinks about what his life will be like when he’s 40, Edwards is optimistic and anxious. He hopes the older version will be able to tell him a job well done for approaching life in the right way. Mistakes will happen because no life is complete without them. But they won’t define him, hopefully. Success, individual and team, hopefully, continues, too. But basketball won’t solely define him either … hopefully.

“I hope I start to find something I like to do besides basketball,” Edwards said. “One day, I know it’s gon’ end.”

It’s so easy to be protective of Edwards, because he is right. The sun goes down and heroes eventually have to embrace the rest of their lives. For now, though, Edwards is just getting started and the world is indeed his oyster. All we have to do is allow the story to tell itself.

I think back to April 12, roughly an hour before the New York Knicks tipped off against the Brooklyn Nets. Sandra Brunson felt herself getting emotional. Her husband, Rick, and their son, Jalen, were getting up shots on the opposite end of the court in Madison Square Garden. That night would be critical in the Knicks landing the 2-seed in the Eastern Conference playoffs. But at that moment, the fans only cared about getting a glimpse of the leader of a gritty, cohesive and enthralling Knicks unit that has galvanized the city.

“MVP! MVP!” one fan chanted. 

“F— Boston! Easy work last night!” another yelled.

“Two-seed loading!” yet another chimed in.

Of course, Brunson didn’t give the coveted title of king of New York to himself. He’s far too humble and deliberate on and off the court — except on his podcast, the Roommates Show, with teammate (and former college roommate) Josh Hart and co-host Matt Hillman. Quite honestly, that moniker shouldn’t be his genuine concern at the moment. However, denying his impact across the city’s five boroughs would be equally disingenuous.

When I arrived at Madison Square Garden that Friday evening, Brunson and his teammate Donte DiVincenzo (DiVincenzo, Brunson and Hart make up the “Nova Knicks“) were shooting 3s in their own makeshift version of “Around The World.” DiVincenzo enjoyed a hearty laugh — as did Brunson’s family, including his dad, who played for the Knicks in the late 1990s — when Brunson tried to dunk. It may be his only lousy decision of the season. But when I sat with Sandra Brunson behind the opposite basket, her profound gratitude radiated.

A Long Island, New York, native and self-proclaimed diehard New York Giants fanatic, Sandra Brunson understands the importance of playing in the most famous city in the world. Her eyes turned glossy as she remembered her son running on the court with his dad before games. Now, he’s the star in a city full of stars and leading a franchise that hasn’t experienced this level of excitement in at least a decade. Yet, it’s not only the glitz and the glamour so many in the city associate with Brunson. It’s the tenacity to hustle in a city full of hustlers. It’s a hoodie, skully, Canada Goose coats and AirPods in the dead of winter hustle that lives in Brunson.

“All I know is growing up here, everybody just worked so hard. New Yorkers are just tough, put our heads down. [We] don’t look for accolades. I’m sure that could be any city, but because I’m from here, it really means a lot because I think about that little boy … dreaming of this,” Sandra Bunson said. “For him to come back here as a professional, words can’t explain the joy that it brings. Everyone in New York feels good about the team and the city. It’s amazing how a sport can do that.”

The evening Sandra Brunson and I spoke, Brunson was awarded Eastern Conference Player of the Month for March before the game versus the Nets and then proceeded to score 30 points and 11 assists (with no turnovers). Two days later on April 14, in the final game of the regular season, Brunson’s 40 points, 8 rebounds and 7 assists against the Chicago Bulls cemented the 2-seed for the Knicks — and perhaps more importantly, nearly a whole week of rest to prepare for an incredibly physical matchup versus the Sixers. Following Brunson’s departure from the Dallas Mavericks that boiled down to dollars and cents, his tenure in New York has been meteoric and uniquely personal. He’s the unquestioned leader of a pro team that sports a collegelike camaraderie. This Knicks team is as tough as well-done steak.

Brunson is the Knicks’ best player since the Carmelo Anthony era ended in 2017. Yet, New York is a city of point guards, which makes Brunson’s rise to power particularly romantic.

“This is a place that’s been starved for a lead guard, point guard, and captain solidified,” Monica McNutt, the ESPN and Knicks radio analyst, said. “Jalen has answered that call and exceeded expectations in many ways. He just embodies New York in that you might look and underestimate, but you’re going to feel him.”

Brunson never gets too up or down. In a city like New York, it’s not only preferred out of the stars but also a requirement. He doesn’t say much, but his actions speak volumes.

“It’s like he doesn’t want to let anyone down. He knows that if he gives the same amount of effort, it’ll reflect, and hopefully, it will be with the W. But that propels him forward,” Sandra Brunson said. “He just wants to do the work. He won’t really talk about it because he’s like, ‘I’m supposed to be here.’ “

The thing is this. Brunson doesn’t engage in a lot of banter, and that’s fine. He’s in the perfect city that will do that for him.

In 1990, Christopher Walken starred in the film King of New York, and from there, a cultural fascination with the title was born. Five years later, The Source magazine gave The Notorious B.I.G. his first cover, crowning him the city’s king. Five World Series rings cemented Derek Jeter as an icon of New York lore. Musically, Jay-Z has carried the moniker for the better part of the last quarter century. The title has always been in constant transition, but it stays with a person forever as a bookmark in the city’s history.

“If you’re the king of New York in a sport, you might as well be one of the biggest names in sports, period, because you’re doing it in the biggest city, in the biggest market,” said Chris Herring, author of Blood in the Garden: The Flagrant History of the 1990s New York Knicks. “Everybody knows what you sound like and what you look like.”

Looking at the process, it’s nearly impossible to categorize Brunson’s rise as anything short of a storybook. His father played in the NBA for almost a decade and played in the franchise’s last NBA Finals appearance against the San Antonio Spurs in 1999. Brunson’s current coach, Tom Thibodeau, was an assistant coach for the team then. The clips of father and son working out play right into the obsessive work ethic Brunson shows on the court and mirrors a large pocket of Knicks fans. He was a second-round pick and played alongside fellow 2018 draftee Luka Dončić. He starred in a complementary role, and when the money offered by the Mavericks wasn’t enough — he made sure to increase the price of the brick on his own on the most significant stage possible.

“That taps into the New York story, too, of giving him just enough fuel to be an underdog even once he was transitioning into stardom,” Herring said. “That’s a massive part of what New Yorkers like to feel about themselves … Think about what people love to hear and what galvanizes the fan base. Jalen Brunson had just enough that before he even played a game for the Knicks.”

Bonz Malone wrote the 1995 cover story on The Notorious B.I.G. for The Source, and is extremely protective of the king of New York title. While it may not have originated with The Notorious B.I.G., it’s still his. It’s one he took pride in, even referring to it on his 1997 cut “Kick in the Door” as he addressed a slew of MCs, such as Nas and members of the Wu-Tang Clan, for perceived lyrical threats aimed at his throne.

Yet, Malone admits one thing. As a Knicks fan, images of the 1994 season culminating in a Knicks Game 7 loss in the NBA Finals remain fresh. But it hasn’t allowed him to take Brunson’s tenure for granted. For Malone, it’s fearless and tenacious but organized like an orchestra or waltz. Focusing on the past is fine, his thinking goes, but it can’t pollute or allow Knicks fans not to appreciate what’s in front of them.

“The title ‘King of New York,’ like I’ve always said, was given to B.I.G. for a reason. I don’t ever want anybody to get the wrong impression that it’s interchangeable. Officially, it belongs to B.I.G.,” said Malone. “Now what Jalen is doing for New York City, he’s the MVP. That’s the only title he needs because that’s what everyone is chanting. Everywhere he goes, he has solidified himself as that.”

In December 2023, Las Vegas Aces coach Becky Hammon made headlines when she argued the Knicks wouldn’t be able to win a title with Brunson as its best player. Historically, Hammon, a basketball savant and WNBA championship-winning coach, wasn’t inaccurate. Basketball, as she noted in a follow-up message posted on social media, “favors the tall.” The best players on the teams who have won NBA titles have historically been taller than Brunson, who is 6-2. Only players such as Isiah Thomas of the Detroit Pistons and Stephen Curry of the Golden State Warriors have broken that mold as smaller guards who were also the best player on a championship team.

The vibe around New York City is understandably combative. Exactly why can’t Brunson add his name to that list? If he was offended by Hammon’s statement, Brunson never took the opportunity to address it. His silence on the matter has deepened the love and passion for him. Looking at the NBA’s fourth-leading scorer on the surface, there’s nothing about him that necessarily suggests he should be that guy. He’s not the fastest. He’s a much-improved shooter, but could be better. But he’s also rugged in an Allen Iversonian way.

“New York, at its core, was a blue-collar town,” Dallas Penn, a Queens borough native and cultural critic in New York, said. “While tremendous money comes through this port again, it’s based on the blue-collar manual labor, manufacturing, hardworking people.

“When the Knicks are up,” Penn said, “let’s just get back to the fact that working-class people — your bus driver, your sanitation worker, your civil servant — almost take on a bit of regality themselves. Understand something, [if] you live in this city, you’ve got to be incredibly wealthy just to be poor.”

When I saw him warm up before the Nets game earlier this month, he wore a pair of orange WNBA-inspired Kobe 6 player editions. His footwork is a nod to the late Hall of Famer Kobe Bryant. So is his relentless, bloodthirsty will to win. Teams have thrown nearly every defensive set imaginable at him, and he simply adjusts.

Despite it all, what could be the most endearing quality about Brunson is that he somehow remains an enigma. This is despite growing commercial endorsements and making Madison Square Garden the epicenter of the playoffs again. Yet, Brunson manages to say just enough to charm fans, but not nearly enough to peel back the layers.

“Frankly, I’ve heard that beat writers around the team describe him as a Jeter-like figure,” said Herring. “Jeter rarely said anything of note to the media. He knew he wasn’t saying much. But it helps to have this mystique where you’re always trying to figure out what he’s thinking other than the idea that you know he’s taking notes on what’s been said. You know he’s thinking about it. You know he hears it.”

The noise around Brunson is overpowering because of the location of his home office. Opened in 1879, Madison Square Garden has undergone four versions, the most recent being in 1968. Where a lack of titles has haunted the venue for generations, a lack of history has not. The Knicks and New York Rangers’ last title games (1973 and 1994, respectively) were played here, and won by names such as Willis Reed, Clyde Frazier and Mark Messier. “The Fight of the Century,” the first of Muhammad Ali and Joe Frazier’s iconic trilogy, was fought there in 1971 — and the downfall of notorious drug kingpin Frank Lucas began when he wore a $100,000, floor-length chinchilla coat and matching $25,000 hat to the fight, attracting the attention of law enforcement. Actor Marilyn Monroe sang “Happy Birthday” to President John F. Kennedy in 1962. Larry Johnson’s 4-point play and Michael Jordan’s double nickel, too. And thanks to the most lauded Knicks fan of them all, Reggie Miller will always hold a special place in Madison Square Garden. Miller, ever the antagonist, wouldn’t have it any other way.

“I think the Garden has been a huge part of [Brunson’s story],” Herring said, “and I think that there’s not that level of attachment if not for some of those factors [like the Garden].”

We’re ready to anoint him because of his pedigree and lineage, and he’s an All-Star. But we need an extended run and quality leadership

Dallas Penn

Over time, the idea of Brunson overtook the reality of who he is as a player. His passion parallels the hopes of generations of New Yorkers who practice cautious optimism — as “cautious” as New Yorkers are capable of — that Brunson is the savior they’ve been praying for. It’s why he referred to Knicks fans as “family” in a recent essay for The Players Tribune.

Brunson plays on Broadway and is the conductor of a maniacal-in-unison squad that includes players such as Hart, DiVincenzo, OG Anunoby, Deuce McBride and Isaiah Hartenstein who’ve become stars in their roles. They are New York in a way Knicks basketball hasn’t been in well over a generation. However, the evolution is reminiscent of New York, which isn’t romanticized in Times Square billboards or Watch What Happens Live shotskis with Andy Cohen.

From a sports perspective, the title of king of New York is there for Brunson’s taking. It may already be his. Regarding dominance, the only actual competition is Breanna Stewart of the New York Liberty, who led her squad within two wins of a WNBA title last season. The list of contenders, aside from them, run thin. New York Yankees outfielder Aaron Judge is currently experiencing one of the worst batting averages of his career. The New York Giants haven’t had anyone close since Odell Beckham Jr., and the New York Mets are void of nationwide star power. This season, the Rangers’ Presidents’ Trophy makes them arguably the best team in the city, but even centre Matt Rempe’s hold on New York isn’t at the level of Brunson’s. Meanwhile, the obvious contender, New York Jets quarterback Aaron Rodgers, seems to be a conspiracy theorist.

Nevertheless, there is an inquiry New Yorkers don’t seem to be wholly aligned with: What exactly would it take for Brunson to objectively assume control of the current king of New York?

“I don’t think it would be something where they need to make a Finals run this year for him to be viewed as the king of New York,” Herring said.”If they make the conference semis and certainly the conference finals, I already think it’s close to being cemented. That’s a really good signal that it’s more about the way he carries himself and his backstory and how dominant he’s been than what they’d accomplish as a team. That’s a little different.”

“We’re not the longest of long shots, but these odds are superlong. We’re ready to anoint him because of his pedigree and lineage, and he’s an All-Star. But we need an extended run and quality leadership,” Penn said, echoing Herring’s sentiment. “But if he gets to the Eastern Conference Finals, he’s not just a shoo-in. He’s anointed.”

Lifelong Knicks fan Shaina Wiel disagreed. “The only scenario is him winning a championship,” she said. “I’m not trying to be stereotypical, but as New Yorkers, we don’t care about what-ifs. If they make it to the Finals, great job. I’m superproud of you. But unless you’re winning a championship, nobody cares … We’re trying to be insufferable, and how are we going to be insufferable if we don’t win?”

It may be because Brunson is undersized, and there’s an every-man/every-woman quality in it that feels palpable in ways that even the Carmelo Anthony era didn’t. Herring, a beat writer during Anthony’s years with the Knicks, can still feel the passion and tension. As much as Knicks fans loved (and still love) him, he felt the discomfort at times, fairly and unfairly.

“I don’t know any Knicks fan that isn’t head over heels in love with Jalen Brunson,” said Herring. “He’s gotten there a lot earlier than just about anybody has — minus Jeremy Lin, but that was a couple of weeks, and this has been two years.”

Much like being passed over for Team USA for this year’s Olympic run in Paris — “I didn’t even look at the list,” Brunson said — individual titles don’t matter to him. They do, however, to so many others. So what type of king of New York could Brunson possibly be? The unassuming, involuntary one, but one the city fiercely protects because he keeps the main thing, the main thing.

According to his mother, off the court, Brunson’s “a ham.” Yet, when it comes down to standing on business, the city understands what he brings to the table is rare. It’s infectious, in an endearing way, to his teammates and the millions of New Yorkers he’ll never meet.

That night versus the Nets, fans didn’t just serenade him with MVP chants. They demanded it be awarded to him. Celebrity row, which featured people such as new Chicago Sky draft pick Angel Reese, Afrobeats artist Davido, and former NBA star Rod Strickland, wasn’t the focus. Not too far from the press row, a father couldn’t stop talking to his kids about Brunson. Another can’t stop staying, “Give him the MVP, damnit!” Throughout Madison Square Garden, half of those in attendance wear some sort of Brunson paraphernalia — jerseys, shirts, hoodies, hats.

He’s not just an MVP candidate. He’s their MVP. 

Less than 30 minutes before tipoff that night, Sandra Brunson was still emotional. Since he was in high school, she’s always texted her son before every game. The messages focus on balance and perspective. Integrity and purpose. Being present and the bigger picture. 

She told her son that day, “When they make it about you, make it about the team.”

Those messages are precisely why Brunson and New York City sit on the precipice they do today.

“He’s already a legend here in New York,” McNutt said matter-of-factly. “Frankly, this is just the beginning.

— Jay-Z, “Some People Hate” (2002)

Just days after the holiday in 2005, The Boondocks aired its landmark episode, A Huey Freeman Christmas. In the classic bit, Riley Freeman pens a letter to Santa Claus demanding the fictional, seasonal character “pay what you owe.” Coincidentally, earlier that same month, former USC tailback Reggie Bush was awarded the Heisman Trophy.

Bush, who went on to become an NFL star and TV broadcaster, forfeited his award in 2010 after an NCAA investigation found that he accepted hundreds of thousands of dollars while in college. The NCAA hit USC with sanctions, including stripping the Trojans of the 2004 national championship and 14 wins that Bush played in. Bush giving back the Heisman, in hindsight, was a response to unjust and harsh treatment by the NCAA, which robbed him of well-deserved recognition that bookmarked one of the genuinely iconic college football portfolios.

On Wednesday, after nearly a decade and a half, Bush was reinstated with the same trophy he was forced to vacate in a move the trust said resulted from, as reported by Pete Thamel of ESPN, “enormous changes in the college football landscape.” The decision overturns a pathetic college ruling in a previous college sports ecosystem that is becoming increasingly archaic.

It also reopens wounds that college sports will never truly escape, especially given the current landscape of athletes being able to be compensated for their name, image and likeness. This decision is another crucial step in addressing the long-standing issues of athlete compensation and the need for reform in college sports.

First, there’s the toll the decision had on Bush. Whether or not one believes Bush’s 2005 Heisman ultimately belonged to then-Texas quarterback Vince Young, who finished second in the voting, is one entry point of discourse. The two would meet in the greatest college football game ever played in the 2006 Rose Bowl, with Young’s Longhorns winning in dramatic fashion. During a 2020 appearance on The Pat McAfee Show, Bush revealed that Young turned down the opportunity to retroactively be awarded the Heisman.

“Vince showed me love that even some of the closest people to me didn’t even show,” Bush said of Young’s refusal. “Sometimes I get chills on my back because [Vince] had every right to say, ‘Yeah, gimme that Heisman.’ And he didn’t.”

What’s undeniable, however, is Bush remains a singular college dynamo. During a decade where one Bush saw his approval ratings plummet, Reggie Bush experienced the opposite. He was Bob Ross with pigskin, the Anthony Bourdain of college cutbacks, what Ricky from Boyz In The Hood was supposed to become. He stands as one of four non-quarterback Heisman honorees since 2000 and was a legitimate threat to score every time he touched the football. He didn’t create the term “must-see TV,” but Bush undoubtedly helped propel it. The possibilities with a football in Bush’s hands in the mid-2000s were endless. He scored rushing, receiving and returning — and to the chagrin of Notre Dame fans, by pushing.

None of that mattered in the summer of 2010 when a NCAA investigation found that Bush — in particular, his family — accepted illegal benefits while in college. The verdict was harsh and would haunt Bush, the Heisman and college football. Bush, by then a Super Bowl champion with the New Orleans Saints, was labeled the pariah. He cheated and, in turn, sullied one of the great eras in USC football, or so the punishment stated at the time.

What was known then, and even more so now, is that Bush did no wrong. He never sought payment for his talent — which he should have, in hindsight. Those “benefits” came knocking on his door. Bush brought millions to USC and even more to college football. Yet, he was vilified when he accepted any compensation for his talents.

Many — including 2012 Heisman winner Johnny Manziel — have been Bush’s loudest supporters for years. The argument for and against Bush has largely remained the same. He was an amateur athlete, so any revenue stream was explicitly outlawed. But on the same accord, how can a singular body of talent who generated hundreds of millions for the same institution that benefited from his presence be prohibited from any payment he rightfully deserved? The devil was in the details the NCAA openly avoided and refused to address — and still does.

Secondly, and most important, comes the weight of this week’s decision. It is, indeed, an incredible gesture. Bush was unfairly labeled a villain in a landscape where the actual antagonist not only hid in plain sight, it profited – and still essentially profits – from a horrifically one-sided business model that made sinners of those who created the product and saints of those who unabashedly benefited from capitalizing on a sport spearheaded largely by Black bodies.

Make no mistake about Bush’s Heisman reinstatement, too. This is a Heisman Trust decision, not an NCAA one. Just last month, the NCAA denied Bush’s attempt to reconsider the magnitude of the penalties levied against USC. Wednesday’s decision by the trust has been in the works for several years. Given the rapidly evolving NIL landscape, the decision gained momentum in recent years and appeared inevitable. Bush’s defamation lawsuit against the NCAA, according to Sportico, is still very much in play.

The trust should be commended for its decision, not celebrated. Bush was never the shady figure he was publicly shamed to be. College athletes, like Bush, were shamed for accepting benefits and ruining the alleged moral fiber of a system that never operated on anything aside from its own self-interest and billion-dollar bottom line. They were painted as perpetrators when they were always victims of a predatory system of mass consumption and entertainment. Yet, it’s the names of those who lured these young men and their families who were seldom dragged through the coals like the athletes they prey upon. Nevertheless, the trust ultimately made the right decision, even if it was nearly two decades late. Bush will, at long last, be allowed to celebrate the career that changed college football.

Expecting the NCAA to take the high road has proven an exercise in futility. Acknowledging its mistreatment of Bush is far too expensive. Doing so requires the NCAA to reckon with how many lives have been altered at best — shattered, at worst — throughout generations, all in the name of “amateur athletics.” It would require accountability from a body that never had to genuinely police itself when it came to compensating a workforce it claimed for decades should be happy with a “free” college education.

Reggie Bush is but one name. A prominent name, to be fair, but one of thousands the NCAA prohibited from exploring the limits of self-marketability and how that could have changed the scope of families’ futures. This gross imbalance of power and access further indicates the need for reform in college sports and the NCAA’s mistreatment of athletes, a cause that should resonate with those interested in social justice issues far beyond sports.

Famed boxer Muhammad Ali once said his Thrilla in Manilla fight with Joe Frazier was the closest he ever felt to death. Though not an apples-to-apples comparison, Bush called the decision to strip him of the Heisman in 2010 the closest he felt to death without dying. Bush still had a noteworthy NFL career and found success calling the game in retirement. Yet and still, he was always the guy who had his Heisman taken from him for a “crime” college football openly encouraged as long as one side benefitted and the other stayed quiet. He was a cautionary tale that even the game’s greatest talents weren’t immune from the game’s ugliest power grabs.

Much remains to be addressed regarding the NCAA, NIL, and whatever an “equal” playing field resembles. There will likely never be a day when college sports finds equality. That requires sacrifice, and sacrifice means relinquishing power.

Bush’s Heisman reinstatement is a small step forward, but it is nonetheless a step forward.

Condolences poured in across social media from fans and friends, such Kane, 50 Cent, Chuck D, Lil’ Cease, DJ Premier, and writer Cheo Hodari Coker. Many of the tributes centered on the same theme: Mister Cee’s love for hip-hop culture knew no bounds. Cee, a hip-hop pioneer in every sense of the title, was a walking, safe space. Not just for the rappers or executives he met and worked alongside over the years. He was like that with so many he encountered.

“[Cee] was one of my favorite music encyclopedias. It was an absolute blessing to learn from him. He handled hip-hop with such care and deep love,” said Scottie Beam, a former Hot 97 digital producer who worked closely with Cee as he unleashed his legendary noon throwback mixes. “He always wanted to see the right people in his hip-hop domain. [Cee’s] impact, passion and work that he’s poured into this culture will never, ever be forgotten, and I will miss him dearly.”

You can’t tell the story of hip-hop without mentioning Mister Cee’s name. Born Calvin Lebrun in the Bedford–Stuyvesant neighborhood of Brooklyn, Cee was the first person I spoke to for the book, It Was All a Dream: Biggie and the World That Made Him. Shortly after the quarantine started, a sense of trepidation sat on my shoulders. Here I was writing a book on one of Cee’s closest friends, and he could’ve been skeptical or guarded. Given where the world was at that point, it would’ve been understandable. I expected the interview to last 30 minutes. We spoke for three hours.

During our conversation, Mister Cee looked back on his life. He came of age in Brooklyn’s Lafayette Gardens projects in the 1970s, at a time when drugs were flooding the city. Some chose street life. Cee chose music. He laughed while recalling the freestyle rap battles in the lunchroom of Sarah J. Hale High School in the early 1980s. He cracked up even harder, recalling himself jumping in the ciphers but using lines from his posse at the time — The Magnum Force Crew. Cee’s laughs turned into tears of joy as he talked about his last opponent ever, MC Kane.

“After the lunch period was over, I’m walking out and this guy walked up to me with a leather jacket looking like Kurtis Blow. The guy walks up to me and goes in his inside pocket in his leather jacket — keep in mind, we in high school now — and pulls out a microphone. He was like, ‘Yo, I heard you wanted to battle me. I’m MC Kane,’ ” Cee told me, struggling to get through the story because he couldn’t contain his laughter. “I thought the dude was nuts! I’m like, ‘Nah, I was using my crew rhymes.’ I started backing down! I was like, I don’t want no problems. In my mind, I was like this dude is nuts carrying a microphone in school.”

He continued, “A week or two later, I go back in the lunchroom, and there’s a big crowd around a table. It was that MC Kane dude again,” After lunch, Cee asked Kane to listen to him DJ and join his crew. Kane initially refused, saying he was a solo act. “So I said, listen, just come around my way, hear how I DJ and maybe you might reconsider. Sure enough, Kane came around to my projects in Bed-Stuy. He heard how I DJ’d, and he was like, ‘Yo, I’m down. Whatever you wanna do, I’ll get down with the crew.’ “

From there, an unbreakable bond was formed as MC Kane became Big Daddy Kane. Cee and Kane would later meet Biz Markie, who helped facilitate a deal for the two at Cold Chillin’ Records. Mister Cee spoke with great pride and reverence for people like DJ 50 Grand, the Notorious B.I.G. and Matteo “Matty C” Capoluongo, whose “Unsigned Hype” Source column caught the eye of Sean “Puffy” Combs. Cee remembered introducing Biggie to Puffy as if it happened five minutes before our convo began, not three decades earlier. And the same confidence Kane had in Cee, Biggie had in Cee, too.

“Whatever Cee say, man,’ ” Biggie told Combs after the then-upstart music executive mentioned a deal with Uptown Records. “Whatever Cee say.”

Cee laughed as he looked back on helping convince Biggie to record songs like “Juicy” and “Big Poppa” for Ready to Die, an album in which he served as executive producer. He cried, reminiscing when Biggie lent him money to settle a deep debt with his landlord. He was still frustrated at Biggie for throwing his wife, Faith Evans, under the bus on the classic rap duet “Brooklyn’s Finest” with Jay-Z. And he went silent for minutes, recalling the days, weeks and months following Biggie’s murder in March 1997.

The conversation was expansive, but what I took away the most was Mister Cee’s gratitude. He understood his place in hip-hop but would always reflect on the culture’s place in his life, too. Cee is responsible for a handful of rap’s most significant street scriptures, from Biggie’s demo tape that Cee polished and placed in the right hands, the classic Best of Method Man and Best of Notorious B.I.G. tapes, to his own mixes that have since become part of the city’s cultural identity, no different than graffiti in the subways or block parties on warm summer nights. 

“[Mister] Cee’s influence stretched far beyond the airwaves, shaping the very fabric of NYC’s DJ culture,” Hot 97 shared in a statement. Cee worked at the station for 21 years before his departure in 2014. “Our hearts are heavy as we send our love and condolences to his family and the fans whose lives he touched through his music.”

Perhaps the word most used to describe him is “friend.” Beyond all the good he provided in the music world over five decades, Cee found immortality in his character, whether he knew it or not. He was always willing to share knowledge and always willing to tell his stories because he knew that specific acts of kindness meant something to people. He listened as much as he talked — and gave even more love than was given to him. It’s impossible to reflect on his life and not remember how, in later years, some aspects of the culture weren’t as gracious to Cee, especially when his sexuality became a heated topic of discussion.

The proverbial bullets Cee took about his personal life, especially after he was arrested for soliciting trans sex workers, served as teachable moments for the culture, which didn’t exactly acquit itself honorably at the time. J. Cole referenced the situation in 2013’s “Forbidden Fruit,” rapping, “The same reason they call Mister Cee ‘The Finisher’/ Forbidden fruit, watch for the Adam’s apple/ What you eat don’t make me sh—/ And who you f— don’t make me c—.“ The ugliest vitriol came from Power 105 radio host Charlamagne Tha God, who repeatedly taunted Mister Cee, calling him a “serial purchaser of penis” on air. Cee watched as his character was put under a microscope, and he was pressured to explain his sexuality. (In 2021, Mister Cee said he considered himself “try-sexual.”) Still, despite the culture’s latent homophobia, people like Funkmaster Flex and 50 Cent rushed to Cee’s defense.

The controversy around Mister Cee’s sexuality could’ve ended his career, but it didn’t. The culture eventually fell in line or moved on to the next target. But Mister Cee was more than just a hip-hop savant. He was a hip-hop survivor. In the wake of his death, the genre must once again ask itself why it’s necessary to make survivors out of anyone, particularly people who offered the culture-at-large so much life?

Mister Cee was a tour de force, the likes of which the genre has rarely seen. One that combined God-given talent with heavenly-ordained altruism. One that, when the culture lost a titan, was always there to send them off to the pearly gates in style. No one lauded his peers quite like Mister Cee.

Cee told me the story about the day Biggie died. He’d gotten the phone call hours earlier and sat in a haze as he took a taxi to Hot 97’s studio. Five years earlier, Cee convinced Biggie to take rapping seriously and leave hustling alone. Now, he was staring at the reality of living without the young man who changed his life. When he entered Hot 97’s office, Angie Martinez was already crying. His tears started instantly. Somehow, they got through the day — one of the darkest in New York City’s musical history — because they felt they owed the city that much. After the news of Cee’s death broke, Martinez took to Instagram with a heavy heart yet again.

“Oh, Cee, I’m struggling to find the words. You were so good at this … NO ONE will ever do it better,” she wrote on Instagram. “I have so many memories of how [you] showed up for me throughout the years. So many healthy debates. So many brainstorms and meaningful conversations. So much love. So much history. I’m grateful for all of it and for [you]. I pray [you] are at peace my friend.”

Fifty-seven is still painfully young in life’s grand scheme, and Cee is yet another member of the hip-hop community who never reached senior citizenship. But Mister Cee somehow packaged moments, relationships and art that will last longer than his physical frame ever could. Perhaps therein lies the joy inside the grief. DJ Mister Cee lived a hip-hop life worthy of re-telling for generations to come.

“It’s late as s— and I’m sure you on dad mode, but I’m pretty sure the Drake response arrives in 10 [minutes],” it read. “[I don’t know] if it’s that or Cole’s album. But I was told Drake recorded something the other day.”

Moments later, J. Cole’s Might Delete Later landed on streaming platforms, and the social media discourse was off to the races. 

To the industry insider’s credit, there was a diss. On the surprise album’s last song, “7 Minute Drill,” J. Cole directly aimed at Kendrick Lamar over a Sega Genesis-like backdrop, returning the shots Lamar sent J. Cole and Drake’s way in his fiery verse on “Like That” from Future and Metro Boomin’s We Don’t Trust You. “Like That” became an immediate cultural touchstone with NBA legend LeBron James rapping (mostly) word-for-word during a pregame warmup and on Inside the NBA, not only playing part of the verse on air but also referencing it during Thursday night’s telecast. The record was catapulted to No. 1, resulting in one undeniable reality: At its core, hip-hop is a competitive sport. Claiming to be the best means proving it.

And J. Cole has spent most of the last several years trying to separate himself from the competition. He acknowledged as much on “7 Minute Drill,” claiming Lamar’s time atop rap’s Mount Everest was long in the rearview. “Your first s— was classic, your last s— was tragic / Your second s— put n—-s to sleep, but they gassed it / Your third s— was massive and that was your prime,” J. Cole rapped, an interpolation of Jay-Z calling out Nas’ catalog on the “Takeover.” “I was trailin’ right behind and I just now hit mine / Now I’m front of the line with a comfortable lead/ How ironic, soon as I got it, now he want somethin’ with me.“

Calling Lamar’s To Pimp a Butterfly Ambien music — when many critics of J. Cole’s output over the years have said the same about his music — is intentional. Whether he genuinely believes this isn’t the point, or misses the larger target altogether. Lamar’s catalog is his claim to hip-hop immortality. And as talented as J. Cole is, his body of work still trails Lamar’s. But J. Cole knows that aiming at Lamar’s discography while also bringing up the usual talking points about the Compton, California, emcee being boring and taking extended breaks between projects is a means of directing the conversation, however off-base it may be.

J. Cole labeled the record a “warning shot,” and essentially, it’s just that. A few hours after Might Delete Later dropped, rapper Reason of Top Dawg Entertainment (Lamar’s former record label) took to social media, writing, “I hope y’all understand this sport and don’t take it too serious, at least from dot and Cole. This just gon’ be friendly sparring. I’m [excited] to hear both get the s— off with no real issues. Just rap!”

As Reason noted, whatever tension exists between J. Cole and Lamar has yet to cross the line into something more personal. J. Cole confirmed last year that he and Lamar discussed a joint project years ago, but schedules prevented it. It’s two guys who, barring this moment, have been cordial and respectful of the other’s talents dating back to their early mixtape days. Yet, J. Cole can gain considerable ground in his quest to be “the U-N-O” — if he can play his cards correctly in this moment.

“This year was always set up to be huge for Cole. His ‘alleged’ final album, and now he has this beef fall into his lap,” rap historian and documentarian Jeff Rosenthal said. He and his brother Eric Rosenthal created the award-winning podcast, The Blog Era, which focused on the period (roughly 2007-12) when J. Cole, Lamar, Drake and legions more were making their names in music via the internet. “If he really wants to go out on a high note and solidify a generational No. 1 status, he absolutely has a runway to do so. Momentum is on his side.”

Beyond the project’s last song, May Delete Later is a well-rapped body of work housing a swath of sounds and voices from Cam’ron, Ab-Soul, Ari Lennox, Gucci Mane, Young Dro and others. As his annual Dreamville Festival kicks off Saturday and Sunday, J. Cole has all eyes on him. And with marquee names like SZA, 50 Cent and the ever-controversial Nicki Minaj on the lineup, this is J. Cole’s stage.

“Cole’s always been the people’s champ. Drake has owned the top of every chart for the last 15 years and Kendrick has won the hearts of every critic and intellectual. But Cole has built up the most loyal and passionate fan base,” Eric Rosenthal said. “Detractors might say that his earnestness makes him boring, but it’s impossible to argue that he’s attracted fans and collaborators, including Drake and Kendrick, who appreciate the very specific lane Cole owns.”

In the grand scheme of things, J. Cole’s response to Lamar is satisfactory. “7 Minute Drill” will never find itself among the iconic battle records in rap history. But then again, it was never meant to be. J. Cole will perform several cuts from Might Delete Later this weekend before the thousands of fans descending on Raleigh, North Carolina, for the festival, including the one everyone’s talking about — “7 Minute Drill.” And the discussions about where this spat between the two rap heavyweights will lead to will only deepen.

Yet, the elephant in the room continues to grow more unavoidable. Going back to Reason’s tweet, he said this rap battle was just for fun — “at least from dot and Cole.” That one phrase is the textbook definition of “heavy lifting.” J. Cole’s response only intensifies the pressure on Drake — the main target of Lamar’s ire on “Like That” — to respond. Once friends — or cordial associates, if anything— the tension between Drake and Lamar is personal in a way that the lyrical rift between Lamar and J. Cole is not. Drake and Lamar have traded bars over the past decade, with Lamar being far more confrontational. Since “Like That,” Drake’s responses have come in the form of Instagram captions, impromptu on stage TED talks, and over-the-top antics, such as aiming shots at a giant image of Travis Scott’s head during a recent stop on his and J. Cole’s It’s All A Blur — Big As The What? tour.

Drake is as battle-tested as they come. He obliterated Common on “Stay Schemin’ ” in 2012 and publicly defanged Meek Mill in 2015 with the Grammy-nominated diss “Back to Back.” Yet, his 2018 loss — one Drake himself admitted — to Pusha T represents an unhealable scar. Drake’s attitude and musical tone shifted due to Pusha T’s “The Story of Adidon.” The record not only exposed the identity of Drake’s son, but questioned the very existence of Drake as an artist and an idea. Now Drake stands at yet another pivotal moment defined by deep-seeded friction. The last half-decade has seen a far more combative Drake, thanks to that run-in with Pusha T. Now the expectation to lyrically square up Lamar is deafening.

If and when Drake responds, it will be on a massive stage because no other option exists. From “First Person Shooter” on, everything involving these three has played out with the world watching. In some ways, J. Cole didn’t do Drake any favors by releasing “7 Minute Drill” before Drake could get in the booth and drop a diss of his own. But as J. Cole proclaimed on the record, in a way almost agreeing with Lamar: I’m in the front with a comfortable lead.

Much like another one of J. Cole’s passions — basketball — leads in rap vanish almost in the blink of an eye. J. Cole’s been running the score up for years now. But much like another North Carolina native, the opportunity for a dagger 3-pointer, the likes of which his career has never seen, is right in front of him. An album-before-the-album. A high-profile war of words. His own festival. And then The Fall Off, rap’s most anticipated project. It’s set up for 2024 to be J. Cole’s MVP year. Now it’s all about his follow-through.

Well, except for Judea Skies Watkins, the USC freshman guard better known as JuJu. The votes have been cast, and Watkins has been tapped as the next great American basketball star.

Watkins’ impressive on-court exploits are the main reason the Los Angeles native has exploded on the sports scene. This season, the All-America recipient was the ESPN National Freshman of the Year and runner-up for National Player of the Year. She was also named Pac-12 Freshman of the Year by The Athletic. She has a bevy of lucrative NIL deals. USC’s No. 3 ranking is the program’s highest in 38 years, and Watkins led the Trojans in scoring 27 of 31 games this season, including a 51-point masterpiece on the road against Stanford (the highest scoring performance this season for men or women). The USC scoring records once held by Cheryl Miller and Lisa Leslie belong to Watkins. In short, she’s a walking bucket and exciting to watch.

“JuJu has the opportunity to do something we’ve needed in women’s basketball for a long time. And that’s to transcend the sport and really be at the intersection of women’s basketball and culture,” LaChina Robinson, WNBA analyst and host for ESPN, said.

“At Lakers games, the first thing you think about is who are all the stars that are courtside wanting to watch LeBron, or Kobe when he played, or even back to Magic [Johnson], that’s been a staple in LA because of everything that city means to music, art, entertainment, etc.,” Robinson continued. “[JuJu] could create this unique space for women’s basketball to be appreciated beyond just a sports fan. She could bleed the game into popular culture and just a greater space than it has in the past.”

If it seems like a lot of pressure for an 18-year-old from the LA neighborhood of Watts to carry, it is.

These words may only place additional unrealistic expectations on her. Yet, like her classmate and friend Bronny James, Watkins’ expectations of herself are the only ones that hold weight. Still, there’s nothing wrong with finding the excitement in her game and the excitement of what someone with her talent could mean for much larger societal conversations. She’s not a savior, because women’s basketball doesn’t need saving.

However, where Watkins can take the game has yet to be adequately charted. She’s a basketball savant with a purpose far beyond box scores. Watkins is young, gifted, and Black like R&B singer Donny Hathaway once preached and Tupac Shakur rapped about.

Her time isn’t coming. It’s already here.

There’s a moment that symbolized Watkins’ freshman campaign and its historical ramifications. In a game Feb. 23 against conference foe Colorado, USC, boosted by Watkins’ 42 points, won 87-81. But halfway through the second quarter, she cut a fast break short by pulling up from several feet behind the 3-point line and draining it. The crowd erupted, and none were prouder than Miller, who leaned forward in her seat, clapping. Miller has been a fixture at USC games this season, and returning was an emotional reunion decades in the making.

“For everything you’ve done for the former players, it’s been a very long time since we’ve been embraced and been a part of the younger generations coming up, so thank you from the bottom of my heart,” Miller said in a powerful post-game locker room speech following USC’s win over crosstown rival UCLA. “You guys changed the culture … What you guys have shown in this country is y’all some bad MFs.”

In a sport like basketball, where eras are often pitted against each other, multiple generations of Trojans respecting and loving one another is paramount. Even with that, the rebirth of USC’s place in basketball lore can’t be quantified. It’s one thing to revive a dormant program. It’s another thing to resurrect a program as proud as USC’s, with its history of national championships, Final Four appearances, and some of the greatest talent the game has known. But it’s a different responsibility to be a daughter of the turf, like Watkins, and help elevate the program to heights not seen in generations.

“Seeing [all the USC legends come out] and be celebrated gives us the opportunity to relish the rich history of what USC accomplished and what the dominance meant to women’s basketball, not just college,” Robinson said. “We get to still celebrate those players with the resurgence of USC. To me, that’s really important to the history and growth of the sport.”

While Watkins stands on the shoulders of the women before her, she’s also a gateway to the future. She’s a product of Watts, which is roughly 10 miles from USC’s campus. Her family is entrenched in LA’s basketball scene and the community at large.

“My great-grandfather started a foundation that has brought a lot of resources and attention to the community for those in need. I really look up to my great-grandfather and grandfather, Ted Watkins,” Watkins said in a 2022 interview. “When I’m on the court, I always play for something bigger. I put on for my city.”

One thing Los Angeles always has is star power. Celebrity, for better and worse, is the ecosystem. But in a city of megastars, Watkins is far more than a candle in the sun. Her star power is as bright as anyone else’s, with celebs such as rappers 2 Chainz, YG and Saweetie, Los Angeles Lakers star LeBron James, comedian Kevin Hart, and former NBA All-Star Marques Johnson sitting courtside at her games. Flea of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, a longtime Watkins superfan wore a T-shirt with her Slam magazine cover on it to a Lakers game earlier this month.

“It’s the hottest ticket in Los Angeles right now, I’d say, even with the Shohei Ohtanis and LeBron James of the world,” LA sports reporter Lauren Jones said of USC’s women’s basketball games. “She’s on that caliber in terms of the energy. People want to be at those games.”

Beyond the USC women’s games at the Galen Center becoming the new hot spot lives another salient truth. What makes Watkins a cultural magnet is that she’s an offensive machine. Last month, Lisa Leslie joined Golden State Warriors forward Draymond Green’s podcast in February and discussed Watkins’ game.

“A lot of people go to LA, but a lot of people are not from LA,” the three-time WNBA MVP said. “But those of us from LA, it’s a certain kinda dog in us. She really from LA.”

Basically, Watkins’ game is good in any ‘hood — much like another basketball legend.

“I would compare JuJu to the way people talk about Diana Taurasi,” said Robinson. “Diana had respect on any playground, no matter what. Now, she’s a lot more demonstrative on the court than JuJu, but the way JuJu plays to her skill set — the three-level scoring, the crossover, pull-up — it’s certified on any basketball court in the world. That’s why we’re seeing her draw so much attention and support from people who may not normally come to the women’s basketball space but love basketball. It’s the way she plays.”

Watching Watkins, still less than a year removed from high school, feels like seeing a potential generational talent put on a show. Watkins seems shy, almost embarrassed by the spotlight, but not in a way that doesn’t appear charming. She doesn’t “play the game the right way,” whatever that means. She plays to win. And in sports, there’s no more respected love language.

Watkins’ laid-back demeanor and signature bun are all part of who she is and what could make her one of the biggest basketball stars of her generation — male or female. She excels at being herself in a world where success and failure are often reduced to 60-second clips. She’s an 18-year-old young Black woman attempting to figure out her place in the world. The only difference is Watkins is doing so in the public eye. There are surely mistakes on the horizon. No human, even one as wickedly talented as Watkins, is immune to them. But with those mistakes, hopefully, come lessons. Lessons that can be applied on the court and in life because the best ones often do.

What this means for women’s basketball and beyond is anyone’s guess. But it is Watkins’ choice of the path she decides to take.

After Watkins dropped 51 points on the road against Stanford last month, one had to figure there was no way they’d allow that again in the Pac-12 title game March 10. They adopted the “anybody but JuJu” approach and ended up on the wrong side of messing around and finding out. Watkins scored a season-low nine points as Stanford threw an endless amount of double and triple teams her way, but her teammates had her back in the 67-58 victory at Maples Pavilion in Las Vegas.

“When you have a player like JuJu who has been in these practices every day, you suddenly, as a player around her, feel empowered,” said Robinson. “You go out and perform, particularly out of respect for everything JuJu has done to get the team to that moment. It’s a beautiful thing.”

If Watkins and USC advance to the Final Four in Cleveland to make their first trip since 1986, they’ll need more team efforts like that. Yet, her future is bright, no matter how the season ends.

“JuJu has an opportunity to create a stronghold on the women’s game on the West Coast,” said Jones. She’s setting the groundwork for [USC] to be part of the bigger, more national conversation of some of the best programs at the collegiate level.”

Watkins’ dominance all season has been one of college basketball’s definitive tales. But thanks to the tournament, her games will air when much of the country can finally watch her play live. For those who have yet to experience the relentlessness and beauty of her game, March Madness should be a welcome surprise.

“When I watched her play for the first time, I said to myself she could go to the WNBA right now,” Robinson said. “In my almost two decades covering the sport, I don’t think I’ve ever said those words out of my mouth about anyone.”

Women’s basketball, like so many facets of American life, was crafted by Black energy and creativity that gave the game its style and image. Watkins stands on this history and is poised to create her own. The stages will get bigger, and mythical stat lines will lead to conversations that will play out in sports bars, airports and barbershops across America. The lights will get brighter and more intense.

Not all moments require putting up points, but every moment does require presence. The good news is that Watkins is built for both.