J. Cole does not sprinkle NBA references into his music for decoration. He builds with them. Basketball has long shaped how he measures greatness, frames competition, and explains ambition. From legends like Michael Jordan to rising forces like Victor Wembanyama and Anthony Edwards, Cole uses the league as a scoreboard for his own legacy.
On Birthday Blizzard ‘26, which arrived just before The Fall-Off, Cole sounded locked in. The bars felt urgent. The references felt sharper. And when he invokes NBA names, he does so with the authority of someone who studies the game and lives around it.
J. Cole opens up about the inspiration behind his Trunk Sale tour in Episode 5 of The Fall-Off vlog, explaining how connecting directly with fans made the experience hit different.
“Thank God I did this ‘cause what if I never drop another album again…You get to see people face… pic.twitter.com/ZvKQwJ2Kwb
— XXL Magazine (@XXL) February 20, 2026
Cole’s connection to basketball runs deeper than lyrics. He spent more than a decade living in New York while chasing his rap career, attending St. John’s University and embedding himself in the city’s culture. Fans still spot him biking through Lower Manhattan. He carries himself like someone who understands what Madison Square Garden means on a winter night.
He also stepped into ownership. In June 2023, the North Carolina native became a minority owner of the Charlotte Hornets, joining an ownership group led by Gabe Plotkin and Rick Schnall after the franchise purchase from Michael Jordan, Heavy reports. That move signaled more than fandom. It placed him inside NBA boardrooms. When Cole references players now, he does so as an artist who studies roster construction and franchise value.
From Jordan Numbers to Wemby Challenges
Cole has always aimed at the ceiling. On “Return of Simba,” he raps, “Being good is good, that'll get you Drew Gooden / But me, I want Jordan numbers, LeBron footin’.” The bar slices clean. Drew Gooden represents a respectable career. Jordan and LeBron represent immortality. Cole does not chase competence. He chases banners.
Years earlier on “Ladies” from The Warm Up, he declared, “The rap form Lebron… better watch out for the charm.” The comparison arrived when LeBron still faced questions about titles. Cole aligned himself with long-term dominance, not quick acclaim.
On “Winter Storm Freestyle,” he tightens the scope: “I’m Mike Jordan, Ant Edwards; ni-ga, you kiddin’ me?” The pairing bridges eras. Jordan embodies finished greatness. Edwards symbolizes rising force. Cole positions himself as both proven and ascending.
Then comes Wembanyama. On “Run a Train,” he flips defensive difficulty into hustle economics: “Tryna to make a legal dollar seem harder than guarding Wemby.” Anyone who has watched Wembanyama stretch the floor understands the metaphor. Length. Reach. Impossibility. Cole chooses references that feel current, not nostalgic.
Swagger, Strategy and Subtle Shots
Cole also channels NBA personalities to amplify rhythm and tone. On “a m a r i,” he boasts, “Kill ’em on a song… do the Westbrook rock-a-baby.” The celebration mirrors Russell Westbrook’s signature cradle move. The booth becomes the paint. The verse becomes a fast break.
On “m y . l i f e,” he raps, “Ja Morant, I’m on my Grizzly.” The line carries layered meaning. Morant’s explosiveness meets team identity. Cole casts rivals as “cubs,” not ready for major league pressure. The imagery lands because Morant plays without hesitation.
Even role players receive attention. “Rise and Shine” includes, “Brother your lame, your Shane Battier.” Battier built his reputation on discipline and defense, rarely as the headline act. Cole uses the name strategically, framing opponents as limited contributors rather than franchise stars.
What makes these references resonate is balance. Cole salutes icons like Jordan and LeBron. He nods to emerging stars like Edwards and Wembanyama. He taps explosive guards like Morant and Westbrook for swagger. He even leverages glue guys for lyrical contrast.
His basketball literacy shows range. He understands eras, archetypes, and narrative arcs. That fluency makes his NBA name-drops feel less like hashtags and more like scouting reports.
Cole often frames rap as competition. The NBA offers the perfect parallel. Championships equal classic albums. MVPs mirror cultural impact. Longevity defines greatness in both arenas.
So when he invokes Jordan numbers or guarding Wemby, he speaks in a language that fans recognize instantly. It is not cosplay. It is calibration.
Full Circle Moments
From Queens inspired ambition to Hornets ownership stake, from Madison Square Garden nights to new freestyle sessions, Cole continues to treat basketball as both metaphor and measuring stick. The court gives him context. The mic gives him space.
And when he drops an NBA name, he rarely misses the shot.
