Ja Morant dares the NBA to punish him, knowing it won't pull the trigger

Washington Post

12-04-2025

A punishment in today's NBA possesses all the bark of a perfectly-groomed miniature poodle. It is a traffic cop blowing a whistle on the side of a four-lane Interstate. A secret password of 'password' meant to protect billions in a bank account. As worthless as a turnstile inside a train station — the deterrent that's supposed to keep customers honest, but has no answer for the kid who hops over the top.
Ja Morant is that problem child, hurdling over the restrictions that he believes don't apply to him. So every time Morant, the Memphis Grizzlies' guard, preens with an imaginary gun or mocks a grenade toss in elaborately defiant celebrations, he's sneering at that wimpy little pooch, daring that pathetic authority figure watching helplessly from Midtown Manhattan. But the NBA, with its stationary restraints, won't do a thing because Morant knows the truth about playing in Adam Silver's NBA: If you're a star player, and if you want to fully commit to your self-created villain act, then the association will shudder, then shrug.
Silver is the commissioner with a conscience, but one who can't even elicit common courtesy from his league's most reckless player. Unlike his predecessor, the late David Stern, Silver empowers foolishness and chooses to soft-parent while destructive behavior continues to undermine the basketball part of his basketball league.
On the final night of regular season basketball on the league's broadcast partner TNT, Morant made a three-pointer — and fully understanding that the cameras would focus on him — commandeered the night's conversation by pretending to toss a grenade. Because as everyone knows, pretending to throw a grenade is bigger and brasher than the gun celebration that the NBA finds so 'inappropriate.'
However, later in that prime-time game against the Minnesota Timberwolves, Morant made another shot and it appeared as though he was about to form a gun with his hands, even though the league pretty-pleased asked him to stop doing that a week ago. It's evident by his actions that Morant, whose reputation Silver helped rehabilitate, holds so little respect for this commissioner, this league and their warnings.
In March 2023, when Morant first got caught playing with real guns, the league suspended him for eight games. Morant didn't learn from that punishment, or he didn't care. So in the offseason, as his friend streamed live on Instagram, he brandished another small pistol to the delight of wannabe tough guys everywhere. That time, the league bayed and bared its teeth enough to suspend Morant for more than a quarter of the season (25 games) in an effort to set straight one of its brightest stars.
Morant deserved this punishment. Not in the sense that he's a Second Amendment enthusiast, only that he needed the guidance and tough love because he's worth saving. He remains a rising star who has the charm and talent to become The Face of The League one day. Commissioners don't throw away guys such as Morant. They help them, and Silver provided Morant safe landing for his return and redemption.
Silver set up the narrative, telling reporters in December 2023 how Morant complied with some vague program laid out by the league and that he and the player would soon meet personally. This gave the sense of Morant being called into the principal's office, as though a check-in with Silver was the last step before reformation.
'In the end, I feel like it made me better,' Morant said about the lengthy suspension. 'I feel like I learned some stuff about myself that I did during that process. Very eye-opening. It kind of gave me a new look on life. How I go about my days. How I carry myself.'
But the suspension — as well the surge of support from simpletons and yes-men — only emboldened Morant. He now sees himself as a victim, because the billion-dollar corporation that employs him had the nerve to gently suggest that he should grow up. Earlier this month, when Morant extended his arm and fingers toward the Golden State Warriors' bench to pantomime a gun, the NBA warned him. But the very next game he played, Morant made the same gesture, wearing a blank stare of defiance. Some athletes protest authority by kneeling or raising a fist in dissent; Morant would rather flash a fake gun.
Morant showed no regret for his actions after the 25-game suspension; now he's settled in this mindset that he's been treated unjustly. Can't a man continuously make violent gestures in front of thousands of paying customers and not have anyone talk about it?! So, with finger guns blazing, Morant is ready to take on his haters, and resist the league's burdensome rules.
'If somebody can say something negative about me, it's going to be out there. I don't care no more,' Morant said, before the NBA fined the multimillionaire $75,000. 'I've pretty much been a villain for two years now.'
But a villain without a foil, because while Morant keeps exploring his boundaries, he knows the league can't do much about his behavior. Morant can punk the NBA all he wants, and why? Because the NBA postseason is coming up, with all its nationally-televised games. There are ratings to be had, and so the NBA needs its stars on the floor, not serving suspensions.
Even if Joe Dumars, the NBA's head of basketball operations and the hammer behind those news releases that announce fines and punishments, delivers another statement about Morant's inappropriate gestures, that discipline will look reactionary — a response to negative publicity, and not a way to quell objectionable behavior.
A 3-year-old sent to timeout inside a candy shop would seem more punitive than anything the NBA calls discipline. Punishment in the NBA comes lined in silk and padded with feathers. It is a stern look from the crossing guard who inherited the job, just not a Stern action.
The NBA might ask for Morant's wrist, but he'll just continue to extend his thumb and index finger in the shape of the gun and aim it at the league's impotent threats.