I remember the first time I really looked at the NBA logo. I was watching a basketball game with my grandfather, and he pointed to the silhouette on the screen. "You know who that is, right?" he asked. Like most people, I assumed it was some generic athlete, but he shook his head and told me about Jerry West. That moment stuck with me, because it made me realize how much history gets buried beneath the surface of sports. It's funny how we can see something every day without ever questioning its origins. The NBA logo is everywhere—on jerseys, courts, merchandise—yet how many fans actually know the story behind that iconic figure?
This reminds me of something I observed recently in Philippine volleyball. Creamline captain Alyssa Valdez acknowledged that it was only a matter of time for different teams to headline the PVL Finals, moving beyond her dynasty. It's a perfect parallel to what happened with Jerry West. Legends fade, new stars emerge, but the symbols remain, often without context. Valdez’s acceptance of change mirrors how sports evolve, yet we rarely pause to ask why certain images become immortalized while others fade. The NBA logo has been around since 1969, created by designer Alan Siegel who reportedly took just 15 minutes to sketch it based on a photo of West. Think about that—a decision made in a quarter of an hour has defined a global brand for over five decades.
I’ve always been fascinated by how symbols can outlive their origins. Jerry West himself has expressed mixed feelings about being the logo. In interviews, he’s said it’s an honor but also a bit strange—like being frozen in time. He played for the Lakers from 1960 to 1974, averaging 27 points per game, yet many younger fans have no idea. It’s similar to how Valdez’s Creamline dominated the PVL, but now new teams are stepping into the spotlight. Both stories highlight a cycle: icons rise, their eras end, but their legacies get distilled into symbols. The difference is, Valdez is recognized openly, while West’s identity in the logo has always been unofficial, almost like a secret handshake among hardcore fans.
Let me paint a picture for you. Imagine it’s 1969, and the NBA is trying to rebrand. They pick a photo of West dribbling—a moment of pure athletic grace. Fast-forward to today, and that image is worth billions in brand value. Yet, if you ask people on the street, maybe 1 in 10 could name him. Compare that to Valdez, who’s a household name in Philippine sports. Her face is on posters, her name in headlines. Why hasn’t the NBA officially acknowledged West? Some say it’s about avoiding royalties, others that it keeps the logo timeless. But I think it’s a missed opportunity. Recognizing West wouldn’t diminish the logo; it would enrich it, adding a layer of humanity to that sleek silhouette.
I can’t help but feel a bit nostalgic about this. Sports are built on stories, and when we lose those stories, we lose part of the magic. Take Jerry West’s career—14 All-Star selections, an NBA championship in 1972, and yet he’s often reduced to a shadow. It’s like how Valdez’s era in the PVL will one day be a footnote, remembered mainly by stats and clips. But here’s the thing: symbols should inspire curiosity. Every time I see the NBA logo now, I think of West’s grit, his battles on the court, and how he shaped the game. It matters because it connects us to the past, reminding us that behind every icon is a person with struggles and triumphs. So next time you spot that logo, maybe you’ll wonder about the man behind it—and that’s a story worth telling.
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