The NBA doesn’t need a face. It needs folklore.

Who’s the face of the NBA?

Every season. Every random day in February or March. Every postseason run. Every viral clip. It’s the question that’s taken up far too much oxygen in basketball discourse over the last several years. Is it 2026 All-Star Game MVP Anthony Edwards? Or Victor Wembanyama, who Edwards said “set the tone” for Sunday’s midseason exhibition? Or the two superstars Edwards put on the Summer Jam screen for lack of effort, Luka Dončić and Nikola Jokić? How about Shai Gilgeous-Alexander or Giannis Antetokounmpo? Or could the next face of the NBA be someone in a loaded 2026 draft class?

The answer is none of the above. 

Aside from the many questions shrouding the league right now, what if the NBA actually doesn’t have a “face of the league” problem on its hands? What if the concept no longer holds weight in a far different NBA (and world) in 2026 and beyond?

For better ways and worse, there simply isn’t one accepted way to consume the NBA nowadays. Therefore, the premise of a singular, dominating star the league orbits around and benefits from is outdated in a media era that is many things, but is not monoculture. 

Long gone are the days of Magic Johnson and Larry Bird, and the barren, yet limitless potential of sports on broadcast television. They were far from the only legends of the decade of the 1980s. But their rivalry was digestible, easy to understand and even easier to appreciate beyond the hardwood. One being Black, the other white, and both being two of the greatest ever to touch a basketball didn’t hurt either.

Rivals since college, and then bona fide megastars on the league’s two most cherished franchises, Magic and Larry thrived during a time of limited channels. Each matchup was a national TV moment in time. The league evolved around its revival in the ’80s, but the singular spotlight was shared by a duo of tour de forces that galvanized a basketball universe on the brink of a cultural explosion.

Also, long gone is the decade that changed American pop culture like none before or after: the 1990s. In a decade full of stars, there was none bigger than Michael Jordan. An incomparable supernova of the highest order, Jordan was, and still is, the sports equivalent to his “Jam” co-star Michael Jackson. The evolution in media made mass consumption simultaneous and constant. Not only was Jordan (and Jackson) a product of corporate globalism, the centralized media and still streamlined access to the NBA gave Jordan as close to universal appeal as an athlete has ever flirted with. “Be Like Mike” wasn’t an infectious jingle. It was an ethos that became cultural and biblical scripture. This is why President Obama’s light-hearted banter with Reggie Miller on Sunday struck such a core nerve. Everyone bought in. Michael Jordan — like Michael Jackson — wasn’t just ordained in his talent. He was unavoidable.

Long gone are even the days when LeBron James bridged two important worlds as the first internet-era megastar and the last universally accepted “face.” James treats his rise to cultural immortality similarly to that of his close friend and mentor Jay-Z. TV was still the dominant force in mass communication, but a bubbling behemoth in social media was emerging. Modern athletes, with James at the forefront, have built influential identities extending beyond the playing field into business, philanthropy, and social advocacy. Mogul was the destination, and the brand became an entire ecosystem. Largely led by James as well, the voyage of “player empowerment” completely upended the NBA’s power structure.

These days, watching basketball is akin to UberEats, DoorDash or Grubhub. Access is both unlimited and instant. Every feed is personalized. Meanwhile, being a fan is both international and hyperlocal, making attention as fragmented as it’s ever been.

The Slovenian delegation orbits Luka Dončić. A French delegation may focus on Victor Wembanyaama. Gen Z may attach to reigning MVP and Finals MVP Shai Gilgeous-Alexander for his off-the-court influence and aesthetics. In American highlight superhighways, Anthony Edwards is tailor-made for a moment like this. Or, for a Pistons fan, Cade Cunningham restoring the energy in the Motor City makes “DEEE-TROIT BASKETBALL” a rallying cry that could soon deafen the NBA once more.

One NBA audience no longer exists. Hate it or love it, dozens roam. Algorithms may make stars, but they don’t generate kings. Those produce lanes.

The present-day NBA has long moved past its Michael Jackson or even Jay-Z era. Distinct yet individual personalities populate the NBA map. Fans choose their favorite artist, and allegiance grows. In an era of dominance like none before it, no single leader stands atop the pack. But there is a belief and a product giving credence to the belief that the sum is greater than its parts. The NBA is in its Wu-Tang Clan era. 

Each star has a role. The extraterrestrial overlord (Wembanyama). The quiet, offensive assassin (Jokic). The charismatic two guard (Edwards). The sinister smile (Luka). The Greek Freak (Antetokounmpo). Role players like Pistons forward Isaiah Stewart and Suns forward Dillon Brooks have established themselves as salient, albeit emotionally erratic, supporting characters. Singular star dominance is a basketball artifact.

While the NBA doesn’t have a “face” problem, there are multiple concerns across the league that could hinder discussion of it. Indeed, the regular season and All-Star Game have seen encouraging signs. This season’s average viewership through the All-Star break is up to its highest level since 2018, and Sunday’s All-Star Game tallied its biggest audience in nearly 15 years after moving to broadcast and streaming platforms — suggesting early returns on the league’s massive TV rights deal.

Talks of adding events to All-Star Saturday night are reportedly in the works. Yet, angst about the regular season’s relevance, tanking, and sports betting only grows louder. Adding “the face of the league” discussion to an already combustible potluck does nothing to address the real issues at play.

James should be the NBA’s last king. For the past 20 years, the most transformative franchise hasn’t been a professional sports organization. The Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) has grossed north of $30 billion. In that universe are elements the NBA needs: heroes, anti-heroes, dynasties, charismatic villains, rivalries and grudges that live all season. Nothing matters more than basketball, but within the game has always been what’s introduced it to immortality: the soul of storytelling.

Think of the NBA as a shared universe of spontaneous, recurring conflicts and emotional entry points that aren’t relegated to a seven-game series in June. Think of a community where the international allure and domination combine with vintage American defiance. Big markets feel gaudy, and smaller markets feel epic — and regular-season games matter because it’s more than turning on (insert streaming app here). Games hold weight because the grudges and emotional connections are part of the season’s story. 

Sports require friction. Music needs ecosystems. The NBA, at its best, is a beautiful song, and it requires both. It can’t just always be about brand partnerships, friendly banter and fleeting moments of excitement. This isn’t a demand for chaos — not brawls, not recklessness from fans, not microwaved or manufactured drama. But consequences aren’t consequential when consequences don’t feel like consequences.

In an NBA universe, multiple stars don’t simply co-exist. They dominate for the league’s betterment. Multiple fanbases don’t simply blossom — each one carries its own individualistic calling card. In the process, the NBA becomes deeper culturally, not narrower. The league expands emotionally before it does literally. 

Talent-wise, the NBA is an embarrassment of riches. Stars exist from the Pacific Ocean to the Atlantic. Expecting one to carry the weight of a multi-billion-dollar conglomerate stretching to every continent except Antarctica is disingenuous. The throne isn’t vacant. It’s antiquated.

Perhaps folklore doesn’t tip off with a coronation. What if it begins with a collision?

Consider Edwards and Wembanyama, two No. 1 picks from two different continents. Both carry their own unique brands of charisma. Edwards moves with lemon pepper-flavored Southern charm and timeline-ready allure. Wembanyama hovers with alien proportions and a mystique that feels almost canonical. Both are insatiable competitors. Both need the stage.

If league expansion one day slides the Minnesota Timberwolves to the Eastern Conference and Wemby and Ant’s paths cross deep in June, the NBA won’t need to ask who the face is. It’ll have something far more priceless: tension, excitement, contrast. Saga.

The next Michael Jordan is a pipe dream. The next LeBron James is an unfair expectation. The league no longer needs consensus. Monoculture, once its greatest accelerant, now hustles backward. What the NBA needs is tension. It needs orchestration. It needs to lean into the personalities, the grudges, the stylistic clashes already bubbling beneath the surface.

The NBA doesn’t need a crown. It needs folklore. 

And folklore requires multiple authors.