How much do you know about Labubus? Up until Sunday, I hadn’t heard of them either. Some kind of collectible plush creature, the kind that lives in the same strange cultural corner as Beanie Babies or Funko
Pops. One of those modern obsessions that makes you question where nostalgia ends and consumer hypnosis begins.
But it was during a conversation about Labubus, of all things, that something meaningful happened for the Phoenix Suns. A flicker of life. A reminder that “vibes,” as intangible and overused as that word has become, might finally be finding their way back to this team.
You can’t define vibes, but you know when they’re missing. For two seasons, they’ve been gone, buried under transactional basketball and the kind of tension that turns joy into obligation. When players clock in like accountants instead of artists, the game loses its heartbeat.
Then came Sunday in China. After the Suns dropped their final preseason game in China to the Brooklyn Nets, Devin Booker and Dillon Brooks sat side by side at the postgame podium. Same setup we’ve seen before. Booker next to Chris Paul, Booker next to Kevin Durant. But this one felt different.
With Paul, you could sense mutual respect, even admiration. The young star absorbing wisdom from the veteran sage. Their exchanges had texture. They were two minds speaking the same basketball language. When it was Durant beside him, the dynamic shifted. It was corporate, efficient, clinical. “Let’s answer the questions and move on.” You could feel it on the court, too. Two assassins sharing the same mission, but not the same spirit.
On Sunday, it was Dillon Brooks. The NBA’s chaos merchant. The guy who thrives on noise. When a reporter lobbed an unexpected question their way — something light, something human — both players cracked. The moment didn’t belong to the game, or the stats, or the brand. It belonged to the people behind the jerseys.
“I notice that you carry a Labubu,” the reporter began the question, referring to the plush toy. Brooks began to smile as the question unfolded. Booker did as well. Through broken English, she continued, “Did you get a chance to a store? To storage those Labubu’s because it’s still very trending?”
“Yeah,” Brooks responded, as laughter spread throughout the press room. “I like the Labubu’s. I got like four of them. I like the trend. It’s cool and…um…it’s cute.”
Booker couldn’t contain himself. The mask slipped, the stoic veneer cracked, and laughter poured out of him. It was genuine, unfiltered, the kind that makes you forget there’s a room full of cameras. It was the rarest kind of moment for him. The silent assassin broke character, the killer smiled mid-hunt. Brooks laughed right along with him, like two conspirators caught in the act.
The reporter continued.
“Devin, I know you’re a very trending guy. You probably heard of Labubu, so how do you make comments on Dillon’s Labubu taste?”
Brooks responded, noting that, “I’m gonna get him one for his birthday.” Booker will be 29 on October 30.
The laughter continued as Booker responded to the question. “I think they’re cute.” He turned to his teammate and they jovially laughed.
For a few seconds, there were no headlines, no expectations, no brand management. Just two hoopers sharing a laugh halfway across the world. And maybe that’s where it starts again. Not with a scheme or a stat, but with a spark. A reminder that even in a game obsessed with control, the best moments are the ones that slip through it.
The Suns might’ve lost the game. But for the first time in a while, it felt like they found something they’ve been missing. The kind of connection that doesn’t show up on a box score but can change everything that follows.
Will that press conference translate to wins? No. But it does offer something far rarer, a glimpse behind the curtain, and a reminder that basketball, at its core, is supposed to be fun. Yes, the NBA is a business. Contracts expire. Trades happen. Players become assets. But strip all that away, and what’s left is still human. The connection, the laughter, the shared sense of purpose that can’t be quantified but always shows up in how a team plays.
The Suns have been missing that. Desperately. You can trace the blame wherever you’d like, whether it be chemistry, leadership, or timing. But the past is written. What matters now is what’s being rewritten.
Seeing Booker and Brooks laugh over something as small and ridiculous as a toy might seem meaningless. Maybe it is. Maybe it’ll vanish as soon as the first losing streak rolls through. But for a fleeting moment, it felt like a pulse, like the beginning of something that’s been missing. A spark of joy. A sign that while this team may not have turned the corner talent-wise, they might be inching their way toward something even more valuable. Culture.
