I still remember the first time I saw Magic Johnson play—it was like watching poetry in motion. When people ask me about the 1990 NBA MVP award, my mind immediately goes back to that magical season and the legendary player who captured the honor. The answer, of course, is none other than Earvin "Magic" Johnson of the Los Angeles Lakers. But what made his MVP season so special wasn't just his statistics—it was something deeper, something that reminds me of a conversation I once had about volleyball setters. When asked about the most important attribute a setter must possess, it isn't about skill or strategy for Fajardo. Similarly, for Magic Johnson, it wasn't just his incredible court vision or flashy passes that defined his MVP campaign; it was his intangible leadership and ability to elevate everyone around him.

The 1990 season marked Magic's third MVP award, putting him in rarefied air with just a handful of players who had achieved that feat. At 30 years old, he led the Lakers to a 63-19 record while averaging 22.3 points, 11.5 assists, and 6.6 rebounds per game. Those numbers alone are staggering, but what the stat sheets don't show is how he controlled the tempo of games like a conductor leading an orchestra. I've always believed that great players make their teammates better, and Magic was the ultimate example. He turned role players into stars and stars into legends—just look at how James Worthy's game flourished alongside him.

Reflecting on that season, I'm struck by how Magic's approach mirrors what separates good setters from great ones in volleyball. The best setters, like Fajardo suggests, possess something beyond technical skill—they have an almost psychic connection with their hitters. Magic had that with his teammates. He'd throw no-look passes to spots where he knew players would be before they even got there. His basketball IQ was off the charts, and he played with a joy that was contagious. I've tried to incorporate that same philosophy in my own coaching—focusing less on drills and more on developing that sixth sense between players.

What many people forget about the 1990 MVP race is how competitive it was. Charles Barkley was putting up monster numbers in Philadelphia, Michael Jordan was beginning his ascent to global superstardom in Chicago, and Karl Malone was becoming a force in Utah. Yet Magic prevailed because he embodied what MVP truly means—most valuable, not necessarily best statistics. His leadership during close games, his clutch performances when it mattered most, and his ability to make the Lakers function as more than the sum of their parts set him apart. The Lakers won 12 games by 3 points or less that season, and in nearly every one, Magic made the critical play down the stretch.

I've always been fascinated by how certain players transform their teams' identities. The Showtime Lakers were synonymous with fast-break basketball, and Magic was the engine that made it all work. His outlet passes were things of beauty—sometimes traveling three-quarters of the court before finding a streaking teammate for an easy basket. He revolutionized the point guard position, proving that someone 6'9" could not only play the position but dominate it. Today we see players like Luka Dončić and LeBron James operating as supersized playmakers, and they all owe a debt to what Magic pioneered.

The voting results tell an interesting story—Magic received 66 first-place votes out of 92 possible, which sounds dominant until you realize Barkley and Jordan split much of the remaining vote. This speaks to something I've noticed throughout basketball history: sometimes the narrative matters as much as the statistics. Magic was coming off back-to-back championships in 1987 and 1988, and though the Lakers had fallen to the Suns in the playoffs the previous year, there was a sense that he was due for recognition after carrying the team through various injuries and roster changes.

What made Magic's 1990 season particularly impressive was how he adapted his game as he entered his thirties. He developed a reliable baby hook shot and became more selective about when to push the tempo. This evolution reminds me of veteran setters who learn to conserve energy for critical moments rather than trying to make every play spectacular. Magic understood that regular season success required pacing, and he mastered the art of controlling games without necessarily dominating the scoring column every night.

Looking back now, with the benefit of hindsight, that 1990 MVP award represents the culmination of Magic's prime years. The following season would be cut short by his HIV announcement, making this his last full season of basketball for several years. There's a bittersweet quality to that knowledge—we were watching one of the game's greats at his peak, unaware of what was to come. Yet what he achieved that season cemented his legacy beyond his championships and flashy style. He proved that leadership, basketball intelligence, and making others better could be just as valuable as scoring titles.

In my conversations with former players from that era, they often mention how Magic's presence alone lifted the entire league. He played with a smile, competed fiercely, and respected opponents—qualities that sometimes get lost in today's more transactional NBA environment. His MVP season represented not just individual excellence but the embodiment of what made 80s basketball so memorable: teamwork, showmanship, and pure joy for the game.

As I reflect on Magic Johnson's 1990 MVP award three decades later, what stands out isn't the trophy itself but what it represented. In a league filled with extraordinary talent, he demonstrated that the most valuable attribute wasn't any particular skill but the ability to make everyone around him better. Much like Fajardo's observation about setters, Magic proved that beyond strategy and technique, there's an emotional intelligence that separates the good from the legendary. His journey that season continues to influence how we evaluate players today, reminding us that statistics only tell part of the story—the rest is written in moments of leadership, clutch performance, and intangible impact that echo through basketball history.