THE DREAM WAS A PREMONITION

In May 1994, the NBA was preparing to hand out its 39th MVP Award. The previous 38 had all gone to American-born players. Kareem was born in Harlem. Jordan was born in Brooklyn. Russell was born in West Monroe, Louisiana. Between the formation of the NBA, and the spring of 1994, the kings of the association were all Americans. But on May 25, 1994, a 30-year-old from Lagos, Nigeria became the first international player to win the NBA’s MVP award.

He wouldn’t be the last. Between 2018 and 2025, seven MVP trophies have gone to foreign-born players. But it all started with Olajuwon—the iconoclastic legend whose blend of power, speed, skill, versatility, and grace was unprecedented for a center in the 1990s. Today, his game is the template for the modern-day superstar big.

The Accidental Prototype
When you look at the league’s most recent MVP big men—guys with names like Antetokounmpo, Jokić, and Embiid—it’s impossible not to see Olajuwon as the blueprint. On the floor, he extended the legacies of Mikan, Russell, Chamberlain, and Jabbar deep into the 1990s. He did so by proving that elite two-way play at the center spot was still the surest path to MVP honors.

“Hakeem turned the post into a stage… His footwork resembled choreography more than combat.”


But off the floor, he challenged everything. Magic had that smile. Bird had the cornfield Americana. Jordan had the shoes and the highlights. Barkley had the mouth. Those four guys had combined to win the previous 10 MVP’s. They’d all teamed up a few years earlier, put USA on their chests, and dominated the 1992 Olympics, re-establishing America as the ultimate basketball hotbed.

Two years later, Olajuwon would break the mold. He was African. He was a devout Muslim. He hated cameras. He had an accent. He was the best player on the planet, but how in the world did it happen? Olajuwon’s journey didn’t follow the typical superstar script. There were no high school championships, no recruiting wars. As a teen he was a soccer goalie in Lagos, Nigeria. The agility and footwork that would later define his basketball game were forged on grass. He didn’t touch a basketball until 15, and by 21, he was the number one overall pick in the arguably the greatest draft class in history. The Houston Rockets passed on Michael Jordan to select him for one key reason: Before Jordan changed everything, NBA games were won and lost in the post, by the biggest players on the floor. Olajuwon more than fit the bill. 

Post game from the Future
He may not have been the tallest or the strongest center of the 1990s, but he was the most athletic. When it came to speed, agility, and grace Olajuwon was unmatched at his position. His signature post move, the “Dream Shake” put it all on display. First the shoulder feint, then the pivot, then the half-spin into a counter. Defenders weren’t beaten so much as lured into a trap that preyed upon their desires to block shots and protect the rim. 

His first step was lightning quick, and he would use it to spin over one shoulder, often dangling the ball in one hand like bait on a hook. Defenders had no choice but to sell out to cut him off, jerking their hulking momentum in that direction. But by the time they got there, the Dream was already gone, spinning back over the opposite shoulder into a beautiful piece of wide-open shooting space.

It was a move perfectly calibrated to leverage Olajuwon’s biggest physiological advantages—his freakish agility, his elite lateral quickness, and his perfect balance. Most centers of the time looked more like bouncers than athletes, and defending this move demanded the exact kinds of quickness and agility those dudes did not have.

While Hakeem turned the post into a stage, the Dream Shake exposed a fatal flaw in old school centers: Size and strength were no longer enough; you needed speed and athleticism too. His footwork resembled choreography more than combat. Watch enough of it and you’d swear he had tape on the floor like a dance instructor, arrows pointing to where his feet would land next.

What makes it more remarkable is the era. He wasn’t hunting mismatches, posting up Spud Webb after a switch—he was racking up video game numbers against Shaq, Ewing, Robinson, Mutombo, and Mourning, the meanest collection of big bodies in league history. Olajuwon shredded them, not with brute force, but with finesse and technique. 

Defense Wins Championships
It’s easy to get seduced by the buckets and that legendary footwork, but Olajuwon’s real calling card was his defense. He’s the best shot blocker in recorded NBA history, and it’s not close. His 3,830 career rejections is far and away the most documented in league history. For context, only one active player has more than 2,000, and that’s Brook Lopez at 2,060. The record is more than safe.  

“Olajuwon was never loud. He didn’t chase celebrity, didn’t brand himself as larger than life. He let the defensive work do the talking.”

He’s also the only center in the top 20 in all-time steals recorded. He ranks 10th, surrounded by names like Pippen and Iverson, legendary thieves that patrolled the perimeter like free safeties. That’s insane, but it goes to show his combination of feel for the game and his speed remain untouchable in NBA history. Hakeem didn’t just protect the rim—he attacked passing lanes, anticipated dribbles, stripped guards. He was, in the language of today’s game, “switchable,” long before the term existed.

His teammate Kenny Smith said it best: “Hakeem wasn’t just dominant—he was surgical, graceful, one of the smartest players I’ve ever seen. In my eyes he’s the most complete big man in NBA history.” His offensive numbers speak for themselves. He could put up 30 against the best centers in the league on the NBA’s biggest stage. But the crazy thing is he was an even better defender.

Hakeem famously filled the NBA’s two-year Jordan hiatus with a remarkable pair of championships. The first one remains noteworthy because most every NBA championship roster includes more than one hall of famer. Jordan had Pippen and Rodman. Magic had Worthy and Kareem. Bird had McHale and Parish. Before Drexler arrived in 1995, Olajuwon was by no means alone, but there was no clear second fiddle in the band, which makes that 1994 title even more amazing. Meanwhile, the cultural backdrop was pure 1990s. The O. J. Simpson white Bronco chase literally interrupted the Finals broadcast. American media consumption was changing in real-time, flicking between chaos on the freeway and brilliance on the NBA hardwood.

But for many of us, the moment it became clear that Hakeem was more than just a dominant big man came in the spring of 1995, when he encountered the league’s freshly anointed MVP, David Robinson, in the Western Conference Finals. Robinson was bigger, younger, stronger, and—at least according to the voters—better. Then the games started.

What unfolded was a nightmare for the Admiral. Olajuwon didn’t just beat Robinson. He embarrassed him. For everyone else in the NBA in 1995, posting up Robinson was moronic—for Olajuwon it was light work. Dream Shakes. Up-and-unders. Drop steps. Half-hooks. Fades. By the time the Rockets won in six games, Olajuwon had converted 56 percent of his shots while putting up over 35 points per game. Now the MVP award felt like it had been given to the wrong man. 

“Every time Jokić runs an offense, or Giannis erases half the court, or Wembanyama does something that looks like it violates physics, you’re watching echoes of Hakeem.”

When the 1995 NBA playoffs ended, Olajuwon had left a trail of hall of famers in his wake. The Rockets took out Malone and Stockton in round one. Then they wiped the floor with Barkley’s Suns in round two, before beating the Spurs to win the Western Conference. In the Finals, Olajuwon took the best young big man on the planet to school—as Houston swept Orlando, the Dream owned the paint in a series against Shaquille O’Neal. Hakeem wasn’t Jordan, but those ’90s titles were just as important to the future of the game. Olajuwon’s legend didn’t end with his playing days. If anything, it expanded. 

The Dream Never Died
Hakeem became kind of the emeritus professor of the low post, running private postgraduate seminars in Houston. Kobe Bryant showed up, searching for new dimensions in his footwork. LeBron James came too, adding wrinkles to his already cosmic game. Dwight Howard, Yao Ming, even smaller players—all students in the Dream Academy. When James won his first title in 2012, he’d stopped shooting threes and started dominating from the left block. It was no coincidence.

Olajuwon was never loud. He didn’t chase celebrity, didn’t brand himself as larger than life. Like Tim Duncan a decade later, he let the work—especially the defensive work—do the talking. Hakeem has two titles, an MVP, two Finals MVPs, two Defensive Player of the Year trophies, and the respect of everyone who played against him. But maybe because he was quiet, his full significance took time to register. Now it’s obvious. Every time Jokić runs an offense, or Giannis erases half the court, or Wembanyama does something that looks like it violates physics, you’re watching echoes of Hakeem.

The dream was a premonition. A vision of what basketball would demand once size, skill, and speed finally merged. Olajuwon just happened to arrive 30 years early.