When context matters more than comparisons
Victor Wembanyama shut down any notion of a rivalry with Chet Holmgren, making it clear that comparing them ignores the fundamental difference in their situations. Holmgren is already an NBA champion playing for a 68-14 Thunder team built around Shai Gilgeous-Alexander's offensive brilliance and a collective system that maximizes role players. Wembanyama is the franchise centerpiece in San Antonio, the player everything revolves around defensively and offensively, carrying responsibilities Holmgren has never faced. "At least from a basketball standpoint, there’s no comparison," Wembanyama said—loosely translated as "on the court, there's no comparison." That's not arrogance. That's reality.
The NBA loves selling these matchups as epic duels between similar players—two giant, mobile centers who protect the rim and shoot from distance. But Wemby rejects that framing entirely because it ignores what actually matters: the roles they play and the burdens they carry. Holmgren thrives in a structure that doesn't require him to be the primary option. He defends, spaces the floor, finishes lobs, and contributes within a perfectly calibrated system. Wembanyama has to be the system. The Spurs' defense is built around his presence, their offense adapts to his positioning, and the franchise's timeline moves at his pace. Those aren't comparable situations, and pretending they are just to create a narrative is lazy analysis.
What Holmgren has that Wembanyama doesn't
Chet Holmgren is an NBA champion. That's not nothing. Oklahoma City dominated the 2024-25 season, going 68-14 and winning the title with Holmgren playing a crucial role as a versatile big who could switch defensively, stretch the floor offensively, and protect the rim without needing plays called for him. He fits perfectly into Mark Daigneault's system, complementing Gilgeous-Alexander's scoring, Jalen Williams' playmaking, and the Thunder's suffocating team defense. Holmgren doesn't need to carry the offensive load or single-handedly anchor the defense because OKC has multiple elite players and a structure that spreads responsibilities evenly.
That's the ideal situation for a player like Holmgren—a championship-caliber supporting cast that lets him maximize his strengths without exposing his limitations. He doesn't have to create his own shot consistently. He doesn't have to be the primary rim protector while also being the offensive hub. He gets to be excellent in a defined role, which is valuable, but it's not the same as being the guy everything runs through. Wembanyama pointing this out isn't diminishing Holmgren's contributions—it's acknowledging that winning a championship as the third or fourth option is fundamentally different from trying to build a contender as the franchise cornerstone.
What Wembanyama carries that Holmgren doesn't
Wembanyama is the project. San Antonio's defense is built around his rim protection and ability to switch onto perimeter players. Their offense adjusts to his positioning, whether he's posting up, popping for threes, or facilitating from the elbow. The franchise's success or failure depends entirely on his development and availability. That's a completely different level of responsibility than what Holmgren faces in Oklahoma City, and it's why Wemby's response to the rivalry question makes perfect sense—he's doing a job Holmgren has never had to do.
When Wembanyama struggles, the Spurs lose because they don't have enough other offensive firepower to compensate. When he's dominant, they win because his two-way impact is so overwhelming that it covers for roster deficiencies. That's what being a franchise player means: your performance directly determines outcomes in a way that role players—even excellent ones like Holmgren—never experience. The Spurs advance at Wembanyama's pace, which is both empowering and exhausting. Holmgren benefits from OKC's infrastructure, which is both supportive and limiting. These aren't comparable situations, and recognizing that distinction is essential to understanding why Wemby dismisses the rivalry framing.
The unanswered question about Holmgren
Wembanyama's comments implicitly raise a fascinating question: what would Chet Holmgren look like if he had to be the number one option? If he were dropped onto a rebuilding team without Gilgeous-Alexander, without Jalen Williams, without Oklahoma City's elite coaching and defensive infrastructure—could he carry an offense? Could he shoulder the responsibility of being the guy defenses game-plan around every night? We don't know, because he's never had to do it. And until he does, comparing him to Wembanyama is comparing a championship role player to a franchise-defining superstar.
That's not a knock on Holmgren. It's recognition that different situations reveal different things about players. Holmgren has proven he can excel in a perfect environment with clearly defined responsibilities and elite teammates. Wembanyama is proving he can be the foundation of a franchise, the player everything gets built around, the guy who determines whether a team competes or collapses. Those are different skill sets, different pressures, and different legacies. Holmgren might be capable of carrying a franchise too—but until he actually does it, the comparison remains incomplete.
Why the NBA pushes this rivalry anyway
The league loves these narratives because they're marketable. Two generational big men drafted in consecutive years, both playing unconventional styles for their size, both redefining what modern centers can do. That's perfect for promotion, highlight packages, and social media debates. But narratives don't have to reflect reality to be useful for the NBA's purposes. Creating storylines around individual matchups drives viewership, generates discussion, and gives fans something to argue about beyond just wins and losses.
But Wembanyama refusing to play along with the rivalry framing is refreshing because it prioritizes truth over marketing. He's not interested in pretending this is an apples-to-apples comparison when it clearly isn't. He respects Holmgren's game—there's no personal animosity—but he's not going to validate a narrative that ignores context just because it's convenient for media coverage. That honesty is rare in professional sports, where players are usually trained to give diplomatic non-answers that avoid creating controversy. Wemby saying "there's no comparison on the court" is bold, but it's also accurate if you actually analyze what each player is being asked to do.
What this means for their actual rivalry
Despite Wembanyama's dismissal of the comparison, these two will be linked throughout their careers because they represent the evolution of the center position. They're both proof that traditional big men are obsolete, replaced by mobile, skilled players who can shoot, pass, and defend multiple positions. Their head-to-head matchups will always draw attention, especially now that the Spurs have beaten the Thunder twice in ten days. But the "rivalry" isn't really between Wemby and Holmgren individually—it's between their teams and their respective paths to championship contention.
Oklahoma City is already there. They won a title with Holmgren as a key contributor, and they're built to compete for years. San Antonio is still building around Wembanyama, hoping his development eventually leads them to contention. That gap matters. Holmgren can point to his championship ring and say he's already accomplished what Wembanyama is still chasing. Wemby can point to his individual responsibilities and say he's doing things Holmgren has never been asked to do. Both are correct, which is why the comparison will remain incomplete until circumstances change—either Holmgren has to carry a franchise, or Wembanyama has to win a championship. Until then, it's not really a rivalry. It's two great players in fundamentally different situations being forced into a narrative that doesn't quite fit.