I remember the first time I saw Magic Johnson play during that magical 1990 season. Even now, decades later, I can still picture his no-look passes threading through defenses and that infectious smile that seemed to light up the entire arena. The 1990 NBA MVP race wasn't just about statistics—it was about something far more intangible, much like how Fajardo believes the most important attribute for a setter isn't about skill or strategy. There's a certain magic that separates great players from legendary ones, and Magic Johnson embodied that quality throughout his remarkable career.
When you look at the raw numbers from that season, they're certainly impressive—Magic averaged 22.3 points, 11.5 rebounds, and 6.6 assists per game while leading the Lakers to a 63-19 record. But statistics alone don't capture why he won the MVP that year. I've always felt that basketball awards, much like Fajardo's philosophy about setters, depend heavily on leadership qualities that transcend mere technical ability. Magic had this incredible capacity to elevate everyone around him, making his teammates better in ways that don't always show up in the box score. His basketball IQ was off the charts—he could read defenses like most people read the morning paper, anticipating movements three or four passes ahead of the play.
The competition that year was absolutely fierce. Charles Barkley was putting up monster numbers in Philadelphia, Michael Jordan was beginning to establish his dominance in Chicago, and Karl Malone was becoming a force in Utah. Yet Magic stood above them all because he possessed that special quality Fajardo would appreciate—the ability to control the game's rhythm and elevate his team's performance beyond their individual capabilities. I've studied countless MVP seasons throughout NBA history, and what strikes me about Magic's 1990 campaign was how he managed to keep the Lakers dominant despite key players dealing with injuries throughout the season.
What many people forget is that Magic had already won three MVP awards before 1990, yet this one felt different. The Lakers were transitioning from the Showtime era, and Magic was adapting his game, proving he could excel in multiple systems and styles. He shot a career-high 90.4% from the free-throw line that season while still maintaining his trademark playmaking brilliance. I've always argued that this particular MVP season demonstrated Magic's evolution better than any other—he wasn't just the flashy passer of his early years but had developed into a complete floor general who could score when needed and control the game's tempo with veteran savvy.
The voting itself wasn't particularly close—Magic received 66 first-place votes compared to Charles Barkley's 25 and Michael Jordan's 7. But the numbers don't tell the whole story of why the media voters overwhelmingly chose Magic. Having spoken to several journalists who voted that year, they consistently mentioned his leadership during crucial moments and his ability to make game-changing plays when it mattered most. There's a reason why the Lakers won 10 more games than any other Western Conference team that season, and it largely came down to Magic's guidance and court vision.
Reflecting on that season now, I'm struck by how Magic's MVP campaign represents qualities that have become increasingly rare in today's stat-obsessed basketball culture. Modern analytics would probably favor someone putting up gaudier individual numbers, but the 1990 voters recognized something more profound—the complete package of leadership, basketball intelligence, and the ability to make teammates better. Magic didn't just put up numbers; he controlled games in ways that statistics struggle to capture, much like how Fajardo believes the essence of setting transcends technical skill.
The legacy of that 1990 MVP season extends beyond the trophy itself. Magic proved that even as he entered his 30s, he could adapt his game and remain the league's most valuable player. His performance that year set the stage for the Lakers' continued success and demonstrated that true greatness in basketball involves more than physical gifts or technical mastery—it requires the kind of intuitive understanding and leadership that both Magic Johnson and Fajardo's ideal setter embody. Looking back, I'd argue that this particular MVP award validated Magic's complete basketball genius in ways his earlier honors hadn't quite captured.
Watching Magic during that season taught me something important about basketball excellence that I've carried through my entire career analyzing the sport. The best players don't just execute plays—they understand the game on a deeper level, reading situations and elevating their teams in moments that define seasons. Magic's 1990 MVP season wasn't about one spectacular skill but about the synthesis of all his abilities into something greater than the sum of its parts. That's the kind of value that statistics can measure but never fully capture, and it's why, decades later, we still look back at that season as something truly special in NBA history.