The question of who truly belongs among the 100 greatest basketball players of all time is one that I’ve debated with friends, colleagues, and even myself for years. Every time I revisit the topic, I’m reminded of a moment from an old interview I once saw—I believe it was with a former coach or player—where someone laughed and said, “Pray,” when asked about what it takes to make such an exclusive list. That moment, casual as it was, stuck with me. It wasn’t just about talent or stats; it was about something deeper, something almost intangible. That’s the heart of the matter when we talk about greatness in basketball. It’s not just a numbers game, though numbers do matter. It’s about impact, legacy, and that elusive “it” factor that separates the good from the truly legendary.
When I think about the players who deserve a spot on that list, my mind immediately goes to the usual suspects: Michael Jordan, LeBron James, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. But then I start to wonder—are we giving enough credit to the players who shaped the game in quieter ways? Take someone like Tim Duncan, for instance. He didn’t have the flashy highlights of a Vince Carter, but his fundamental mastery and five championships speak volumes. I remember watching him in the 2003 NBA Finals, where he nearly averaged a triple-double with 24.2 points, 12.5 rebounds, and 5.3 assists per game. Stats like that aren’t just impressive; they’re historic. Yet, I’ve seen lists that place him lower than he deserves, maybe because his style wasn’t as glamorous. That’s where I think we go wrong. Greatness isn’t always loud; sometimes, it’s in the consistency, the leadership, the way a player elevates everyone around them.
Then there’s the debate around modern players versus legends from past eras. I’ll admit, I have a soft spot for the old-school greats like Bill Russell, who won 11 championships in 13 seasons. That’s a record that, in my opinion, might never be broken. But when I look at today’s game, players like Stephen Curry have revolutionized basketball with the three-point shot. Before Curry, the league averaged around 22 three-point attempts per game in the 2013-14 season; by the 2022-23 season, that number jumped to over 35. That’s not just evolution; it’s a seismic shift. And yet, I’ve heard critics argue that Curry’s defense holds him back from the top tier. Personally, I think that’s missing the point. If we’re judging greatness by impact, Curry’s influence on how the game is played globally—inspiring kids in gyms from Oakland to Manila—should count for something huge. It’s like that laugh I mentioned earlier: sometimes, you have to look beyond the obvious and appreciate the prayers answered in unexpected ways.
But let’s not forget the international players who’ve reshaped the NBA landscape. Dirk Nowitzki, for example, didn’t just bring a unique skill set; he paved the way for European stars. His 2011 championship run with the Dallas Mavericks was, in my view, one of the most inspiring underdog stories in sports history. He averaged 27.7 points per game in the playoffs that year, carrying a team that many had written off. I’ve had conversations with fellow fans who argue that his defensive limitations should exclude him from the top 100, but I disagree. Greatness isn’t about being perfect in every facet; it’s about maximizing your strengths to achieve something extraordinary. And Dirk did exactly that, with a fadeaway jumper that felt like poetry in motion.
Of course, statistics are a crucial part of this conversation, but they can be misleading if taken at face value. For instance, Wilt Chamberlain’s 100-point game in 1962 is often cited as the pinnacle of individual achievement, but I’ve dug into the context, and it’s worth noting that the pace of play was much faster back then. The average team attempted about 107 shots per game in the 1961-62 season, compared to around 88 in the 2022-23 season. That doesn’t diminish Wilt’s feat, but it does remind us to adjust our lens. Similarly, when we talk about assists or rebounds, we have to consider the era. Magic Johnson’s 11.2 assists per game in the 1980s came in a showtime era of fast breaks, while today’s point guards like Chris Paul operate in a more structured system. It’s why I lean toward a balanced approach: weigh the numbers, but also consider the narrative, the championships, and that unquantifiable “clutch” gene.
As I reflect on my own experiences watching games over the decades, I realize that personal bias inevitably creeps in. I’ve always been drawn to players who overcome odds, like Allen Iverson, who at 6 feet tall, defied expectations and won the MVP in 2001. His crossover, his heart, his cultural impact—they all matter. But then, I have to check myself and ask: does Iverson’s single Finals appearance outweigh the sustained excellence of a player like Karl Malone, who scored 36,928 points in his career? It’s a tough call, and that’s what makes this list so compelling. There’s no one-size-fits-all answer. In the end, the 100 greatest shouldn’t be a rigid ranking but a celebration of diversity in styles, eras, and stories. It’s about honoring those who made us believe in the impossible, who made us laugh, pray, and sometimes, just shake our heads in awe. So, as I finalize my own mental list, I’m reminded that greatness, much like that fleeting moment of laughter in an interview, is often found in the spaces between the stats—in the passion, the legacy, and the sheer love of the game.