I still remember the first time I saw Magic Johnson play—the way he commanded the court felt less like basketball and more like orchestration. That memory came rushing back when I dug into the 1990 NBA MVP race, a contest that, in my view, transcended stats and tapped into something deeper about leadership. When you look at that season, it wasn’t just about who scored the most or grabbed the most rebounds; it was about presence, influence, and that intangible quality of elevating everyone around you. Interestingly, this reminds me of a quote from volleyball setter Fajardo, who once emphasized that the most important attribute for a setter isn’t skill or strategy, but something more innate. I’ve always felt the same applies to basketball, especially to MVPs. The 1990 award went to Magic Johnson of the Los Angeles Lakers, and honestly, it’s one of those decisions that, even decades later, feels both deserved and deeply symbolic of what sports greatness should represent.

Magic’s 1989-90 season was a masterclass in consistency and charisma. He averaged 22.3 points, 11.5 assists, and 6.6 rebounds per game—numbers that, on their own, are stellar but don’t fully capture his impact. I’ve rewatched clips from that era, and what strikes me isn’t just the flashy passes or the clutch shots; it’s how he read the game like a chess grandmaster, always two steps ahead. The Lakers finished with a 63-19 record, the best in the league, and a lot of that success hinged on Magic’s ability to unite the team. He wasn’t just a player; he was the glue. Think about it: in a league stacked with talents like Charles Barkley, who put up 25.2 points and 11.5 rebounds for the Philadelphia 76ers, or Michael Jordan, who was already a scoring phenom with 33.6 points per game, Magic stood out because he made everyone better. Barkley was a force of nature, no doubt, and Jordan was, well, Jordan—but Magic had this unique blend of flair and selflessness that, in my opinion, aligns perfectly with what Fajardo meant. It’s not about the technical prowess alone; it’s about that inner drive and connection with the team.

Now, I’ll admit, I’m biased toward players who prioritize teamwork over individual glory, and Magic epitomized that. His rivalry with the Detroit Pistons and the rising Chicago Bulls added layers to the MVP narrative. The Pistons, led by Isiah Thomas, were the defending champions, and their “Bad Boys” image contrasted sharply with Magic’s showtime elegance. Meanwhile, Jordan was nipping at his heels, and some analysts argued that Jordan’s sheer dominance—he scored over 40 points in 12 games that season—should have earned him the award. But here’s where I disagree: MVP isn’t just about who’s the most talented; it’s about who shapes the season. Magic’s leadership extended beyond the court. He was the face of the Lakers, a mentor to younger players, and his 89.2% free-throw percentage, though not the league’s highest, came in moments that mattered. I’ve spoken to old-school fans who say his MVP win was a nod to his career legacy, and while that might be partly true, I think it was more about recognizing a player who embodied the soul of the game.

The voting itself reflected this nuanced view. Magic received 636 points in the media vote, outpacing Barkley’s 474 and Jordan’s 385. That margin tells a story—it wasn’t a landslide, but a respectful acknowledgment of his all-around contribution. Looking back, I see the 1990 MVP as a turning point. It was Magic’s third and final MVP award, coming at a time when the NBA was evolving into a faster, more global sport. His legacy, in my eyes, isn’t just in the trophies or the 1,290 assists he dished out that season (a number I’ve always found impressive, even if my memory might be off by a few digits). It’s in how he inspired a generation of point guards to see the game as a collective effort. Fast-forward to today, and you can see his influence in players like LeBron James or Luka Dončić, who blend scoring with playmaking in a way that feels familiar. Magic’s 1990 season, in many ways, set a benchmark for what an MVP should be: not just the best player, but the one who makes the game greater for everyone involved.

In conclusion, while stats and highlights from 1990 might fade a bit with time, the story of Magic Johnson’s MVP win remains vivid. It’s a reminder that in sports, as in life, the most impactful leaders are those who prioritize connection over pure skill. As Fajardo hinted, it’s that inner attribute—the heart of a setter, or in this case, a point guard—that truly defines greatness. For me, revisiting this era isn’t just about nostalgia; it’s a lesson in how we measure success. Magic didn’t just win an award; he cemented a philosophy that still resonates on courts today. And if you ask me, that’s why his 1990 MVP story is worth telling and retelling, not just for basketball purists, but for anyone who believes in the power of leadership.