The NBA’s Slam Dunk Contest has become the ex we can’t stop texting.
Every All-Star Weekend, fans and talking heads alike cue up the Jordan, Kobe and Vince Carter clips like they’re scrolling a former love’s Instagram at 1:12 a.m., not to check in, but to chase a feeling we refuse to stop craving. And when the current contest doesn’t recreate those old butterflies like it used to, we declare it washed. Cooked. “Nobody cares anymore.”
But maybe the dunk contest didn’t fall off. Maybe we’re just romanticizing a relationship with the league that belonged to a different era. Back to a time when the dunk contest functioned less like “How did you two meet?” and more like, “When did you two meet?”
The slam dunk contestants used to feel like they sat at the popular kids’ table in the cafeteria. They were approachable enough and maybe even once leaned over in algebra to ask if you had a pen they could borrow. But, they were still someone everyone knew around campus. Finally, the dunk contest provided the athletes a moment to have the floor to themselves.
There was a time players couldn’t just post their brand into existence; they had to step into the spotlight the league provided and do something with it. The contest wasn’t just entertainment for fans. It was leverage for those players. If they took advantage of the moment, it became confirmation. The league would hand them the corsage, the crown, the trophy, and basically said, “Yes. You’re pretty.”
Now fast-forward to the current NBA ecosystem, which in a lot of ways feels like modern dating. Everyone has a profile. Everyone has a brand. There are a few off-season pictures of people fishing. And attention is basically an unlimited swipes app that you can renew whenever you feel like it.
The reality is, players today don’t need All-Star Weekend to get seen anymore. A nasty in-game dunk can go viral before the broadcast finishes the sentence. A role player can have a bigger week online than an All-Star if the clip hits the right algorithm at the right time. The NBA stage didn’t shrink; it multiplied. The gatekeepers didn’t retire—they got replaced by the comment section.
This is why there’s something quietly unfair about the way people complain about the game having “no stars” while ignoring the ones who are literally right in front of them. That’s like going on a date and spending the whole night talking about your ex. Of course, nothing feels exciting when you’re emotionally unavailable. Meanwhile, the future of the league is standing there like, “Hey dummy. I’m right here.”
The biggest stars of the league aren’t avoiding the game because they can’t compete. They may be avoiding it because they’re already in a committed relationship: with their brand, their résumé, their max contract or their carefully curated image. Why jump into the dunking pool where one missed slam becomes a meme that lives forever? At a certain level of fame, you stop chasing love and start protecting peace—and the dunk contest is not a peaceful place.
So no, the contest isn’t the homecoming crowning moment it used to be. It’s a swipe. It’s a discovery. It’s “wait… who is that? How do I go back?” Don’t be shocked if next year we get the 2027 NBA Slam Dunk Contest, brought to you by Bumble. Honestly, it makes too much sense. Marketing execs: you’re welcome.
Yes, let’s continue to hold onto the highlight reel. Those clips are still classics for a reason. However, let’s make room for somebody new. If you spend every contest living in the past, you might miss the future star waving at you from across the room. (Shout out to Keshad Johnson, the 2026 Slam Dunk Contest winner.)
Miami Heat’s Keshad Johnson hoists the Slam Dunk competition. Image: Keith Birmingham via Getty Images
For the rest of us, the Slam Dunk Contest has moved on. Maybe it’s time we did too.