Who Truly Deserves to Be Among the 75 Greatest Players in NBA History?

2025-11-17 10:00

When I first saw the question "Who truly deserves to be among the 75 greatest players in NBA history?" pop up on my social media feed, I couldn't help but dive into the rabbit hole of basketball greatness. Having spent over a decade analyzing player development and career trajectories, I've come to realize that these discussions often miss something crucial—the human element behind the statistics. Just last week, I was watching an interview with Kai Sotto where he mentioned, "Three months, magfo-four months pa lang ako since surgery. Nagre-rehab lang ako," and it struck me how quickly we dismiss players battling through adversity when compiling these all-time lists.

The conversation around NBA greatness typically revolves around championship rings, MVP awards, and statistical milestones, but what about the players who redefine what's possible despite physical setbacks? I remember watching Derrick Rose during his MVP season, putting up 25 points and 7.7 assists per game while playing with an explosive style that seemed to defy physics. Yet when his body began breaking down, many were quick to write him off from greatness conversations. That's where I differ from most analysts—I believe resilience and impact during peak years should carry more weight than longevity alone. Think about Bill Walton, who played only 468 regular season games but revolutionized the center position during his brief prime, leading Portland to their only championship while averaging 18.6 points, 14.4 rebounds, and 3.8 blocks during that 1977 playoff run.

Statistics obviously matter, but we've become too obsessed with round numbers. Does 20,000 career points automatically make someone greater than a player with 19,500? In my analysis, context matters far more than arbitrary benchmarks. Take Allen Iverson—listed at 6 feet but probably closer to 5'11"—who carried the 76ers to the 2001 Finals while leading the league in scoring at 31.1 points per game. The man played through 11 documented fractures in his body during his career, yet we penalize him for not having multiple championships. That's nonsense to me. Greatness isn't just about accumulation; it's about moments that change the game. Iverson's crossover on Michael Jordan in 1997 or his step-over on Tyronn Lue in the Finals are cultural touchstones that transcend statistics.

The rehabilitation process Sotto mentioned—those grueling months of rebuilding one's body—reminds me of modern players like Kevin Durant returning from an Achilles tear to still average 29.9 points in the 2021 playoffs. We often forget that previous generations would have seen such injuries as career-ending. Medical advancements have extended careers, but should that automatically make contemporary players more "deserving" than pioneers? I'd argue no. Watching footage of Elgin Baylor—who averaged 38.3 points and 18.6 rebounds in 1961-62 while serving in the military—makes me question whether any modern player could match that level of commitment.

My personal bias leans toward players who transformed how positions are played. When we talk about revolutionary figures, Steph Curry deserves more credit than he typically receives. Before his 2015 MVP season, no team attempted more than 26 three-pointers per game; by 2021, the average was 34.6. That's not just statistical dominance—that's changing basketball's fundamental geometry. Similarly, Dirk Nowitzki's 2011 championship run, where he averaged 27.7 points on 48.5% shooting against the Miami superteam, validated an entire generation of international players and stretched big men.

What frustrates me about these discussions is how recency bias clouds judgment. I've noticed analysts ranking players from the 2010s above legends from the 70s and 80s without proper context. The game evolves, but dominance relative to era matters more than raw numbers. Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's skyhook wasn't just effective—it was practically unguardable for two decades, resulting in 38,387 points that stood as the record for 34 years. Meanwhile, Wilt Chamberlain's 1961-62 season—50.4 points and 25.7 rebounds per game—sounds like video game numbers until you realize he was competing against plumbers and accountants, as the old joke goes.

The rehabilitation journey Sotto described mirrors what many all-time greats endured. Larry Bird played through chronic back issues that would have ended most careers today, yet he delivered three MVPs and three championships. Similarly, Willis Reed's dramatic emergence from the tunnel in Game 7 of the 1970 Finals—playing on a torn thigh muscle—became the stuff of legend. These moments of triumph over physical limitation deserve consideration alongside statistical achievements.

As I reflect on the 75 greatest players, my final list would probably differ significantly from the official NBA selection. I'd include players like Tracy McGrady, whose 2002-03 season (32.1 points, 6.5 rebounds, 5.5 assists) represents one of the most explosive offensive displays I've ever witnessed, despite his playoff shortcomings. I'd also find room for Artis Gilmore, who maintained a .599 field goal percentage across 17 seasons while being consistently overshadowed by his contemporaries. The beauty of basketball is that greatness manifests differently across eras, and our debates about who belongs will continue as long as the game evolves. What matters most isn't consensus, but recognizing that behind every statistic lies a human story of struggle, rehabilitation, and moments of brilliance that numbers can never fully capture.