As Leo Rosten famously illustrated in The Joys of Yiddish, chutzpah is the case of a man who kills his parents and then throws himself on the mercy of the court because he is an orphan. A brazen audacity. A staggering nerve. Not merely boldness, but audacity without shame.
Enter Shelton Jackson Lee.
On the night the NBA celebrated excellence at the 2026 All-Star Game in Los Angeles, as Deni Avdija made history as the first-ever Israeli selected as an NBA All-Star, Lee arrived in an outfit emblazoned with Palestinian flag imagery and the black-and-white keffiyeh pattern. It’s a symbol long associated with the terrorist group Hamas and, in recent months, embraced at rallies worldwide.
Inverted red triangles were visible on the strap of his bag. Make no mistake: The inverted red triangle, used by Hamas to mark Israeli targets before attacks, has become a symbol of violence against Israelis. In that context, the message received is unmistakable. In the wake of Oct. 7, such imagery is steeped in violence.
Avdija, who has repeatedly said, “I’m an athlete. I don’t really get into politics,” donned an Israeli flag on the back of his jersey, as other international players wore symbols of their home countries—a quiet nod to the nation that raised him and to the fans who propelled him to more than 2.2 million All-Star votes.
For many Israelis and Jews around the world, his selection was a rare moment of pride amid grief, war and an unprecedented surge in antisemitism.
And then there was Shelton Jackson Lee, better known as Spike Lee.
The multi-Academy Award winner and perennial New York Knicks courtside fixture did not issue a manifesto. He did not deliver a speech. He didn’t need to. Clothing, especially at a global sporting event, is speech. It is deliberate. It is designed to be seen.
Lee initially refused to comment in the immediate aftermath of the All-Star Game, waiting three days before posting on Instagram, presumably feeling the heat from critics who had called out his choice.
In it, he said his outfit reflected “concern for the Palestinian children and civilians” and his “utmost belief in human dignity for all humankind,” adding that no offense was intended toward the Jewish people and that he had not realized Avdija was Israeli.
“NOW I DO KNOW. LIVE AND LEARN. ONWARD AND UPWARD. PEACE AND LOVE. YA-DIG? SHO-NUFF,” he wrote.
By then, however, the moment had already landed, and the claim that he was unaware that Avdija was on the floor strains credulity.
Clarification does not erase impact. The image of Lee—courtside in pro-Hamas garb and visible to millions—had already transformed a historic athletic milestone into a stage for political messaging. Given the publicly available roster, the global attention given to the event and Lee’s well-documented obsession with NBA basketball, his explanation defies belief.
He was not alone.
Kyrie Irving appeared wearing an outfit emblazoned with the word “PRESS,” signaling solidarity with journalists in Gaza. Whatever one’s political position, the effect was the same: geopolitics displaced the game itself.
Irving is no stranger to controversy. In 2022, he was suspended by the National Basketball Association after promoting a film that was widely condemned as antisemitic and initially refusing to clearly disavow its claims. That episode underscored a simple truth: Celebrity platforms amplify messages—and carry consequences.
If chutzpah is turning someone else’s triumph into your own political stage, the All-Star sideline delivered it—twice.
The question is not whether one may advocate for Palestinians. In America, of course, one may. The question is timing, context and intent. When a historic achievement for an Israeli athlete becomes the backdrop for conspicuous political theater aligned—however one frames it—with movements that many Jews experience as hostile to their legitimacy and safety, that is not coincidence. It is provocation.
Even more striking was the contrast offered by Alperen Şengün, the Turkish-born All-Star, who chose a different tone entirely. “Hopefully, basketball is the thing [that] brings everyone love, and stay together,” he said. In a moment ripe for division, he reached for unity.
Avdija, 25, asked a simple question in a recent interview: “Why can’t I just be a good basketball player?”
It is a question worth repeating.
Chutzpah is not holding a political opinion. It is hijacking someone else’s hard-earned moment to showcase it.
The All-Star Game belonged to the athletes who earned their place on that floor—to the discipline, sacrifice and excellence that brought them there. Lee and Irving did not earn that stage. Yet from the comfort of courtside seats, they appropriated it, converting a celebration of excellence into a platform for themselves.
In Rosten’s telling, chutzpah is the moral inversion of the offender cast as the victim.
On All-Star night, the inversion was different but familiar: a historic achievement recast as spectacle, a celebration redirected toward protest, a triumph overshadowed by ego.
That is not principled dissent. It is not courage. It is chutzpah—and no amount of spin redeems it.
