More Than the Logo: How Jerry West Quietly Became a Champion for Black Athletes — The NBA Legend Who Confronted Racism, Spoke Truth, and Stood With the Players Who Changed the Game
When we remember Jerry West, the first image is often the iconic silhouette — the one enshrined as the NBA logo — gliding in perfect form across generations of basketball history. But to those who looked deeper, who listened closely to his words, Jerry West was more than a logo. He was a quiet, steady force who stood with Black players, long before it was fashionable or expected.
West, who passed away last week at 86, was not just a Hall of Fame player, a revered executive, or a basketball genius. He was also a true ally, one who took the time to learn, grow, and speak out against the systemic racism that shaped the league and the country around him. In a sport dominated by Black excellence, Jerry West was a white Southern man who chose empathy, understanding, and action.
From West Virginia to Awareness
Raised in segregated West Virginia, West admitted that he never met a Black person until he arrived at West Virginia University. But instead of clinging to ignorance, he leaned into growth. When he joined the NBA’s Los Angeles Lakers as a rookie, he asked for a Black roommate — a request that was anything but typical in the early 1960s. The Lakers paired him with Ray Felix, the first Black NBA Rookie of the Year.
“I learned more about race by being around him, about things he saw growing up,” West later recalled. “It was a different education for me.”
That education extended well beyond the court. West began reading about Civil Rights leaders, studying history, and seeking understanding of the lived experiences of his Black teammates.
A Voice for the Voiceless
Throughout his career and well into retirement, West used his platform to call out racism and uplift Black pioneers. He frequently spoke about the struggles of legends like Bill Russell and Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, highlighting not only their athletic brilliance but also the racial injustices they endured.
“In every generation people make a difference not only with their play,” West once said. “Bill Russell and Jackie Robinson were in that same class.”
He acknowledged that Russell — despite being the ultimate winner in Boston Celtics history — faced relentless racism in a city rife with racial tension. West never shied away from naming that reality. He didn’t sugarcoat it. He confronted it, even when others stayed silent.
Private Lessons, Public Legacy
Perhaps one of West’s most revealing admissions came during a podcast with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar. “The most important people in my life were five Black men,” he said, referencing players who shaped his basketball journey.
It was a rare moment of vulnerability and clarity — not a performative statement, but a heartfelt acknowledgment of the relationships and perspectives that shaped him as a man.
West also recognized how racism shaped the treatment of younger stars like Shaquille O’Neal, saying that some of the criticism had a racial undertone. And when people wrote him racist letters for building a Lakers team without white players, West called it what it was: absurd and unacceptable.
Bigger Than Basketball
West’s impact on the NBA is unquestionable: as a player, coach, scout, and executive, he helped mold multiple dynasties. But what may be his most enduring legacy is the way he stood beside those whose voices were often marginalized.
He didn’t seek praise. He didn’t issue grand statements. He listened, learned, and stood up when it mattered. In today’s climate, where performative allyship is easy and empty, West’s quiet courage feels even more profound.
The Final Word
Jerry West was not a perfect man, nor would he have claimed to be. But he was a man who chose growth over comfort, empathy over ignorance, and action over silence. He was “The Logo,” yes — but also a symbol of quiet, determined solidarity.
In honoring his basketball greatness, let us also remember the depth of his humanity — the way he stood with the great Black athletes of his time, not just in highlight reels, but in the painful, powerful truth of history.
That, perhaps, is the greatest part of his legacy.
