By Maria T. Cannon
Maria T. Cannon is a junior associate at Amineddoleh & Associates, LLC, in Manhattan, an art and cultural heritage law firm, practicing entertainment, media, art, data protection and privacy law. in Manhattan. Maria earned her J.D. from the University of North Carolina Law School and completed her undergraduate degree at Wake Forest University in English Literature. She is admitted to the New York State Bar.
The title of this article comes from the poem of the same name by Maya Angelou. It is, in my opinion, the single best poem written about the wake left by the departure of remarkable people from our lives.
This June, we experienced two great trees falling nearly one week apart: the sports icons Jerry West and Willie Mays. These legends didn’t just change the games they played. They changed the very fabric of Western culture – and sports lawyers see the impact of those changes in the transactional contracts and deals we negotiate today.
The Logo
West was not only a literal icon in the silhouette of the National Basketball Association (NBA) logo (sporting his weaker, left-handed dribble, which he of course perfected to improve his game), but also one of the greatest NBA stars who ever played the game. On top of his undeniable talent on the court, first at West Virginia and then on the starting lineup of the LA Lakers, he also shone as an intuitive and savvy figure in the front office. Many remember his great kinship with Kobe Bryant, who he signed as a high-school guard – a then unheard-of risk to take for a professional basketball team. Fast forward to 2024, and signing teenagers barely out of high school is basically an industry standard. So much in fact, that the NBA has been slowly and steadily overtaking the thrill of following college basketball in the general American consciousness – and with that shift comes the steady flow of media dollars, which in turn fund the several hundred-million-dollar contracts we’ll continue to see signed this year. It’s possible that, but for West’s contributions as a GM, and the risks he took on very green, very young players, the NBA would not be playing at such a fast-paced, competitive level. When older players are forced to keep up with younger ones, it invariably makes a better game. That, combined with shifting draft rules, means that more players than ever are moving up to the pros early. As a result, the NBA has been steadily stealing the viewership, media attention, and marketing dollars that once belonged to college sports teams – and we can trace the origins back to West.
However, West’s genius as a GM pales in comparison to his talent as a player. Here was a guy who, as a guard, once averaged 46 points per game in a play-off series, and this man started playing pro ball in the 1960s. Go ahead and read that sentence again – and this time remember that the three-point line didn’t start until the ‘70s. Then, consider this: Jerry West’s skill both as a player and as a guy in the front office are the two least-impressive things about him. The most impressive thing about Jerry West is that, after he died, all anybody could do was talk not about what he did, but how he made them feel.
West was a man whose legacy is not measured in titles won or (just barely) lost. His real impact on the sport, and on American culture at large, came from the way he was able to balance his extreme fame with genuine humility. Every tribute to him since he passed has raved about how easy it was to forget, when talking with Jerry West, that he was actually Jerry West. He just felt like a normal guy from West Virginia. That is a truly powerful, pervasive impact for a high-profile individual to have, and it is a testament to the power of sports icons in Western culture.
Say Hey Kid
Willie Mays was undoubtedly one of the greatest baseball players of all time, and unquestionably the best neighborhood stickball player near his house in Harlem. Mays is often remembered for how he captured the heart of the nation while playing on the integrated (then New York) Giants (which he joined after his illustrious stretch on the Birmingham Black Barons in the Negro Leagues). Mays was a star player – agile, quick, strong, and decisive – who happened to also have a star personality to match. Despite being gifted with god-like talent, Mays was a man who, like West, could talk amongst mortals as if he were one of them.
In one lighthearted anecdote, which Mays told to a reporter on the eve of his authorized biography release date in 2009, Mays explained the humbling joy of striking out against Satchel Paige when facing him in the Negro Leagues. Before throwing the ball, Paige informed Mays that he would throw three identical fastballs, and then the inning would be over. Mays was prepared to amaze the crowd with at least a double off one of the pitches, but after two strikes back-to-back, his confidence began to ebb. Not so for Paige, who, apparently so confident that Mays would whiff, began to walk off the field before Mays had even swung at the third pitch. Mays struck out – and told the story decades later, marveling at the majesty of Satchel Paige and the folly of his younger self.
What kind of sports icon talks about himself like that, to a reporter, no less? A humble one. A true legend who is not blinded by his own pride, but instead appreciates his role on a team in the wider aspect of human connectedness.
The Role of Sports Icons – And Their Attorneys
Shifts in sports culture – acceptance of differences, conversations across racial divides and political boundaries, general determination and commitment to the good of the team – take root and grow into parallel, positive changes in culture of the fans who revere them. West and Mays were undoubtedly essential in changing the way Americans thought about ourselves as a country and community in the 1960s and ‘70s. They not only played on integrated teams, but fully immersed themselves in the process. West, for one, when asked about playing on the integrated Olympic basketball team, didn’t speak about the sport – he spoke about friendship. West and Mays showed a nascent American culture that playing alongside players of all backgrounds was good. Not only that, they both showed young fans how to play a game they loved in the spotlight, and how to do that with dignity and grace.
They changed their sports, through generosity, humility, camaraderie, and kinship, and we are still watching the impact of their work.
This means that being a sports attorney – while it may, at times, seem inconsequential in the face of modern economic and political challenges -has its role in providing healing service to our communities. It’s not just about the glamour and spectacle of an NBA game (although, boy, do I enjoy that). It’s about representing legends – and even benchwarmers – as they emerge onto a global stage with incredible power to shift culture positively. When sports lawyers provide their clients with representation that enables them to fully engage in the sport, to play (as Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights might say) with clear eyes and full hearts, they play with the power to effect change, hope and foritute into places in our culture that are in so much need of tools for resilience.
Sports lawyers – while not suiting up – are doing their part to get their clients into the game safely. It may be hard to see the impact of drafting contracts and negotiation name, image, and likeness deals in the moment, but in retrospect – when you see the actual impact of sports on a culture through the lives of legends – it’s clear that the payoff is bigger than the changes in the game. It changes the fans.