Zach Kleiman (left) Tuomas Iisalo (right)
Mishandling Morant: A Billion-Dollar Mistake, How the Memphis Grizzlies Botched Ja Morant’s Free Speech
By The Shelby County Observer Editorial Board | November 1, 2025
MEMPHIS, TN— A few weeks ago, in Miami, when Mike McDaniels’s star quarterback publicly questioned his leadership, the club didn’t suspend him. They walked into the locker room, leaned in like grown men, and said: “Let’s talk.” No headlines about front-office panic or one-game bartering of disciplinary virtue. That’s the adult way.
Contrast that with what unfolded in Memphis this week.
Ja Morant—one of the most electrifying talents in the league, on a near-$200 million contract, still defined by athleticism, daring, and possibility—was slapped with a one-game suspension by the Memphis Grizzlies for what can only be described as the mildest of public remarks. After a poor performance (8 points, 3-for-14 shooting) and a defeat to the Los Angeles Lakers, Morant told reporters repeatedly: “Go ask the coaching staff.” When pressed further: “According to them, probably don’t play me, honestly. That’s basically what the message was after. It’s cool.”
Let’s parse what just happened: A star player said nothing inflammatory. He said nothing profane. He didn’t disparage the league nor the front office. He recommended journalists ask the coaches for answers. And the franchise responded with a fine and disappearance from one game—costing Morant roughly $272,000 in lost salary.
If this were about discipline, that might make sense. But it is not. It is about control. It is about a front office stepping in—reportedly at the behest of a new coach who, according to insiders, took offense and went to management.
The front office misstep
The Grizzlies’ decision-makers—headed by Zach Kleiman—had a golden opportunity to maximise the value of their franchise: keep Morant engaged, build around his persona, flatter and support him, and capitalise on what he brings to Memphis. Instead, they promoted from within (Tuomas Iisalo) without a broader search, signalling perhaps insufficient ambition.
Now they undercut Morant’s voice—his most basic right to speak publicly—and risk alienating him. A frustrated, alienated star is not merely a performance risk—he’s a commercial risk, a cultural risk, and a brand risk. The franchise’s value could plummet if this tension festers.
The Coaching Search That Wasn’t
If the suspension of Ja Morant reveals a franchise tone-deaf to its star, the hiring of its head coach reveals a front office tone-deaf to its own possibilities. The Memphis Grizzlies’ so-called “coaching search” this past spring was not a search at all—it was a coronation. General Manager Zach Kleiman promoted Tuomas Iisalo, a European import with precisely zero NBA head-coaching experience, without interviewing a single external candidate. Not one.
That choice might have been noble had it been visionary—had Iisalo represented some daring new basketball gospel. But it wasn’t. It was convenient. And convenience, in sports, is the twin brother of complacency.
Meanwhile, three proven minds—Mike Malone, Terry Stotts, and Mike Brown—were all free and eminently available. Malone, fresh off a championship run with Denver, had the credentials to mold Morant’s energy into disciplined greatness. Stotts, the offensive craftsman who turned undersized guards in Portland into perennial contenders, could have elevated Morant and Desmond Bane ( since traded) into the league’s most feared backcourt. And Brown, the architect of Sacramento’s revival and a former Coach of the Year, could have installed a culture of mutual respect and maturity—precisely what Memphis lacks now.
Instead, the Grizzlies chose continuity over courage. They limited their gaze to what was familiar, mistaking proximity for promise. But limiting your search for talent is like a composer refusing to hear new instruments—content to replay old notes while the symphony of progress thunders outside the window.
By refusing to even audition greatness, Memphis didn’t just narrow its options—it narrowed its future. It boxed itself into a leadership experiment that is now cracking under the weight of ego, misunderstanding, and a lack of emotional intelligence. The Morant episode isn’t an isolated flare-up; it’s the predictable consequence of a franchise that stopped looking outward—and in doing so, stopped growing upward.
In Dallas, the Dallas Mavericks fans chant “Fire Nico!” at Nico Harrison, the general manager. Pretty soon, we may hear the Memphis Grizzlies fans shout “Fire Kleiman!”.
The missed opportunity with Morant
Morant has been through far more volatile episodes than this mild locker-room comment. Past suspensions tied to far graver conduct exist. Yet here, for a temperate remark, he’s penalized. That sends a chilling message: even a mild public expression can trigger punishment. The franchise could have handled this discreetly—like McDaniels’ situation—by letting the coach have a private conversation with Morant and keeping the optics clean. Instead, they made it public. They placed a tax on his speech.
The First Amendment wrinkle
Does a private-entity franchise suspending its player implicate the First Amendment? Legally, probably not in the same way as government action. But culturally and symbolically? Absolutely. The Grizzlies have turned the tables: the man who gave them so much—physically, emotionally, financially—is told: You may speak, but not too publicly. The irony is stark.
No mainstream professional sports franchise has penalised a star for comments this mild—especially not for simply saying “ask the coach.” This is precedent-setting in its own way, and raises questions about freedom of expression in sports organizations.
The coach isn’t the villain (but the culture is)
Interestingly, the coach was shielded. Iisalo did not face scrutiny in the public discipline. Instead, the message was clearly aimed at Morant. That dynamic is telling. It suggests a culture where the player must bow, rather than the coach engage. If the coach “feels offended,” he goes to the boss and triggers the hammer. That culture will not serve a talent like Morant, who needs a coach that wraps his arms around him, not pushes him toward more isolation.
The franchise’s risk and the billion-dollar mistake
If Morant chooses—quietly or otherwise—to take his talents elsewhere, the price paid by the Grizzlies will be immense. Think not just in terms of lost wins or missed playoff runs—it could affect jersey sales, losing billions in franchise valuation, local business partnerships, and fan trust. A player of his caliber is existential. In short: mishandling Morant now could render this one-game micro-event into a macro-economic collapse for the franchise.
What should a strategic representation look like?
If you were representing Morant (and you clearly should), the message ought to be: “He’s worth understanding—he’s not worth punishing.” Use this moment to highlight Morant’s value not just as a player but as a voice. Emphasise how he’s been through it: injuries, suspensions, pressure. Show how he deserves a coach who hears him. A front office that values him. He doesn’t need more discipline—he needs more decency. That is the narrative the Grizzlies should have embraced—and could still salvage.
In sum: The Memphis Grizzlies staff and front office appear to have bungled both talent management and public relations. A mild public comment by Ja Morant triggered a disproportionate response. Somewhere in Memphis, the chance to build a lasting culture around a transcendent player is slipping away. And if the franchise doesn’t pivot—fast—it may regret losing more than games: it may lose its crown jewel.
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