From Nikola Jokic to Mikaela Shiffrin to Christian McCaffrey, these Colorado athletes have ushered in an unprecedented era of greatness.
Like literally, gaslighting, and synergy, we acknowledge that the term GOAT has become so overused in our vernacular, it’s nearly meaningless. (Please, before you speak, think to yourself: Is your co-worker truly the greatest co-worker of all time because they managed to file the report it’s their job to create by the deadline?)
Still, as we watched Nuggets center Nikola Jokić endure yet another MVP snub—the man averaged a triple-double, becoming the first player to finish in the top three for scoring, rebounding, and assists in a single season—it got us thinking about all the athletes with Colorado ties who are literally GOATs (or well on their way to deserving the designation) in their respective sports. Here, we make our case for nine of them and honor four legends of eras past.
1. Nikola Jokić
It’s Gotta Be the Shoes
Could a day in Nikola Jokić’s Joker 1s transform a 48-year-old writer into a GOAT? I decided to find out.
Robert Sanchez
Thirty-five years ago, my best friend showed up at my house wearing the Holy Grail of basketball sneakers: Nike Air Jordan 5s. The shoes were an athletic and aesthetic marvel—their reflective tongues glowing in the late-afternoon sun. They obviously possessed a mystical power, at least to a middle schooler immersed in the “Be Like Mike” era. My friend wanted to hoop in the driveway. With his new Jordans, he promised to kick my ass.
That he’d never played organized basketball didn’t matter. My friend blew past me for a layup. He sunk a dagger from 30 feet. My only defense was a physical threat: For every shot attempt, I’d step on his Jordans.
I recalled that moment earlier this year when the Chinese brand 361 Degrees debuted Nikola Jokić’s first signature shoe, the Joker 1. The high-top was chunky, yet sleek—like the Serbian himself. It advertised something called Qu!kCQTECH that promised “more energy for jumping higher.” The undersole was resplendent in “Serbian ethnic patterns.” I was intrigued. For $130, perhaps I—like my friend all those years ago—could experience my own Greatest Of All Time moment.
My sneakers arrived a couple of weeks later. They were powder blue and white, with golden accents near the heel—and a size smaller than the ones I ordered. I gave a Joker-like shoulder shrug and decided this was my first lesson in greatness: A GOAT always adapts to adversity.
Still, jumping on the court right away seemed too ambitious. If I wanted to become Jokić, to find out what it takes to rise from second-round pick to three-time NBA MVP, I needed to understand the Denver Nuggets’ big man.
I stuffed my feet into my high-tops and drove to Virginia Village’s European Gusto Market & Café, where I ate ćevapi (a dish of flatbread and minced-meat finger sausages) while Serbian pop music played overhead. An elderly man smoked a Marlboro near the open door. I left 20 minutes later with a feeling of national pride (and a hint of indigestion).
My next stop was Christy Angerhofer’s Northeast Park Hill backyard. Angerhofer runs Denver Love Goats, an organization that uses goat therapy to support mental well-being. What better place to understand the GOAT mentality? Angerhofer introduced me to Marigold, her show goat. This GOAT goat’s deadeye stare evoked LeBron James’ during the Nuggets’ 2023 title run and reminded me that every GOAT needs a nemesis. “You’re going down,” I told Marigold.
Obviously, I was too keyed up. A GOAT must convey calm, and I needed something to relax me.
Jokić loves harness racing (a sport in which a horse pulls a driver in a two-wheeled cart) and owns a stable in Serbia. The closest thing I could find for live harness racing was at Havana Park, an off-track betting site in Aurora. I dropped $10 on Polly My Dolly to win the eighth race at Saratoga. She didn’t. Watching desperate men scream at grainy, closed-circuit televisions, I felt a sudden kinship with Jokić as he faced down a hostile road crowd.
Finally, I was ready.
I went to my town’s recreation center that night, where teenagers were playing four-on-four inside the gym. Hoping to get an invitation to their game, I grabbed a loose basketball and started firing at an adjacent hoop: air ball.
Then it happened. My first make was a jumper from the free-throw line. I nailed another from the elbow. I took a three-pointer from the baseline—good! I hit a lefty hook. My final shot was a half-court heave that bounced off the rim. I must have made an impression, because the high schoolers were staring at me.
One of them approached. I played it cool, wiping imaginary dust from the soles of my Joker 1s. I heard the teen’s voice from a few feet away, looked at him, and smiled.
“Hey,” he said, “can we have our ball back?” —Robert Sanchez
Read More: Unraveling Our Reluctant MVP