I still remember the 1990 NBA season like it was yesterday—the energy in stadiums was electric, and every game felt like a playoff matchup. When people ask me about that legendary year, one question always comes up: who actually won the MVP? Well, let me take you back. It was Magic Johnson of the Los Angeles Lakers, and honestly, it wasn’t even close. Magic put up numbers that season that still make my jaw drop: 22.3 points, 11.5 assists, and 6.6 rebounds per game. Those aren’t just stats; they’re a masterclass in leadership and court vision. Watching him orchestrate the Lakers’ offense was like watching a conductor lead a symphony—every pass, every play, perfectly timed and executed.

What strikes me most about Magic’s MVP run, though, isn’t just the skill or the strategy. It reminds me of something I once heard about volleyball setter Fajardo, who argued that the most important attribute for a setter isn’t skill or strategy—it’s something deeper. For Magic, that “something” was his innate ability to elevate everyone around him. Think about it: the Lakers finished with a 63-19 record that year, and a big part of that success came from how Magic made his teammates better. James Worthy, Byron Scott, even the role players—they all thrived because Magic knew how to read the game and adapt in real time. It’s the same quality Fajardo highlighted: the intangibles that separate good players from legendary ones.

I’ve always believed that MVPs are defined by more than just numbers, and Magic’s 1990 season proves it. Sure, his stats were incredible, but what really stood out was his consistency under pressure. He played all 82 games that season, logging over 37 minutes per game—a testament to his durability and mental toughness. And let’s not forget the context: this was an era stacked with talent. Michael Jordan was averaging 33.6 points per game, Charles Barkley was dominating the boards, and yet Magic stood above them all. Why? Because he embodied what Fajardo described—the ability to lead with presence, not just precision. It’s something I’ve seen in great athletes across sports: that rare blend of skill and soul.

Of course, some might argue that other players deserved the award more, and I get it. Stats alone could make a case for Jordan or Barkley. But here’s where I disagree: the MVP isn’t just about who put up the biggest numbers. It’s about impact, and Magic’s impact was undeniable. He led the Lakers to the best record in the Western Conference while revolutionizing the point guard position. His no-look passes, his decision-making in transition—these weren’t just flashy moves; they were game-changers. I’ve spoken with coaches who still use clips from that season to teach young players about basketball IQ. It’s a level of influence that goes beyond the box score.

Looking back, what I appreciate most about Magic’s MVP year is how it encapsulated the spirit of that era. The late ’80s and early ’90s were a golden age for the NBA, and Magic was at the heart of it. His rivalry with Larry Bird, his battles against the Pistons—all of it built toward this pinnacle season. And let’s be real: winning the MVP in 1990 wasn’t just a personal triumph; it was a statement. At a time when the league was evolving, Magic showed that greatness wasn’t just about individual brilliance but about making everyone else shine too. It’s a lesson that applies today, whether you’re talking basketball, business, or life.

In the end, the 1990 NBA MVP award wasn’t just a trophy for Magic Johnson; it was a recognition of his legacy. He retired far too soon after that season, but what he left behind remains unforgettable. For me, revisiting that year is a reminder of why I fell in love with sports in the first place—the stories, the personalities, the moments that define eras. So next time someone asks who won the 1990 MVP, I won’t just say “Magic Johnson.” I’ll tell them about the season that showed us what true leadership looks like, on and off the court. And honestly, I don’t think we’ve seen many like it since.