Dear Nickeil

Nickeil Alexander-Walker has become a fan favorite for anyone, but for me, he was a revelation that made me believe I could wear my heart on my sleeve in the cutthroat world of sports.

Dear Nickeil,

The offseason is a difficult time for everyone. As you head out to Atlanta, I wanted to write something for you or about you. No matter whether you read it or not, your impact on my career and my character is too large to fit into a tweet or a simple thank you.

In 2019, I started a radio show at my college. It was aired once a week, first at 6:00 p.m. on Thursday, and then at 3:00 p.m. on Wednesday, before settling on 5:00 p.m. on Friday. It was an idiotically futile attempt at being something I wasn’t. I wanted to be professional. I wanted to talk about sports. I wanted to do so at a campus that refused to allow that.

My co-host would show up to tapings high. He would sit in the corner, dead silent, or fail to show at all. Or he would yell until he peaked the mics with a quick burst of energy that would disappear as soon as it arrived. I did a lot of talking. I had a lot of bad takes. I said a lot of stuff that made no sense.

At the time, I was a fan unable to express myself. I dreamed of being a reporter, a historian, a calculated, well-measured speaker who only shared hot takes when he really believed them.

I bought my own ticket to the 2019 NBA draft, expecting to celebrate any of my favorite prospects making it.

I was obsessed with Goga Bitadze. There was no one I was rooting for more than Sekou Doumbouya. PJ Washington was fascinating as a swingman who did too many things at an okay level to be bad. And yet, there was one name I tied myself to more than any other.

Enter: You.

A lanky Hokies guard who had done his best impression of his cousin, herking and jerking your way into my heart. You were set to go in the lottery. As you fell past the Minnesota Timberwolves vacated 11th pick and all the way down to 17th with the New Orleans Pelicans, I found myself confused.

“He went way higher in my mock,” I told a friend, with the confidence that no 19-year-old should have. “He should be going way higher.”

“They don’t get it like I do,” I insisted.

When the COVID pandemic sent us all home, I would record the shows on my refurbished 2016 MacBook Air, which overheated so badly that I would actively burn myself from the bottom of the laptop while redrafting Toney Douglas and Trey Lyles with my two best friends.

During those months that everyone either clings to or fails to recall, I learned Photoshop. I put out content that made my past work look goofy and flawed. I made friends through a now-defunct Twitter account. I even got my first Canis Hoopus retweet on a sketch of Jordan McLaughlin and Naz Reid as Calvin and Hobbes.

I was still not what I wanted to be. I was larping as an analyst. I had shirked my joy as a fan, instead viewing the sport I still love as a series of numbers and moving levers. A machine of whirring devices, devoid of the beauty I had once found in it.

In 2022, I graduated from Bennington College as the first-ever Sports Journalism graduate. I finished my thesis on the Harlem Rens and searched for a position that matched my degree.

Instead, I started teaching fifth graders. I would go home exhausted, stare at the wall for a few hours, and then head to my dad’s construction site and work there for a few more hours. And then I’d do it again the day after that. And the day after that.

I scratched and clawed my way through the year. It’s in this letter that I can admit that the writing sample I used for my application to Canis Hoopus was the only one I had. I got my first interview with Luka Garza, who is now a Boston Celtic, and also got to cover the 2023 All-Star game in Salt Lake City.

Still, I felt like I wasn’t there yet.

On February 10th, 2023, I ran home from teaching and settled in to watch the trade deadline. It was on that day that Wolves fans were graced by what may be the best trade in franchise history.

For D’Angelo Russell, Minnesota received Mike Conley, a handful of second-round picks, and you. Apparently, it was you or Rudy Gay, but that’s not important.

“A gangly 8th grader walked into the YMCA in Scarborough, Ontario, Canada, and asked to play with the older guys…” You were a Wolf, and I was excited to welcome you. “Those same guys grew to like the kid and nicknamed him ‘Popsicle’ because his legs were no bigger than a popsicle stick.”

I introduced you as a coming-of-age novel. I still believed. I still thought I knew better than some GMs.

On the eve of the 2021 deadline, the kid named “Popsicle” was once again faced with guys older, bigger, and stronger than him keeping him off the court. He played less than 9 minutes a game in 15 contests for Utah. He’d described the YMCA days as “cut throat”. This was as cut throat as it gets.

For players drafted outside the lottery, this is how careers end. You get flipped around a few times before clinging onto summer league rosters. Instead, Walker came back to a Jazz team that had traded its two all stars and key role players, and became a valuable specialist and a real part of the rotation.

As the article went on, I found myself making the appeal not just to fans, but to the coaching staff so they could see you as you were: The same excited, smiling kid I loved to watch, who was yearning for a moment to embrace. You needed a chance. I hoped they would find it for you.

The kid from that YMCA court is still there. That fire, that indignant longing for success, the refusal to leave can all still be seen in Alexander-Walker’s growth since he hit rock bottom. The kid named “Popsicle” is not done yet, and could be the backcourt ice to Edwards’ fire. But this is the brink for Nickeil. This is it.

A few days later, you got to make your own introduction to Wolves fans. At the end of the conference, whether it was in passing or as part of a longer chat, you told someone from Canis Hoopus that you appreciated the welcome, that you had read a story about your “Popsicle” nickname, that it made you feel like you were at home.

I have never been as good at anything as you have to be to make the NBA. I have never been one of the top 500 in any skill in the world. And yet, as I found myself, you found your chance and took it, and I found a guiding force.

I truly can’t thank you enough, Nickeil. We never met, yet a simple mention of something I wrote, with a simultaneous pride and understanding that it would likely not mean much to anyone, completely reshaped my belief in myself.

You know it’s funny, for the years you’ve been here, I joked that reading my article was the jolt that saved your career. It was never meant seriously, just a belief which turned out better than any of the past ones, one that I wore as a badge of ball knowledge.

The more I look back, the more I realize the opposite is true. You would have figured it out without my research into the Toronto YMCA. Without my digging up past nicknames. Without the failed DHGate jersey order that never arrived. But I would never, ever have made it to where I am now without your kindness or incidental support.

Nickeil, I could never find the words to truly capture how much I appreciate that. While this is not the end for me, it does feel like the end of an era. We never spoke, but I’d be hard-pressed to find anyone who has changed my life more from afar.

Hopefully, I can continue moving forward as I’m sure you will. You have a fan in me until the end of time.

You’ve overcome organizational difficulty. You’ve proven yourself on the biggest stage. Now, you’re finally (monetarily) compensated fairly for it. In sports, fans put so much into the players we love. The relationship forged in the fire of the soul that basketball brings is everything I love about covering sports.

I just want to thank you for carrying everything I’ve put on you over the years. You didn’t know I existed, beyond one headline from over two years ago now.

Wolves fans have built a special bond with Naz Reid. I have, too.

But, when people ask me who my favorite Wolf of all-time is, I will simply answer “Nickeil Alexander-Walker,” the first player to ever make me feel like I had a dream worth chasing.

Thank you, and good luck in Atlanta. You won’t need it, but I think it’s worth offering anyway. You created your own luck, and had enough left over for me, too. It’s hard for me to ever overstate that.

Thilo Latrell Widder