The Expansion Hangover: Adam Silver’s Mirage of More

by someone who cannot dunk.

They held it in Vegas again this year. Summer League. 2K logos blasting across screens like casino slots, and kids in fresh kicks clawing for a two-way contract like it’s a golden ticket to escape the G League basement or some Latvian basketball dungeon with flickering lights and boiled cabbage for breakfast.

Adam Silver showed up with that same ghost-like calm he always has. The kind of calm you only get from being so high up the corporate ladder that the fall doesn’t scare you anymore.

He smiled. He nodded. He whispered words like “expansion,” “streaming,” and “competitive balance,” but it all felt like a soft shoe shuffle on marble floors while the rest of the building burns.

This is a league teetering between dreams and delusions.

The Ghosts of Seattle

They ask him about new cities, new franchises. Vegas? Seattle? Mexico City? Silver practically shrugs in real-time. Says expansion is “on the horizon,” and the Board of Governors has formed a committee. Translation: they've hired the same consultants that helped bury Blockbuster and turn cable TV into a blood ritual.

He tosses the line:

"If I were an owner, I’d be looking at this and saying, ‘Is this additive?’"

Additive? That’s the language of lab rats and business school. Not basketball. Not the grind. Not the rhythm of courts cracking under winter breath in the north or the sweat of ten-year-olds dunking on milk crates in the south.

You want to bring Seattle back? Then bring them back. Don’t drown us in “deliberation.” Don’t waste another decade in “analysis.”

Seattle’s been sitting there with their hearts out, sleeves soaked, waiting. The Sonics weren’t a brand—they were a religion. They were Payton’s snarl and Kemp’s rim-shattering violence. They were real.

But the league doesn’t want real. It wants revenue.

Talent? Or Just Another Warm Body?

Silver warns of dilution. That there may not be enough talent to spread across 32 teams. That we might be stretching the butter too thin across the bread.

But here’s the truth: there’s always more butter. There are gyms in Senegal and Serbia right now where kids are dunking in silence. There are guards running full-court drills in the Bronx at 2AM while cops circle and sirens yawn. The pipeline is there—it just doesn’t always come with a hype package and a five-star rating.

The real fear? It’s not talent.

It’s cohesion.
It’s chemistry.
It’s making sure a playoff game in April doesn’t feel like a preseason scrimmage in Shanghai.

The league’s scared of mediocrity becoming the main dish.

And they should be.

Because you start handing out franchises like Halloween candy, and pretty soon you’ve got Pistons v. Vegas on a Tuesday night with 7,000 empty seats and the announcers talking more about NFTs than fast breaks.

Betting the House (And the Locker Room)

Then there’s the gambling.

Silver says he’s concerned. Talks about “putting your livelihood at risk,” like he’s a priest suddenly worried about sin.

You made a deal with the devil, Adam. The books run deep now. Deeper than loyalty. Deeper than locker rooms. A few bets here, a few inside tips there, and suddenly Malik Beasley is staring down an investigation, and Rozier’s name floats like a broken balloon through forums and comment sections.

Silver says legalized betting allows oversight.

But oversight doesn’t stop addiction.

Oversight doesn’t stop a player from taking a text at halftime from a guy with a Rolex and a burner phone saying, “Miss your next three threes and I’ll wire you $100K.”

You built the market.
You sold the access.
Now you want to pretend it didn’t come with ghosts?

The Streaming War Is Here. And It’s Hungry.

Let’s not forget—this whole expansion fantasy is tied to the beast they refuse to name plainly: money.
TV money. Streaming money. Ad buys and algorithm-based engagement.

Silver practically begged Amazon, Disney, and NBC to fight over the NBA like rabid dogs in a bone pit.

And sure, the money’s coming in—but how many fans are going to be able to find their damn team next season? League Pass blackouts. Thursday Night Hoops exclusive to some app that buffers like dial-up. Grandma can’t figure out how to watch the Spurs anymore, and half of Utah’s games are behind a biometric paywall.

Expansion should mean more fans. Not more confusion.

And if Silver really thinks throwing two new teams into this streaming bloodbath helps anyone, he better be ready to explain to Portland why their games are only available on a VR headset and a prayer.

The Poet Would’ve Booed. Loud.

Here’s what’s missing: soul.

Every time Silver speaks, it’s precise. It’s sterile. It’s surgical.
But this game? It’s not supposed to be surgical.

It’s supposed to be messy.
It’s sweat and blood and fourth-quarter grit.
It’s coaches screaming until their voices crack and players sleeping in airports during 10-day contracts.

Silver talks about balance and committees and media rights.

I want to hear about the heart.

I want expansion that feels like rebirth. Not market share.

Bottom Line?

Until Adam Silver and his owners stop trying to chart basketball’s future with pie charts and investor calls, this league is going to keep limping toward something it calls growth but smells more like desperation.

Expansion isn’t bad. But the way they’re handling it is.

Cautious. Cold. Calculated.
Like accountants trying to paint a masterpiece with spreadsheets.

And maybe that’s the point—maybe the NBA’s already too big for its own soul.

But God help us when the game becomes only a product.

Want to print this out and mail it to Silver? I’ll even fold it for you.

– The Poet
writing from a barstool somewhere between nostalgia and nausea