Lonzo Ball froze in confusion. Question: “What do you think about NBA dress code? – hung in the air for a second before he grinned sheepishly.
“Is there a dress code?” – he said, smiling.
Twenty years after the introduction of the rule that once roiled the league and ignited a culture war over image and identity, one current NBA player didn't even know it existed.
“Now the rags are flying around with the jerseys and the baggy things,” said Ball, the Cleveland Cavaliers point guard. “I didn't know we had a dress code. I just knew we had to wear something.”
Former NBA commissioner David Stern introduced a dress code that went into effect at the start of the 2005–06 season. The policy has been relaxed since Adam Silver succeeded Stern in 2014, but the initial implementation – like most changes – was met with controversy and resistance.
The code required all players to dress in business or conservative attire when arriving and leaving games, on the injury bench, and when conducting official NBA business.
Players were outraged by the announcement because the policy effectively banned oversized T-shirts, dusters, tank tops and other “hip-hop-inspired” clothing.
The league's move was seen by many as a critique of black culture – policing expression and a response to the NBA's discomfort with the hip-hop aesthetic that had become inseparable from basketball itself. The reaction was immediate, loud and deeply personal.
For many, it was also a direct attack on Philadelphia 76ers guard Allen Iverson, who became the poster child for what No wear. Iverson, one of the league's biggest stars at the time, was known for his tattoos, braids and baggy gear.
In a recent interview on Radio show and podcast The Breakfast Club, Iverson said his influence on other players helped spark the NBA's response. “David Stern and the rest of the NBA said, 'No,' because everything was fine when I was doing it,” Iverson recalled. “But then everyone else said, 'OK, if he can do it, we can do it.' You see Kobe coming in with diamond chains and baggy clothes and everyone started doing it. Then the league said, “Wait, we need to do something about this.”
Twenty years later, what was once seen as a culture war between league officials and players has become something much more complex. Instead of erasing individuality, the rule inadvertently helped create a fashion renaissance that transformed both the NBA and global style.
What began as a demand for “professionalism” has become tunnels filled with photographers, endorsement deals with high-fashion brands and players driving global trends in ways the league could never have imagined. Former NBA forward Ira Newble who remains racially consciousremembers the tension well.
“Everyone seemed upset and angry about the dress code,” says Newble, who was playing for the Cavaliers when the ban went into effect. “Nobody wanted to have a dress code. It was a big deal.”
Players were accustomed to traveling in sportswear, sweatshirts, or whatever was comfortable during long journeys. The style of that time – oversized clothing, long white T-shirts and baggy jeans – was closely associated with hip-hop culture.
“My style at the time reflected hip-hop culture,” Newble says. “I wore braids and wore baggy clothes. There was a feeling among the players that the NBA was trying to take away culture. Iverson influenced that culture. That's what the argument is about. It felt like they were trying to change and get rid of hip-hop culture.”
But Newble also understands how the moment unfolded. “Things have gone in a different direction, and hip-hop culture can still be incorporated into dress codes,” he says. “So it’s great to see how it’s evolved.”
Inside the league offices, the intentions were different, according to Kathy Behrens, the NBA's president of social responsibility and player programs.
“At the time, we felt it was important for our players to present themselves more professionally in league affairs,” Behrens says. “We didn't demand a costume culture, but we wanted to raise the level of the players' game.”
She says the league expected pushback, but stressed it was never the goal of purifying hip-hop expression.
“We knew what the goal was, and it had nothing to do with changing the fashion or culture of our players,” she says. “We spoke to many players about this change before implementing it.”
Behrens admits the NBA didn't expect what happened next.
“The reality is that our players have embraced the changes very quickly and have really taken the level much higher than we expected,” she says. “Getting fit before a game became commonplace. It soon became a competition to see who could dress the best. How you dress became a cultural touchpoint.”
Two decades later, the league still has a dress policy, although it has changed with changing definitions of “professional attire” and is not as strict as it used to be, allowing players to be more creative with their fashion choices. But the legacy remains.
“When the people who are most impacted by it embrace it the way our players do, you have to feel like it worked as intended,” Behrens says.
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When the rule went into effect, Jameer Nelson was in his second NBA season with the Orlando Magic. Nelson, now the 76ers' assistant general manager, can appreciate how much the policy has united the league.
“So it didn’t affect me at all,” Nelson says. “But it was great to see the brotherhood, the basketball brotherhood, moving in the same direction, whether we like it or not.”
Nelson laughs at how players have completely flipped the narrative.
“Now you can see personalities come through through fashion,” he says. “I have my own style, more old school, more casual. Someone told me yesterday that I dress hip-hop for the front office.”
He says players today simply have more tools to showcase their creativity.
“These brands, thanks to social media, are taking advantage of this,” Nelson says. “If social media had been as popular in 2005, we probably would have done the same thing. Dressing is an art. It's how you express yourself without even saying a word.”
Few players symbolize this shift more than the current era, where tunnel entrances resemble fashion runways and some players are followed by photographers and videographers from the garage to the locker room.
Take, for example, Cavaliers star Darius Garland, considered one of the team's members. the most fashionable players. He is surprised at how far things have gone.
“The league put a dress code in place 20 years ago, which is crazy,” Garland says. “Now we can wear our own things. We can express ourselves.”
For Garland, fashion and business are inextricably linked.
“A lot of guys have different ways of making money from clothing,” he says. “Guys have Lululemon deals, Armani deals. It's crazy right now. Because it's not a dress code anymore, it gives us money to put in our pockets and allows us to express ourselves.”
“If only the league had adopted a looser dress policy sooner,” Garland says.
“Hip-hop culture influences basketball, and basketball influences hip-hop culture,” he says. “Everybody wants to see what athletes are wearing so they can wear it. We're making an impact.”
What began as a controversial, racially charged flashpoint has grown into a cultural engine, supported by the league, celebrated by the players and followed by millions around the world.
The NBA has attempted to define professionalism. Instead, players redefined it. The dress code did not suppress the culture. It strengthened him.
Over the years, the runway to the dressing room, which was once a battleground, has now become one of the most influential platforms in global fashion.
“You can trace your loot back to [Iverson]”,” says Ball. “Tattoos, braids, baggy things. We've come a long way from [the NBA] punishing him for expressing himself. Now [hip-hop fashion] is again at an all-time high. We need to give Allen Iverson a lot of respect.”
