The Switch Up: BlackCrit,The Heritage,and the Wave of Athletic Racial Capitalism

Black Critical Theory (BlackCrit)

Contemporary sport scholars have largely utilized critical race theory (CRT) for analyses related to the interrogation of Black athletes and ongoing battles for equality, equity, and legitimacy (see Edwards, 2017; B. J. Hawkins et al., 2016; Oshiro et al., 2021; Rhoden, 2006; Singer, 2005), but few (see Foster et al., 2023; Howe, 2023) have extended the analysis using Black Critical Theory (BlackCrit) as the method of analysis in relation to athletes. Although this hyper-reliance on CRT can be explained in a myriad of ways, there still exists a need to understand the experiences of Black athletes from the standpoint of the Black body—as opposed to the structures and systems that have been created to “control” the Black body. Although CRT has proven to be a useful framework to explain the racial undertones and dispositions related to law and policy, the usage of BlackCrit as a member of the family of critical theories that emerged from CRT allows for a more directed analysis centered around anti-Blackness as a whole (Foster et al., 2023). As Dumas and Ross (2016) note,

BlackCrit becomes necessary precisely because CRT, as a general theory of racism, is limited in its ability to adequately interrogate what we call the “specificity of the Black.” That is, CRT is not intended to pointedly address how anti-Blackness—which is something different than White supremacy—informs and facilitates racist ideology and institutional practice. More, it cannot fully employ the counterstories of Black experiences of structural and cultural racisms, because it does not, on its own, have language to richly capture how antiblackness constructs Black subjects, and positions them in and against law, policy, and every day (civic) life. (p. 417)

The distinction between the theory of racism (i.e., CRT) and the theory of blackness (i.e., BlackCrit) is paramount to our understanding of the lived experience of Black bodies as an antagonism wherein Black is a despised thing-in-itself (Dumas & Ross, 2016). Instead of focusing solely on systemic or structural racism, BlackCrit allows for the broader interrogation of anti-Blackness, White supremacy, and racial capitalism as a collective way to explain how Black bodies become disdained, disregarded, and marginalized—particularly when considering the visibility of contemporary discourses on race and diversity (Dumas & Ross, 2016; Liu et al., 2023). This is not to say that the tenets of CRT are unimportant to the current analysis, nor to imply that tenets like whiteness as property (see Delgado & Stefancic, 2023), counterstorytelling (see Singer, 2005), intersectionality (see Crenshaw, 2017), or interest convergence (see Bell Jr, 1980) cannot be used to analyze the actions of Black athletes between the third and fourth waves. The foundational literature of CRT has largely informed research on racism against Black athletes, which has allowed for the emergence of BlackCrit as a more intimate analysis centered around anti-Blackness specifically.

Like CRT, BlackCrit does not include a specific fixedness to “tenets.” Instead, BlackCrit scholars work to leave space for expansion, scholarship, and collective deliberation (Dumas & Ross, 2016). In the theorization of BlackCrit, Dumas and Ross (2016) outline three framing ideas (instead of tenets) (Howe, 2023) that include (a) anti-Blackness is endemic and central to the creation of social, political, cultural, and economic spheres; (b) Blackness exists in tension with the neoliberal-multicultural imagination; and (c) create space for Black liberatory fantasy and resist a revisionist history that supports White Supremacy and dominance (Dummas & Ross, 2016; Foster et al., 2023).

“I am not a Role Model”

Traditionally, an athlete-activist is known as a person who uses “their involvement in sport as a platform to promote social justice” (Kluch, 2020, p. 571). Athlete activists utilize their name/brand to make a difference (i.e., political, social, or economic), combat injustices, and advocate for people who have been historically silenced. When considering Black athletes in particular, the efforts of activism are typically more centric to problems faced by the Black community—equality, justice, and the regaining of Black dignity lost during 500 years of obsequious slavery, along with the attainment of basic human/civil rights laden within the U.S. Constitution (Edwards, 2017; Waxman, 2019). Jordan’s decision to become an apolitical athlete can first be seen as a manner of acquiescence that raised eyebrows for Black Americans who then deemed him a “sell out,” but the juxtaposition of his unwillingness to speak on social issues facing Black Americans and his willingness to be the face of corporatocracy as a “Black capitalist” could then lead to a more hypocritical delineation—he is labeled apolitical, while operating as the sociopolitical face of racial capitalism.

Although scholars such as Cooper et al (2019) indicate that economic activism are “actions by individuals and/or groups connected to sport who intentionally create business in historically disadvantaged communities with a keen focus on stimulating economic and social empowerment, stability, and mobility” (p. 175); this is not Jordan. Rather, Jordan became the Black capitalist who focused on his own desire to acquire personal wealth as the face of the National Basketball Association (NBA) and Nike, while also fueling his own desires to acquire capital leverage that would change the landscape of sport forever.

The Heritage (Waves of Athlete Activism)

Black athlete activism has long been part of sport, with multiple waves happening throughout the 20th and 21st centuries (Edwards, 2017). Each wave is distinct in nature with regard to its intention and outcomes, but all have challenged systemic racism and are therefore connected to a broader social movement—which can be considered a storm of necessary proportions. Using Edwards’ work and water waves as a metaphor, we can conceptualize The Heritage of Black athlete activism as translatory (destructive) in nature; they had significant energy and attention, high amplitude due to the sociopolitical storm created and crashed against forms of systemic racism. However, with this high amplitude comes strong backwash. Which means, while these athletes challenged barriers for Black Americans and utilized their platforms for the advancement of the collective, there was also significant backlash from White America in their desire to maintain their power and control.

The first wave featured a drive for recognition and legitimacy after the First World War. “Negro” athletes were not seen as legitimate in White supremacist sport that claimed their existence to be inferior. Athletes like Louise Stokes, Jack Johnson, Tidye Pickett, Jesse Owens, and Joe Louis had to prove their athletic superiority to be seen as legitimate (Rhoden, 2006). The second wave, post-World War 2, established access for Black athletes. Jackie Robinson, Larry Doby, Althea Gibson, Wilma Rudolph, Earlene Brown, and Chuck Cooper were catalysts for desegregation in American team sports (Edwards, 2017). The third wave was interrelated with the Civil Rights Movement of the 1960s when iconic athletes like Erosenna Robinson, Wyomia Tyus, Jim Brown, Bill Russell, Muhammed Ali, and Curt Flood challenged the definition of progress for Black athletes (Liberti & McDonald, 2019; Tyus & Terzakis, 2018). The fourth wave coincided with the Black Lives Matter (BLM) movement. The murder of Trayvon Martin ushered in this chapter of athletic activism; his death galvanized many across the nation. Professional athletes, including 4× NBA Champion LeBron James and 4× WNBA Champion Maya Moore, led their teams in donning hoodies/shirts in #BlackLivesMatter solidarity, calling out anti-Black police violence in America (A. Davis, 2020). However, National Football League (NFL) quarterback Colin Kaepernick became the face of this wave when he first sat, then knelt during the playing of the national anthem to protest police brutality and the oppression of racialized people. Kaepernick’s quiet protesting resulted in verbal assaults from then President Donald Trump, death threats from those on social media, and ultimately the loss of his football career (Boykoff & Carrington, 2020).

Negro, Black, or African American Athlete?

In a 2021 interview with Bakari Sellers, Dr. Harry Edwards discusses Black activism in sport and what he defines as the waves of Black athlete activism. Contrary to the opinion of those who marked the absence of athlete activism between the third and fourth waves (late 1970s to early 2000s), Edwards argues that during this time period, it was Black basketball players like Magic Johnson, Charles Barkley, and Jordan who laid the foundation for leveraging their athletic power for financial gain and generational wealth. These men wrote the endorsement (and capitalist) playbook that contemporary athlete activists like Lebron James and Stephen Curry now benefit from. Put differently, the ability of athletes like Michael Jordan to become Black capitalists showed contemporary athletes “how the business of the game is played,” even if they did so by adopting capitalist principles. This has contextual significance because of the shift in the sociopolitical landscape during this time, wherein racial politics again became central to the construction of identity and “the African American athlete” took center stage.

Against the backdrop of the hyper-racialized 1960s, America saw a downturn in racial politics in the 1970s and a shift toward “race neutral” stance that could inadvertently (again) problematize Black culture without explicitly referencing race. On the racial polarization of the times, Alexander (2011) notes,

Thus, in the late 1960s and early 1970s, two schools of thought were offered to the general public regarding race, poverty, and the social order. Conservatives argued that poverty was caused not by structural factors related to race and class but rather by culture—particularly Black culture. (p. 45)

Superstar athletes of this time, like the general discourse of America during President Ronald Reagan’s time in 1980s, experienced a shift where the complexities of race, culture, and ethnicity influenced how athletes decided to be viewed/categorized (negro, Black, or African American). Athletes like Johnson. O.J. Simpson, Jordan, Barkley, and eventually Tiger Woods would work to be directly seen as “superstar athletes,” not Black athletes—they just wanted to compete and secure the wealth synonymous with superstar status. This shift could also be connected to the “raciolinguistics” surrounding the complexity of race, where the vernacular of negro, Black, and African American acquired different meanings to people and athletes. Although “Black” appears to be the most largely used term for self-identification, various athletes have used the word “negro” and “African American” as well. “Negro” (which translates to Black in the Spanish language) was generally used from the period of Emancipation (post-1863) forward to create an identity that allows for the existence of dignity and citizenship (Alim et al., 2016). It would not be until the Black power movement (i.e., 1960s) that a new sociolinguistic construction of “Blackness” arose (Alim et al., 2016). As Smitherman (1986) notes,

Given the conflictive dynamics of “push-pull” in Black America, Black, not Negro, becomes the appropriate antonym for white. Black calls to mind power, Black magic, even evil, whereas, ironically, Negro suggests no such associations, especially to a generation of whites who had long since forgotten—if they ever knew—that Negro means “Black” anyway. A Black man, as opposed to a Negro man, is someone to be feared, reckoned with, and thus respected. Black . . . a logical choice. (p, 40)

While the label “African American” emerged around the same time as “Black,” it did not gain currency until the 1980s/1990s. Some (see Martin, 1991) believe it was popularized in 1988 when Jesse Jackson announced that the preferred term for Black folks was “African American” because “to be called African American has cultural integrity” (Martin, 1991, p. 83). Others (see Smitherman, 1986) would attribute the usage to include the double-consciousness of being partly African (by descent) and partly American (by way of chattel enslavement). Regardless, this attempt at multiethnic pluralism was ultimately a diversion and apparent rebrand from the term “Black” and the connotations that followed. More directly, the categorization of African American existed as a manner where athletes of this time could attempt to marginally rid themselves of the existing meanings of “Blackness,” align closer with the “American” ideals, and live as free-floating racial signifiers of progress (Williams, 2021).

Granted, this stands as an uphill battle for athletes (and people) of this time because of the immutable American battle in relation to Blackness and whiteness being tasked as opposites along the color line (Du Bois, 1903). In regard to the historic meaning of Blackness, Wallace (2022) notes,

. . .the presupposed immutable function and meaning(s) of Blackness remain rooted in a deeply, historically embedded understanding of Blacks as chattel slaves in the collective (sub)conscious of the public. Simply put, to be Black is to be a slave, to be a slave is to be an object (i.e., not human). Consequently, the material conditions that Blacks endure reflect a (blackened) slave society—again, even in a “post-emancipated,” “post-reconstruction” context. (p. 378)

Furthermore, Hartman (2008) notes of this continued connection to slavery for Black America, stating,

If slavery persists as an issue in the political life of Black America, it is not because of an antiquarian obsession with bygone days or the burden of a too-long memory, but because Black lives are still imperiled and devalued by a racial calculus and a political arithmetic that were entrenched centuries ago. This is the afterlife of slavery—skewed life chances, limited access to health and education, premature death, incarceration, and impoverishment. (p. 6)

Due to a lack of socialization/experience with the struggles of The Heritage, along with the convolated terminology of the “Black” race/identity, athletes of this time did not place salience on being “Black” and appeared vigilant in living outside of the political imagery that would deem them as “less than” simply by their skin. Instead, they wished for a space that allowed for them to “just be athletes” and they competed in a sociopolitical time that allowed them the opportunity to do so.

This “social death” (see Patterson, 2018) of the “Black” identity allowed for these athletes to then be racialized as “African-American” and therefore slightly apart from the social politics surrounding the categorization of both “Black” and “Negro” athletes. Against the racial backdrop of the Black power era, athletes of this time appeared to evade anti-Black by way of social death—and rebirth as superstar athletes who weren’t “Black,” they were just “themselves.” This is not to say that their social death was intentional, but rather an unintended consequence of racial capitalism whereby athletes were no longer bound by their Black skin—especially when they were major marketing figures for their sport teams/leagues. Athletes of this time could not “shed” their Black skin, but covering their Black skin with designer clothing and diamond earrings was seen unfavorably by the greater Black community when those same athletes refused to defend the everyday Black people who were being mistreated when wearing the same attire.

I’m Not Black, I’m O.J

While previous athletes in Edwards’ outlined waves caused a destruction of barriers that marginalized Black athletes faced, these athletes also faced the loss of livelihood or even life if their voice was too forceful—and the athletes who followed appeared to recognize the sacrifice that came with being deemed a “Black” athlete. Subsequently, athletes at the intersection of the third and fourth waves appear to have decided to adopt the sociopolitical viewpoint of America and attempt create more favorable scenarios for themselves by removing the “Black” connotation and instead deciding to just be known as superstar athletes. This, along with the sociopolitical landscape of America, launched the full-scale racial capitalism era—and it all began with “The Juice.”

In regard to the “social death” of the Black athlete connotations, we first turn to the “first Black athlete to become a bona fide lovable media superstar” (Goodman, 1975, para. 7)—O.J. Simpson. O.J. Simpson, also known as “The Juice,” was a prominent superstar athlete in the 1960s and 1970s as both a college football Heisman Trophy winner (circa 1968) at the University of Southern California (USC) and professional athlete in the National Football League (NFL) from 1969 to 1979. The former star running back is highly regarded as the first Black male athlete to secure major endorsements, which amplified his status as an idealistic representation of racial progress for Black athletes—though he did not see himself that way. On racial distancing, Griffin (2018) notes,

Even though Simpson actively distanced himself from conversations about race and racism for several decades of his life, his Black masculinity, embrace of wealthy white patriarchal culture, and hypervisibility as a prized Black male athlete firmly juxtaposed his fame against racial tensions, Black oppression, and anti-racist movements. (p. 361)

Simpson being the first Black “superstar” athlete came with much trepidation along racial lines, which birthed the ideological sentiment “I’m not Black, I’m O.J.” that would later become both the title of a song by billionaire artist Jay-Z and the thesis statement for Simpson’s existence as a “Black man” who spent much of his adult life in primarily-White spaces (K. Hawkins, 2016). Although Simpson is never on record as actually saying the direct quote, it has served as a descriptive statement that defines Simpson’s efforts to continually be viewed outside of his Black skin and it wasn’t until his legal troubles that the world began to view him in a Black lens. Namely, Simpson’s standing in contemporary society remains convoluted after his 1995 double-homicide trial for his ex-wife Nicole Brown Simpson and her acquaintance Ronald Goldman and subsequent nine years in prison for robbery and kidnapping. His trial still remains one of the major staples of racialized politics to the degree that FX released American Crime Story: The People v. O.J. Simpson in 2016 and ESPNs premiered of O.J.: Made in America in the same year (Griffin, 2018). Regardless of his troubles, Simpson is still considered a major figure at the start of the racial capitalism era that would then make its way to the NBA with the surgency of a famed Black point guard with identical skin tone—and superstar characteristics.

The Magic of “Showtime”

During the 1980s and into the 1990s, the NBA changed dramatically largely as a result of the promotion of their Black superstar Earvin “Magic” Johnson and the “Showtime” Los Angeles Lakers. In the 1970s, the league was primarily known for its on-court fights and apparent off-court drug use. At a time where racialized politics were heightened as the undertone of the Reaganism era, Johnson entered the NBA as a “Black” athlete that was seen as more of a signifier of an entertainer and “African American” superstar that served as the antithesis to historic “Black” athletes. Historically, the Harlem Globetrotter basketball team had traveled the world and shown the entertainment value of the Black athlete at the intersection of theater, comedy, Black athleticism, and comedy (see Butler, 2001), but it was Magic Johnson who brought the flare of the Black entertainer to the NBA. Akin to his nickname “Magic” and his “Showtime” Lakers, Johnson was highly regarded for his supreme ability to play basketball in a way that was more entertaining than ever before—as a nonthreatening Black entertainer, “You heard nearly as much about Magic’s magnetic smile as you did about his stunning no-look passes” (Boyd, 2008, p. 51). Magic was, in many ways, the perfect entertainment athlete that both embodied the Black stereotype shown most by the entertainment value of the Harlem Globetrotters basketball team (Lombardo, 1978) and the nonthreatening Black man that could wow onlooking White bourgeoisie (Boyd, 2008). In the 1970s, before the arrival of Johnson (and Larry Bird), the league had been through a decade where average attendance hovered at around 8,000 fans a game. The 1979–1980 NBA finals that included Johnson’s Los Angeles Lakers received a 7.2 media rating in a time where there were only three networks and where a rating of 20.0 was only good for 30th place in the Nielsen ratings (Pells, 2021).

Like Simpson, Johnson’s achievements came along racial lines as symbol for Black advancement without directly calling him a “Black athlete.” Johnson’s success is ripe with racialized battles in facing off against Bird and the Boston Celtics—a rivalry both rooted in the battle for the crown of most NBA championships (both franchises now have 17 each) and the age-old Black versus White dichotomy of athletic superiority. As Boyd (2008) notes,

The presence of Earvin “Magic” Johnson of the Los Angeles Lakers and Larry Bird of the Boston Celtics would mark another in a long line of sports episodes involving the mythical battle over racial superiority. In this regard, the notion of a “great white hope” is of the utmost significance in understanding the image of Larry Bird and the way that fans and the media reacted to him. Going all the way back to the days of the explosive Black heavyweight champion Jack Johnson, this idea of a great white hope would consume American imagination. (p. 46)

The racial lines evident in the Bird v Magic rivalry, akin to similar lines faced by Jack Johnson during the first wave of athlete activism, brought racial capitalism to the forefront by elevating Magic as Black entertainer—as long as he remained nonthreatening and “under control.” Subsequently, Magic’s fall from White grace would not come until 1991 when he was then seen through stereotypical Black notions of hypersexuality by announcing that he had contracted the HIV virus. The corporatocracy of the NBA feared not during this time though, as they had already been developing the athletic industrial complex and grooming their next (and greatest) racial capitalist to further the “race neutral” agenda. As Magic made his exit, a high-flying, tongue-out superstar would arise as the corporatocracy’s secret weapon.

“His Airness”

Drafted third overall in 1984, Jordan stormed onto the NBA scene in a time where the league was hoping to build from the “Magic” success and solidify its bid for premier sport entertainment. Jordan secured a rookie salary of US$550,000 and his 5-year Nike shoe contract garnered him an additional US$500,000 a year (Poole, 2021). According to his agent David Falk, in “The Last Dance,” Nike had hoped to make US$3 million in sales by the end of Year 4, however, by the end of Year 1, Nike had made US$126 million in sales off of Air Jordan 1s (Poole, 2021). While Jordan was subject to rookie contract terms which kept his salary below US$1M per season for his first 4 years, his off-court income started to grow significantly through sponsorship deals. By the final year of his first contract, Jordan was earning US$845,000 in annual playing salary but bringing in US$6.5M in sponsorship deals (Gerencer, 2016).

During this time, other Black athletes in the NBA began to notice the potential in Jordan to make changes in the league. This is largely because “Jordan surpassed O.J. Simpson as the world’s most marketable Black man, becoming a marketing tool and proof that a dark-skinned African American could be embraces as a pitchman for all” (Rhoden, 2006, p. 201). For Black athletes, this could be viewed as a grand opportunity for equitable change and advancement—but Jordan had his own agenda. For example, Jordan’s teammate and player union representative Craig Hodges, “saw in Jordan an extraordinary chance to begin to wrest economic control from the owners and the corporations who did not easily offer players, especially Black players, a seat in the boardroom” (Bryant, 2019, p. 98). Concurrently, David Stern’s ascension to the role of NBA Commissioner in 1984 marked the league’s foray into a global brand. Stern leveraged the popularity of celebrity athletes, both Black and White, to grow the league’s value, increasing revenues from US$118 million in the 1982–1983 to US$4.6 billion in 2012–2013. While the NBA revenues increased to US$945 million during Stern’s first 12 years as commissioner, the player salaries also dramatically changed from an average of US$260,000 to US$1.7 million during that same time (Justice, 1995). The Johnson/Bird (Lakers/Celtics) rivalry was an instrumental contributor to the growth of the league, yet the emergence of Jordan changed the game—and Stern saw the potential for the league to profit from their newly minted Golden ticket.

Jordan built upon Simpson and Johnson’s playbook and infiltrated the commercial market in a way that no other Black man had done before him. Jordan became a brand; one that was more than successful at selling “Nike sneakers, the NBA, Wheaties, Hanes underwear, Coca-Cola, Gatorade, Chevrolets, and McDonald’s hamburgers; Jordan’s body is a culturally significant site for the commodification and subsequent consumption of Black masculinity” (McDonald, 1996, pp. 344–345). Given the climate of the post-Reagan American in which the bodies of Black men served as “symbolic icons for the nation’s ills,” Jordan offered a marketable vision of Black masculinity easily embraced by White America (Golden, 1994, p. 22). Under the leadership of then President Reagan, “there was a shift in the national consciousness [that] suggests movement away from the overt political activism of the 1960s toward an era of backlash politics that also served to justify economic policies favoring the wealthy” (McDonald, 1996, p. 347). On the politics during the Reagan era of American leadership, Bryant (2019) notes,

Dissent was never popular, but during the Reagan 1980s, Americans grew hostile to unions and identified more closely with management. The prevailing attitude suggests that union protections existed only for the untalented. If wealthy and celebrity combined to create a class of super-wealthy athletes and entertainers (not to mention corporate executives who distanced themselves financially from average Americans at a rate even faster than ballplayers), it was also accompanied by the strengthening of the shut up and play code: If you had the money, you should be grateful for it. If you did not, you just weren’t working hard enough. Everything was fair. (p. 80)

In congruence with American ideals of “pulling oneself up by their bootstraps,” Jordan became the biggest “African American” athlete that made the NBA more appealing to White Americans who had previously been turned off by the game’s congruence with stereotypically Black challenges (such as hip-hop influence and activism-related stereotypes). He became a businessman focusing on corporate culture—as opposed to racial identity (Boyd, 2008). Against the backdrop of such a hyper-Black demeanor being fueled by the beats of hip-hop, Jordan was able to position himself as the NBA’s most lucrative figure by being edgy on the court, exuding a youthful energy and physical dominance, but remaining silent on hype-racial issues (Andrews, 1996; Boyd, 2008). When Black athletes like Jordan became financially successful, society was able to see him as more of a capitalist and less of a “Black” human—a true “African American.” Although he did what every other capitalist has done and became “of the system,” it is possible that because he is a Black human, the expectation was that he would also be like those who came before him and adopt the Heritage agenda. The Heritage (see Bryant, 2019), is an unspoken inheritance of responsibility for athletes of color to step up and speak on behalf of their fellow people of color who have been historically silenced. Part of the inadvertent culture is kinship through the struggle in such that if one person “breaks through,” they have the responsibility to create opportunities for others to advance as well. Jordan was the largest figure among the consortium of Black athletes who ignored the bylaws of the Heritage to focus on the development of their own (apolitical) brand (Williams, 2021). More directly, some believe he turned his back on Black for the sake of more green—and did so in a way that actually added fuel to the sociopolitical anti-Black framework.

Conceivably, Jordan could have viewed the landscape of his financial ascension and global iconic status as his time to advance the Heritage, but historians instead question his approach and lack of outward racial activism. For example, Jordan received criticism for not speaking out after multiple White Los Angeles police officers beat Black truck driver Rodney King (an act captured on camera and broadcast across the world) or the riots that ensued across Los Angeles after the officers were acquitted (see Crenshaw & Peller, 2013; Hodges & Fanning, 2017). When asked to comment, Jordan indicated he was not up to speed on the matter (Rhoden, 1992). There have also been opportunities for Jordan to speak out regarding Nike’s alleged human rights violations and with his position of power, call for change in the company’s manufacturing. However, Jordan has never spoken out about any allegations against his largest financial sponsor. Crowley (1999) has argued “He is a monument to the self. And with the stock market soaring and political participation plummeting, perhaps he is the icon of our time” (p. 42). Prominent Black athletes, including Arthur Ashe, Jim Brown, and Hank Aaron, have chided Jordan for not adhering to the code of the Heritage. While it may seem unfair to demand that all Black athletes be public social activists; according to the Heritage, this is an unspoken requirement. However, these standards are admittedly dense and can then be deemed somewhat sacrificial because athletes must both put their career advancement on the line and do so in a space where the concept of activism remains nebulous.

To be fair, Jordan was not alone in this process of Black identity erasure because nowhere does it state that athletes like Jordan have to be “for” the Heritage and subsequent social activists. Some, including former NBA player Barkley, have openly stated that their only role is that of an athlete. In his widely known 1993 Nike commercial, Barkley openly states that he is not a role model, “just because I can dunk a basketball, doesn’t mean I should raise your kids” (Bryant, 2019, p. 139). Also consider athletes like Tiger Woods, who instead of calling himself a Black golfer, called himself “Cablinasian” (representing his Caucasian, Black, American Indian and Asian ethnicities) on The Oprah Winfrey Show in 1997 (Washington, 2015). This mentality also paved the way for athletes like Kobe Bryant, who was able to ride the coattails of this wave of racial erasure (Williams, 2021).

BlackCrit and The Athletic Racial Capitalism Wave

Discussion

It must be noted that athletes of this time came of age in a time after the civil rights era, so their understandings of The Heritage and subsequent connection to the struggle for freedom are far different than the Black athletes that came before them. In fact, Jordan himself explained his position of neutrality by saying, “I don’t think I’ve experienced enough to voice so many opinions . . . I think people want my opinion only because of the role model image that has been bestowed on me. But that doesn’t mean I’ve experienced all those things” (Rhoden, 2006, p. 200). Furthermore, Rhoden (2006) notes,

Not only for Jordan, but for an entire generation of young African American athletes, the notion that they belong to a larger community with a shared history is a hazy concept, if it exists at all. The greatest distinction between Jordan’s generation and those of Jack Johnson, Jesse Owens, Jackie Robinson, and even Muhammad Ali lies in those generations’ connection and identification with “the Black community.” In many cases this was a forced identity—forced by crushing racism and suffocating segregation. But there was a collective identity nonetheless. That’s changed. (p. 200)

The athletes between the third and fourth waves of activism also did not have the backing akin to historical athletes, in terms of “movements” (e.g., the Civil Rights movement and Black Lives Matter movement). That said, notions of required Heritage membership cannot be blindly bestowed upon athletes like Michael Jordan because they seemingly did not experience the same realities as the athletes before them, they were not socialized to be activists, and nowhere does it state that they have to be activists at all.

In addition, athletes of this time varied in regard to their political ideologies and as such, the expectation for them to (by default) adopt the conclusive views of The Heritage would suggest that Blackness is a sociopolitical monolith—which is a product of racial capitalism that must be rejected (Robinson et al., 2023). Historical “Black” movements have also included differences in sociopolitical ideologies, most notably represented in the difference in views of activists such as Martin Luther King Jr and el-Hajj Malik el-Shabazz (aka Malcolm X). Contextually, one could also consider the difference in political ideologies of those involved in the third wave of activism. While all were still seen as Black, some decided to be more “radically disruptive” (e.g., Muhammad Ali and John Carlos), some decided to be situated between radical and conservative (e.g., Tommie Smith and Arthur Ashe), and others decided to be more conservative/assimilationist-oriented (e.g., O.J. Simpson and later, Michael Jordan).

An important component of the Black Liberatory Fantasy is the idea of Black athletes being afforded the right to dream as they see fit and define their own Blackness. For example, in the fifth episode of ESPN’s The Last Dance documentary on the 1998 Chicago Bulls, Jordan admitted that he did not see himself as a role model and that the “Republicans buy sneakers too” comment was an “off the cuff” comment to note that he did not feel averse to speak on political dispositions (Bontemps, 2020). According to Bontemps (2020), Jordan said,

I do commend Muhammad Ali for standing up for what he believed in. But I never thought of myself as an activist. I thought of myself as a basketball player. I wasn’t a politician when I was playing my sport. I was focused on my craft. Was that selfish? Probably. But that was my energy. That’s where my energy was. (para. 5–6)

Because Blackness and Black Identity are not a monolith, we must acknowledge that The Heritage is an unspoken tradition based in struggle—but not a requirement or a sociological reality for every Black athlete. That said, reservations and disagreements in regard to the lack of sociopolitical actions by athletes like Michael Jordan must be coupled with an acknowledgment that they ultimately have the freedom to define their Black Identity (and subsequent action/inaction) any way they see fit.

Contemporary Black athletes have been fortunate in their ability to live what appears to be a type of Black liberatory fantasy, especially considering the success of Black athletes in the fifth wave of athlete activism who were able to amass league-wide protests in conjunction with the Black Lives Matter movement (Williams, 2022). Those athletes (many of which are Black superstars) were given the platform to freely express their disdain for anti-Black racism and police brutality, which ultimately led to increased support for Black Lives Matter, voters rights, and overall awareness of societal issues facing the Black community. Resisting revisionist history and understanding the role that racial capitalism plays in society allowed those athletes to wield the power of being superstar Black athletes and ultimately spark change that would positively impact their fellow Black community members who still suffer the same racial struggles that predate the colonization of present-day America. Although the fifth-wave athletes (e.g., LeBron James and Maya Moore) were able to accomplish this feat by joining an existing movement, their protest was a wielding of power that was seemingly unrealized by the Black capitalist athletes between the third and fourth waves; athletes like Jordan did not use their success to impact the racial dynamics of greater society. People like Michael Brown, Breonna Taylor, Tamir Rice, and George Floyd still suffered the brutal conclusion of becoming “famous hashtags” after losing their lives as a result of anti-Black police brutality, and thankfully contemporary athletes are now using their platforms to combat anti-Black racism.

Conclusion

The time between Edwards’ third and fourth waves of athlete activism was a complex time period ripe with the evolution of racial capitalism and subsequent ideals of corporatocracy and individualism. During this time, athletes appeared to subscribe to the erasure of their Blackness, in exchange for higher capital gain. Arguably, the Heritage was lost due to the interjection of racial capitalism in professional sports. Although it can be said that athletes like Michael Jordan and Magic Johnson created a blueprint/playbook for future athletes to acquire capital wealth, a BlackCrit lens allows for the clarity that they simply used techniques and language that was borrowed from the same colonizers who first provided the blueprint for individual success at the expense of Black community advancement (Fanon, 1963).

From the moment Jordan came into the spotlight in 1982 and signed with Nike in 1984, his efforts for personal gain paved the way for sneaker culture and lucrative athlete endorsements. Specifically, Jordan would “become America’s first billionaire athlete of any race” (Bryant, 2019, p. 90) and must receive credit as the biggest athlete of this time because of his pursuit of wealth—but his wealth does not translate to sociopolitical changes for the Black community. Instead of overt activism, the racial capitalism wave created a landscape where future NBA players and other professional athletes could earn more in endorsements than from their growing multimillion-dollar salaries . . . if they played along. For example, Tiger Woods would sign a US$40 million endorsement deal with Nike in 1996 as a 20-year-old and in 2003 LeBron James signed a US$90 million shoe deal with Nike before he had played his first NBA game (Bryant, 2019). Stephen Curry (4× NBA Champion American basketball player for the Golden State Warriors) has also achieved great success and would not have the commercial leverage to speak against Under Armor CEO Kevin Plank (see Conway, 2017) without the power laden in Jordan’s commercial enterprise—but this advancement came with a great cost and diversion from the Heritage codes and traditions.

The Heritage of [social] athlete activism is an “unspoken” tradition, but not necessarily a requirement for Black athletes (Williams, 2022). Jordan, like many other athletes during his era of competition in “Reaganomics” America (i.e., Barkley, OJ Simpson, Woods, etc.), aligned himself with the sociopolitical landscape of the country and used his positionality as a way to amplify his personal brand. Conversely, it can be argued that Jordan and the aforementioned athletes disavowed their Blackness to ensure that they were not seen as “too Black” to be marketed and consumed by White America (Andrews, 1996), which led to an inadvertent “social death” and diversion of Blackness. Through a BlackCrit lens, the wave of racial capitalism created both (delayed) capital advancement for Black athletes and tremendous problems related to the growth of anti-Blackness during the time between the third and fourth wave of athlete activism. Put differently, superstar Black athletes benefited from the blueprint laid by Black capitalists like Michael Jordan, but the upper-echelon of Black athlete stardom is where those benefits appear to end.

To the credit of Jordan, it must also be noted that “Jordans” have been viewed a site of contemporary resistance (see Andrews, 1996). The same power that Jordan displayed in his refusal to wear team-issued Reebok gear, instead sporting his own branded shoes and jumpsuits (Boyd, 2008), has been passed on to various others in an interdisciplinary fashion (i.e., Jordans are worn as a form of resistance by academics on campus,’ athletes working outside of league “dress codes,” coaches as a manner of stylistic expression, etc.). Jordan was intentional in “not causing a fuss” or attempting to fight about/for anything other than championships, revenue, and his brand. In alignment with the sociopolitical landscape of Reaganist-America, Jordan (in his own way) “played the game” of capitalism in a way that showed an example of a (Black) man turning his athletic career into business success—which has become a quasi-blueprint for others. For example, consider how Magic Johnson also capitalized on his star power by investing in companies like Sony-Loews Theater and PepsiCo prior to retiring from the NBA. Furthermore, he amplified his investment portfolio by working with then-Starbucks CEO Howard Schultz to open Starbucks locations in underserved neighborhoods, securing ownership stakes with the Major League Baseball’s (MLB) Los Angeles Dodgers and the NFL’s Washington Commanders, and even becoming the majority owner of EquiTrust Life Insurance Company (Brown, 2023).

Given that contemporary Jordan has been seen to change his apolitical tune by publicly supporting various social movements/causes, some argue (see Araton, 2023) that he “played the game” by first making himself as “American” as possible to increase his marketability and inadvertently weaponize his wealth on the back end—but his history of staying quiet could make his current contributions appear performative (perhaps because it can positively impact his brand). Jordan’s public support for sociopolitical issues is clearly delayed, and though he appears to be at the forefront of efforts to “right the wrongs” of his silence, becoming a Black capitalist as the “biggest” athlete of his time (arguably ever) has made his efforts appear convoluted (and seemingly opportunistic in true capitalist fashion).

Athletes like Jordan who knew the “price of activism” (Sellers, 2021) and were not technically socialized to be activists must be given grace for conducting their Blackness in a way that they thought was best, but their diversion from the Heritage also allowed for racial capitalism to attach itself to their success and subsequently create division between them and the greater Black community. They may have laid the foundation for future professional athletes to acquire similar endorsement deals and contracts, but they seemingly did so in a way that meant the “social death” of their Black skin and subsequent bloviation of conservative sociopolitical adherence that actually made their “apolitical” behaviors “hyperpolitical” as Black capitalists. Athletes like O.J. Simpson and Michael Jordan set the stage for current Black professional athletes to acquire the economic power necessary to be prominent political and/or social activists while they continue to garner wealth—but the advancement of that small group of Black individuals came at a steep price for Blackness and Black advancement. In no way are we suggesting that athletes like Jordan actively engaged in activism (see Araton, 2023) or had the forethought that their work would enable athletes like Lebron James and Stephen Curry the leverage to speak out about anti-Black racism in the United States, but a BlackCrit lens helps us to make sense of the role that racial capitalism played in their ascension—and the Black skin that was sacrificed for their individual gains.