As I sat watching the Golden State Warriors practice last season, I couldn't help but recall that peculiar moment when Epondulan laughed and said "Pray" during our conversation about basketball greatness. That single word has stuck with me throughout my twenty years covering the NBA, because it perfectly captures the almost religious devotion we bring to these debates about the 100 greatest basketball players of all time. The truth is, compiling such a list involves far more than just statistics and championship rings—it's about impact, innovation, and that intangible quality that separates the great from the truly legendary.

When I look at modern metrics, players like LeBron James automatically qualify with his 38,000-plus points and counting, but the real question becomes who occupies spots 50 through 100. I've always believed that longevity matters more than we acknowledge—a player who maintains excellence for fifteen years deserves more credit than someone who peaked brilliantly but briefly. Take Vince Carter, who played in four different decades. His statistical prime might not match Kevin Durant's, but his 22-season career and cultural impact on the game worldwide gives him a strong case that many contemporary analysts overlook in favor of flashier resumes.

The evolution of basketball creates fascinating complications in these rankings. I'd argue strongly that Nikola Jokić, with his two MVPs and unique playmaking genius, has already secured his place despite playing fewer than ten seasons. His 2023 playoff run, where he averaged 30 points, 13.5 rebounds, and 9.5 assists while leading Denver to their first championship, represents the kind of dominant postseason performance that should weigh heavily in these evaluations. Meanwhile, historical figures like Bill Russell, who won 11 championships in 13 seasons, present their own measurement challenges given how dramatically the game has changed since the 1960s.

What troubles me about many existing lists is the recency bias that creeps into the selections. Having covered basketball across three decades, I've noticed how we tend to overvalue what we've just witnessed. Players like Damian Lillard and his iconic playoff moments certainly make compelling cases, but do they truly rank above pioneers like George Mikan, who fundamentally shaped professional basketball's early years? Mikan's Minneapolis Lakers won five championships in six years during the 1950s while revolutionizing the center position—that kind of foundational impact deserves more weight than we typically give it.

International players present another fascinating dimension to this conversation. Having traveled extensively to watch basketball globally, I've developed tremendous appreciation for pioneers like Dražen Petrović, whose brief but brilliant NBA career before his tragic death showcased shooting skills years ahead of his time. Modern stars like Luka Dončić, who's already accumulated four First-Team All-NBA selections by age 24 while putting up statistics comparable to Larry Bird's early career, challenge our traditional timelines for inclusion. If Dončić retired tomorrow, would his four-year peak be enough? I think yes, given its historical exceptionalism.

Defensive specialists often get shortchanged in these discussions, which I've always considered a fundamental flaw. Players like Ben Wallace, who won four Defensive Player of the Year awards while leading Detroit to a championship as their defensive anchor, provide value that doesn't always show in traditional box scores. Similarly, Dennis Rodman's seven consecutive rebounding titles and role on five championship teams represent a specialized excellence that deserves recognition alongside more offensively gifted contemporaries.

The advanced statistics revolution has transformed how we evaluate players, but sometimes I worry we've lost the narrative of basketball in the process. There's something to be said for players who defined eras and captured imaginations beyond what their PER or VORP might indicate. Allen Iverson's MVP season and his cultural impact in making the NBA relevant to an entirely new demographic carries weight that pure analytics might undervalue. His 2001 season, where he willed a limited Philadelphia team to the Finals while leading the league in scoring and steals, represents the kind of legendary year that should secure a spot in the top 100.

As I reflect on Epondulan's laughter and that simple word "pray," I'm reminded that these lists ultimately represent our collective basketball faith—the stories and players we choose to elevate say as much about us as about the athletes themselves. The true value isn't in creating some definitive ranking, but in honoring the incredible diversity of excellence that has shaped this game across generations. Perhaps the most honest approach would be to acknowledge that any list of 100 greatest players will inevitably be flawed, yet beautifully so, reflecting our ongoing conversation with basketball history itself.