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As I sat watching the Golden State Warriors lift the Larry O'Brien Trophy last season, I couldn't help but reflect on what separates an NBA Finals MVP from other elite players. Having followed basketball for over two decades, I've developed this theory that championship moments aren't created in the final series alone—they're forged through years of dedication, sacrifice, and those invisible turning points that rarely make headlines. Just last week, I was reading about how RJ Abarrientos and Troy Rosario were left behind as the Philippine national team departed for Jeddah, Saudi Arabia late Wednesday night. That moment of exclusion, while painful, represents the kind of career crossroads that many eventual champions experience before their breakthrough.
The journey to becoming Finals MVP often begins with such setbacks. Stephen Curry waited six years between his first MVP season and his first Finals MVP award. During that period, he faced questions about whether his style could translate to championship success, battled injuries, and watched as Kevin Durant claimed the honor twice while wearing the same uniform. What fascinates me about this process is how these athletes transform professional rejection into fuel. When the Warriors lost the 2016 Finals after being up 3-1, Curry didn't retreat—he evolved. He added strength, refined his playmaking, and returned with a vengeance that ultimately earned him that elusive Finals MVP in 2022 at age 34.
Statistics only tell part of the story, but they're crucial for context. The average NBA Finals MVP scores approximately 28.3 points per game during the series, with shooting percentages that typically exceed their regular season numbers by about 4-7%. What the numbers don't capture is the psychological transformation. I've always believed that great regular season players become legends in the Finals through mental fortitude. Michael Jordan's famous "Flu Game" in the 1997 Finals where he scored 38 points while visibly ill wasn't just physical excellence—it was absolute refusal to be defeated. That game, in my opinion, represents the essence of what separates Finals MVPs from other stars.
The evolution of the Finals MVP award itself reveals changing patterns in how we value championship contributions. When Andre Iguodala won in 2015 over Stephen Curry, it sparked debates that continue to this day. I remember arguing with colleagues about whether the selection committee got it right. In my view, they did—Iguodala's defensive assignment on LeBron James was the series' true turning point, holding James to just 39.8% shooting when he was the primary defender. This illustrates how the award has expanded beyond scoring leaders to recognize transformative defensive contributions and strategic impacts that don't always appear in traditional stat sheets.
Modern Finals MVPs like Giannis Antetokounmpo and Nikola Jokic represent what I consider the "complete package" era. Their journeys from international prospects to NBA champions involved developments that mirror the Abarrientos and Rosario situation—moments of being overlooked that fueled their ascent. Giannis was the 15th pick in his draft; Jokic was selected 41st. Their paths required overcoming doubts about whether European leagues could produce NBA champions. When Jokic averaged 30.2 points, 14.0 rebounds, and 7.2 assists in the 2023 Finals, he wasn't just winning a trophy—he was validating an entire developmental pathway.
What many fans don't realize is how much organizational stability contributes to creating Finals MVPs. Kawhi Leonard is the only player in NBA history to win the award with two different franchises, but his journey involved careful management and strategic rest throughout the regular season. The Toronto Raptors' "load management" approach during Leonard's single season with them was criticized at the time, but I believe it was instrumental in delivering their championship. This demonstrates how championship success requires synchronization between player dedication and organizational wisdom—something that's often overlooked in individual award discussions.
The emotional component of this journey cannot be overstated. When Dirk Nowitzki finally won in 2011 after his 2006 Finals collapse, the raw emotion he displayed resonated beyond basketball. I've watched that footage dozens of times, and it still gives me chills. His journey from being labeled "soft" to dismantling the superteam Miami Heat represents the ultimate redemption arc. The Mavericks' victory wasn't just tactically brilliant—it was emotionally cathartic for a player who had carried the burden of previous failures for five long years.
Looking forward, I'm particularly excited about how the next generation of potential Finals MVPs will approach this challenge. Luka Dončić's playoff performances already hint at future greatness, while Jayson Tatum continues to refine his game after experiencing Finals disappointment. Their development paths will likely include moments similar to the Abarrientos and Rosario situation—selections and exclusions that shape their competitive fire. In my estimation, Tatum's response to Boston's 2022 Finals loss, where he improved his playmaking and defensive intensity the following season, demonstrates exactly the growth mindset that typically precedes a Finals MVP breakthrough.
Ultimately, the journey to becoming NBA Finals MVP transcends basketball skill alone. It's about resilience in facing professional setbacks, whether that's being cut from a national team or losing in previous Finals. The stories of exclusion like the Abarrientos and Rosario situation become part of an athlete's motivational foundation, while the eventual triumph represents validation of their response to adversity. Having studied this pattern across multiple championship runs, I'm convinced that the most compelling Finals MVPs aren't necessarily the most talented players, but those who best transform their professional disappointments into championship fuel.