For 12 straight seasons before 2025–26, I’ve been a Memphis Grizzlies MVP.


I’ve seen great regular-season moments, unforgettable playoff battles, and history—good and bad.

I watched the infamous triple-overtime loss to OKC, then turned around and witnessed the record-breaking 73-point blowout against that same organization. Ironically, that same OKC team—once embarrassed by Memphis—are now reigning NBA champions. Because that’s what happens when a franchise commits to its market, and the fans feel supported in return. I lived through the Grit-N-Grind era—when Memphis basketball wasn’t just a sport, it was culture. It was pride. It was family. Zach Randolph, Tony Allen, and Marc Gasol built something special here. Their jerseys now hang in the rafters, and Mike Conley will join them in time. Those players weren’t just great—they were accessible. You could talk to them, meet them, take a photo, get an autograph, or see them in the community. They made being a fan feel personal.

Then everything changed.


The Gift and Curse of 2019


2019 was a turning point.

The franchise moved Mike Conley to give their new No. 2 draft pick, Ja Morant, the spotlight—and he delivered instantly. Memphis finally had a nationally recognized superstar. The energy returned. The arena buzzed again.

Then COVID hit. The NBA adjusted. The Grizzlies adjusted. And that’s when the wall went up. Not a physical one, but a cultural one. Players became distant. Access disappeared. The immersive fan experience that once defined the Memphis Grizzlies never returned.


And in 2025–26, only six games into the season, the Grizzlies suspended their star player for one game for “conduct detrimental to the team.” Ja Morant has already been quoted saying he’s “not happy,” and it’s hard not to ignore the timing. His frustration may be aimed at the coaching staff, especially after Taylor Jenkins—the only NBA head coach Ja had ever known—was fired last season. During the offseason, the franchise didn’t conduct a coaching search, interview candidates, or consider proven replacements. Instead, they simply promoted interim coach Tuomas Iisalo to the full-time role.


No search.

No competition.

No exploration.

Just a promotion.


Now the franchise has suspended its superstar and placed him under a coaching staff he didn’t choose, didn’t expect, and may not trust. Around the NBA, other teams are quietly watching. Because when a star player becomes unhappy and a franchise becomes unstable, opportunities open.


The MVP Experience Isn’t What It Used to Be


Being an MVP used to mean something.

  • There were lounges where season ticket holders could relax and interact with each other.
  • Fans could sell their tickets freely without punishment.
  • MVP events felt meaningful and personal.


Slowly, all of that disappeared.


  • Lounges removed, replaced with nothing
  • A restrictive rule: sell more than 50% of your seats and risk getting banned
  • MVP parties are first-come, first-served—tenure doesn’t matter, and spots fill instantly
  • If you want a photo or autograph, you’ll be waiting in line like you’re at Comic-Con


And what do season ticket holders get now? Promotional items.

A bobblehead here.

A T-shirt there.

Some cool, most… not.


Meanwhile:

  • Parking costs $40
  • The in-game experience is stale
  • Fans are asked to endure bad seasons with no meaningful perks or flexibility


When the team struggles, the MVPs eat the cost. When the team succeeds, they’re punished for trying to resell seats. Who is this system designed for? Because it’s not the fans.


The Energy Is Gone


As someone who runs a ticket resale community, I hear the pulse of the fanbase in real time.

This season? People aren’t enthusiastic. The superstar Memphis waited decades for is frustrated. The passion and intensity we once saw from players isn’t consistent. The energy in the building feels flat. Fans are no longer excited—they’re tolerating. And tolerance is a dangerous place for a franchise.


Memphis Is a Tough Market — So Why Make It Tougher?


Memphis has:

A weak walk-up ticket market

A terrible resale market

A heavy reliance on MVPs to fill seats


So logically, the franchise should be doing everything possible to protect and reward its most loyal supporters.


Instead:

✅ Perks are being removed

✅ Prices are going up

✅ The fan experience is shrinking


It feels backward.

It feels intentional.


Because when you push long-term loyal customers away and attendance drops, you can say:

“Fans aren’t buying tickets.”

“The market doesn’t support the team.”

“Maybe this city isn’t the right fit.”

Justifications write themselves.


A Franchise with History

This isn’t the first time this franchise has shifted direction.

Michael Heisley chose Memphis in 2001 and relocated the team here. Years later, the franchise was sold, and Memphis was inherited—not selected.

If a franchise wanted a reason to relocate, it wouldn’t announce it.

It would make decisions that slowly justify it.

And right now?

Those decisions are beginning to appear.


If You Wanted to Relocate a Team Without Getting Blamed…


You wouldn’t start with a press conference. You’d start with the fanbase:

Shrink access

Remove perks

Increase prices

Limit resale

Ignore loyalty

Let frustration build

Watch attendance decline

Point to the numbers

Then say:

“We tried everything.”

Hands clean.

Blame goes to the market.


Final Thought


Memphis built this franchise. This city showed up when there were no stars, no national TV, no hype, no recognition—just pride. Grit-N-Grind wasn’t branding. It was identity. It was community. It was proof that a small market could matter. But now, the connection that once defined Memphis basketball is eroding. The perks are gone. The access is gone. The excitement is gone. MVPs—the financial backbone of the arena—are shrinking in number. Not because Memphis stopped loving basketball… but because the franchise stopped valuing the people who kept it alive. And that raises a deeper, uncomfortable question:


Is this mismanagement… or a strategy?


Because if a franchise wanted to reduce season-ticket obligations, devalue the experience, and point to declining attendance as justification to explore other markets, the blueprint would look a lot like what’s happening now.

It wouldn’t require statements.

It wouldn’t require public conflict.

Just decisions.

One after another.

Fans are noticing.

Season ticket holders are downsizing or walking away.

The arena feels different.

The enthusiasm is fading.

So at this point, the question is no longer,

“Why be an MVP?”


The real question is:

Why is the franchise making it so easy not to be one? And when the numbers begin to reflect exactly what the franchise has created, who will they blame—Memphis, or themselves? Because if this is just poor management, it can be fixed. But if it’s intentional… then the story is much bigger than basketball.