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At just 23, Scottie Barnes is shouldering the weight of an impatient, basketball-mad city, a hit-and-miss team and his own colossal ambitions

The Chosen One

At just 23, Scottie Barnes is shouldering the weight of an impatient, basketball-mad city, a hit-and-miss team, and his own colossal ambitions. What it’s like to be the face of the franchise—and its best chance of salvation

By Alex Wong | Portraits by Luis Mora
| January 22, 2025
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To observe Scottie Barnes on the NBA court, his six-foot-eight frame illuminated by the bright lights of Scotiabank Arena, is to behold a marvel of creation. Spectators grow wide-eyed, awed by his albatross wingspan (seven feet, two inches) and gravity-defying springiness. Wait, how does someone so big move like that? As the crowd follows him back and forth on the court, heads swivelling like it’s Wimbledon, you can almost see it, slung across his athletic form: the hopes and dreams of one vast basketball-mad nation. When he dunks, the crowd oohs. When he steps to defend a teammate from an overly aggressive opponent, his face flashes mean, and the crowd ahhs. In this setting, under these lights, Scottie Barnes is both a man and the man.

Yet to see him in his living room, hoodie on, controller in hand and eyes locked on his screen, is to witness something else: a boy. Barnes was born in 2001, placing him squarely in digital-first Gen Z. While he is the recent recipient of a $225-­million (US) contract, making him the highest-paid Toronto Raptor in history, his most prized possession seems to be his PlayStation. “Wherever I go, I just need two things,” he tells me. “My PlayStation and good Wi-Fi.”

His favourite game—raise your hand if you’re surprised—is NBA2K, which he plays constantly, battling against a small rotating cast of childhood friends while broadcasting the action on the livestreaming platform Twitch to whoever around the world cares to tune in. Sometimes, Barnes likes to slip on a headset and narrate the action. When I watched his stream, he was relaxed, humming Drake tunes and poking fun at his opponent, who was losing badly. Sometimes, a newcomer enters the circle, and Barnes will engage directly. He was delighted to find out one recent opponent was from Brampton. “Get this little waste yute out of here,” he joked, demonstrating the GTA slang he’d picked up since joining the Raptors in 2021. “I’m in your ends, fam.”

Scottie Barnes streaming on Twitch
Barnes has nearly 50,000 followers on twitch

When Barnes was drafted, he didn’t know much about Toronto or Canada, but the fan base embraced him immediately. “I had about 200,000 followers on Instagram,” he says. “The day after I got drafted, I was at like 500,000. It was crazy. I was like, What the hell?” (Today, he has more than 720,000.) Soon, random Torontonians were DMing him with advice to help him navigate the city. Someone sent him a three-page document of recommendations for ice cream shops, restaurants, parks. It’s a cliché for a reason: “People here are so nice, man,” he says. “They show a lot of love.” But, for all the attention and adoration that comes with it, the life of an NBA athlete can be brutally lonely. Barnes was appreciative of the instant generosity, which he reciprocates via his Twitch stream. He logged on after the official announcement of his five-year contract extension this past summer, and it’s where he confirmed the rumours that he and his partner, Alyssa Rae Holmes, were expecting a baby.

What Barnes is less likely to admit is the restorative role gaming plays in alleviating the stress of being a Raptor. Or, rather, the Raptor. As the adage goes, in the high-stakes, big-money business of professional sports, you’re selling one of two things: wins or hope. For that breathtaking stretch from 2013 to 2019, MLSE sold the hell out of the former. After that, the team entered a fallow, dispiriting period in which it vacillated between poles, succeeding at selling neither. And then, as if from on high, Barnes arrived and won the NBA Rookie of the Year award. Now, with the big names from the Raptors’ championship era swapped for parts, the franchise finds itself in a moment where—by design or by accident, no one can really agree—its best hope is the boy chuckling into his headset.

 

Located in the southeastern part of Florida and home to more than one and a half million people, the county of Palm Beach has a yawning wealth gap. If you drive along South Ocean Boulevard, better known as Billionaire’s Row, you can see sprawling eight-figure properties backing onto private beaches, owned by A-List celebrities and private-equity moguls. Tourism is a big driver of Palm Beach’s economy, and many visitors flock here to spend time at private yacht clubs and world-renowned golf courses.

The story of Scottie Barnes begins in the other Palm Beach. If you drive 30 minutes north on I-95, you’ll reach a small city called Riviera Beach, where Barnes grew up. The crime rate is high, and it has a reputation as a drug haven. A kid could easily end up in the wrong crowd. “I was in the trenches,” he says. “You had to be tough and fend for yourself.” Barnes was one of four kids in a tight-knit family, raised by their single mom, Kathalyn. “Even when things were rough,” Barnes says, “she made sure we never saw that on her face.” At a young age, he became determined to find a way to make life easier for her.

After school, Barnes would go to the local Salvation Army gym and play pick-up against guys in his neighbourhood who were twice his size and three times his age. It was where he met John Simpson, a youth basketball coach for the Amateur Athletic Union. Simpson grew up in Queens, hooping against local legends. In Florida, he worked for a multinational food company, and he’d gathered a group of players, including one of his sons, Daniel, and turned them into the top-ranked team in the state. When the players were in Grade 10, a big project came up at work, and Simpson had to quit coaching. A year later, he checked in on the kids—only to find out that several had flunked out of school and one had been killed in an altercation between gangs. “I blamed myself for all of that,” Simpson says. “I didn’t realize the impact I’d had on those children.”

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He returned to coaching just as Barnes was finishing Grade 4. Simpson saw a talented kid in desperate need of self-discipline and guidance, so he invited Barnes to join his AAU team, the Wellington Wolves. The plan was simple: train Barnes as a basketball player in order to teach him the value of hard work. “My focus was on making them better people,” Simpson explains, “and preparing them for the tough battles they’d have to face as adults.”

Scottie Barnes with his long-time mentor John Simpson
Teenage Barnes towered above adult men, including his coach, John Simpson

That summer, Simpson wanted to drive home the importance of fundamentals on the court. The Simpson family lived in a gated community in Wellington, an affluent village in Palm Beach County known for its equestrian and polo events. With access to indoor courts in the area, Simpson worked with Barnes on his dribbling and ball-handling. Between workouts, he would take Barnes, his son Jason and other members of the Wolves to the movies, for a swim at the local pool or to grab dinner. As the summer wore on, Barnes started to spend more time at the Simpson home, where he and Jason played basketball and video games together. Around the house, Barnes was polite and involved, helping with chores and offering to take out the garbage.

Jason and Barnes referred to each other as brothers, and Simpson began to think of Barnes as part of the family. The memory of what had happened to the kids on his previous AAU team was still fresh in Simpson’s mind, so he met with Kathalyn to chat. By the start of fifth grade, Barnes had moved in with the Simpsons, where he had stable access to training. He and Jason became inseparable. Barnes pushed Jason to be a more aggressive player on the court, and Jason inspired him to focus on his schoolwork.

Jason Simpson was one of Scottie’s earliest friends
Jason Simpson was one of Barnes’s earliest video game pals

Meanwhile, the Wellington Wolves started to travel around the country, from Virginia to North Carolina to Georgia to Texas. On the court, Barnes was energetic and selfless, almost to a fault. As a pre-teen, he was already five foot nine. Where most kids would take advantage of their extra height, Barnes would regularly pass up opportunities to score, dishing to open teammates instead. He could certainly fend for himself, though. By the end of seventh grade, he was manhandling the most intimidating players on the opposing teams.

Ahead of his senior year of high school, Barnes was accepted to Montverde Academy—the prep school to attend if you’re looking to make the NBA. Montverde competes against the best teams in the country, and the program has produced 11 first-round NBA picks in the past decade. Alumni include Pistons guard Cade Cunningham and Raptors forward RJ Barrett. Even in that competitive environment, Barnes stood out. But Montverde was a three-hour drive from Palm Beach, and Barnes, who had never lived anywhere else, was instantly homesick. He was accustomed to a certain degree of independence—getting himself to basketball practice, catching a pick-up game, grabbing meals with his friends. At Montverde, curfew was strictly enforced, and he needed the dean’s permission to leave campus. “I was counting my days until the summer,” Barnes recalls.

He was much more at home on the court, where he and Cunningham led Montverde to a 25–0 record for the season. Barnes was named a first-team All-American, making him one of the most talked-about high school players in the country. By the time he was wrapping up at Montverde, he had fielded college scholarship offers from Kansas, Duke, Oregon and a few others, but he committed to Florida State. Barnes had made a dizzying ascent—to climb from Riviera Beach to the very brink of the NBA was no small accomplishment. But, just as he was about to reach the pinnacle, Covid struck.

 

The best place to get a glimpse of the raw talent teenage Scottie Barnes possessed is on his Twitch streams, where he’ll occasionally narrate old highlight clips from YouTube. Recently, he pulled up a montage of himself in eighth grade. “This was that grind for real,” he said. “This was out-in-the-trenches Scottie. This was mud. Nothing. Nobody. This was my first mixtape that I ever had.” He kept up a running commentary, cheering as on-screen Scottie executed a seamless layup over multiple defenders and poking fun at himself for wearing a heavy cotton sweatshirt under his jersey. (“This wasn’t no Nike long-sleeve,” he told the stream.)

At one point, young Scottie threw a perfect no-look pass to a teammate, who then scored. But, instead of a whoop, present-day Barnes let out a self-conscious laugh. “Why did I jump at the free-throw line and make a no-look pass?” he said. “I ain’t gonna lie: there was no reason. I think it’s low-key just a habit. I probably thought that shit was cold.” Young Scottie tended to add a little drama to his plays. Whenever he was undefended, running toward an easy two-point basket, he’d drag his feet to let his opponents catch up, giving them a flicker of hope that they could disrupt the play. But, as soon as they got close, he’d dunk.

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A teenage Scottie Barnes
As a teen, Barnes’s favourite NBA player was Kevin Durant, whom he now faces off against in the NBA

Later, a fan in the chat asked Barnes to pull up another highlight reel of himself on the court. He obliged, pointing out the handshake he used to do as a teen. “What you rating this out of 10?” he asked, scrolling the chat for responses. “Seven point five? You hating.” But, after a few more minutes, his relaxed demeanour started to shift. He tensed up, suddenly attuned to how long he (not to mention his legion of fans) had been watching himself play. Barnes is keenly self-aware—like most 23-year-olds, he was raised on social media and understands the inherent risks of being on screen. Plus there’s the fact that, unlike most 23-year-olds, he’s famous. Eventually, he called the whole thing off. “This is cringe,” he said. “I can’t watch myself.” Before he got back to his regularly scheduled video gaming, he noticed one comment about teenage Scottie’s “pure love for the game.” “Of course, bro,” he responded.

It’s this unrestrained enthusiasm that draws people to Barnes—his high-wattage smile, his proclivity for hugging his teammates and coaches before and after practice, the genuine joy he demonstrates when his fellow players land dazzling plays. But, when the pandemic hit, it put a damper on everything, including Barnes’s NBA dreams. His high school showcases were cancelled, and it wasn’t clear if he would ever make it to Florida State to start his college career. When things get stressful, Barnes retreats to his safe space: the court. After he was sent home from Montverde during lockdowns, he returned to Wellington and called up his childhood friend Brian Macon, a personal trainer who had access to several gyms. Florida State wanted Barnes to be their point guard, so Barnes and Macon spent months working on his ball-handling and honing his jump shot to grow his offensive range.

Scottie Barnes during his time playing for Florida State
Barnes stayed close to home for university, joining the Florida Seminoles

By fall, Florida State had opened back up, and the NCAA season finally started in late November. But only a limited number of fans were allowed in the stands. Cases of Covid could shut down games, and college coaches across the country imposed strict curfews on their players. During major tournaments, the players had to isolate themselves from the rest of the world. Morale was waning everywhere—except at Florida State. Before breakfast each morning, Barnes embraced every single one of his fellow players. His smile was contagious, at least until he got out on the court. Then, he brought energy of a different kind. During scrimmages, he would go chest-to-chest with his teammates-turned-opponents, bumping them up the court and trash talking every step of the way. When he scored, he’d slap the floor, clap in his teammates’ faces and stick out his tongue for effect.

During a road game at Georgia Tech, Barnes threw himself in front of an opposing player. In the process, he caught a forearm to the face, hard. It knocked him to the floor. As his teammates rushed to help him up, they saw blood dripping from his mouth. Several of his front teeth were dangling loose. The coach called a timeout, and Barnes retreated to the trainer’s room. But, moments later, he was back on the court, slamming into his opponents, attacking the basket, fighting off multiple defenders for rebounds. He was not going to leave his team hanging. “Most people would have just left the game,” says Justin Lindner, his teammate at the time. “I mean, his smile is what he lives for. People were coming up to him at halftime, and he just said, ‘Nah, I’m not stopping. I’m competing for the rest of this game. I don’t care what happens. I can figure it out after.’” After one year at Florida State, Barnes declared for the 2021 NBA draft.

 

The Raptors had just finished their own pandemic-­shortened season as temporary residents in Tampa, Florida. They had the fourth overall pick in the draft after a disastrous showing—a major dethroning for the 2019 champions. They were staring down the greatest fear of any sports franchise: the possibility of becoming a laughing stock or, even worse, an afterthought. It was especially unthinkable for the only Canadian team in the NBA, whose “We the North” slogan is a nod to the fact that they’re already on the outside. And having just bid farewell to Kyle Lowry, the franchise needed a star player to help kick-start a new era of Raptors basketball.

Heading into the draft, some scouts had reservations about Barnes. They were skeptical of his jump shot and considered him a potential complementary piece, someone who could back up a star but lacked the skillset to lead. The Raptors, though, were convinced he was their guy. They had done their homework and learned his backstory. But it wasn’t his feel for the game, his playmaking or his physical ability that won over team president Masai Ujiri when he sat down with Barnes for a pre-draft interview. It was his unbridled ambition. “He talked about winning so much,” Ujiri says. “He mentioned winning about 37 times.” On draft night, the Raptors went all in and selected Barnes with the fourth overall pick.

Related: Masai Ujiri did more than just secure an NBA trophy. He helped us see Toronto for what it is—a city of winners

Barnes wasted no time making his presence known. In the first week of his rookie season, he quieted the doubters, landing an assortment of mid-range jump shots and sinking three-pointers over the outstretched arms of opposing defenders. In his rookie season, he averaged 15.3 points, 7.5 rebounds and 3.5 assists. Barnes made an impression with the intangibles too. He got physical in the paint and held his own in matchups against the league’s biggest stars, including LeBron James and Kevin Durant, drawing praise from both. “There are a lot of guys who love to compete and love to win,” Durant told reporters. “What’s more rare about Scottie Barnes is his IQ for the game. All of that stuff shines bright when you watch him play.” After a stellar playoff debut, in which he nearly put up a triple-double in his first-ever post-season game against the Philadelphia Sixers, he was named the NBA’s Rookie of the Year.

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The Chosen One: At just 23, Scottie Barnes is the new face of the Raptors—and the team’s best chance of salvation
Barnes was just 19 years old when he was drafted to the NBA. Photo by Arturo Holmes/Getty Images
The Chosen One: At just 23, Scottie Barnes is the new face of the Raptors—and the team’s best chance of salvation
His post-scoring expression has been on billboards across the city. Photo by Dylan Buell/Getty Images
Masai Ujiri presenting Scottie Barnes his Rookie of the Year trophy
Masai Ujiri handed Barnes his rookie of the year award at Scotiabank Arena in 2022. Photo by Cole Burston/Getty Images

Despite all the fanfare, Barnes’s rapid rise created an awkward internal dynamic. Chemistry in the locker room is critical. The older, established players from the championship run—Pascal Siakam, OG Anunoby, Fred VanVleet—still viewed themselves as the team’s leaders, but the cohort of young up-and-comers was coalescing around Barnes, and the lack of cohesion was becoming a problem. The Raptors, a team known for their defensive prowess, were suddenly being ­outworked by their opponents and losing games by double digits. Instead of sharing the ball, playing the selfless game fans had come to expect, they seemed fractured, like each player was in it for himself. The discord was confirmed when Ujiri described his team to reporters as selfish, a damning indictment of a franchise that prided itself on being greater than the sum of its parts. “People were playing for contracts,” says Barnes. “They weren’t making those extra passes.” And the proof was in the standings: the Raptors missed the playoffs two years in a row.

The tension visibly affected Barnes’s demeanour. For his entire career, he’d been known for his upbeat, joyful spirit. In January of 2023, a television crew caught him having a spat with fellow Raptor Thaddeus Young at halftime during a game against Portland. On the court, he slumped his shoulders and waved his arms in dramatic shows of frustration. During interviews, he often seemed despondent. In one game against the San Antonio Spurs, the Raptors were behind by double digits in the fourth quarter. Barnes stormed off the bench and into the locker room, leaving his teammates behind with seconds still on the clock. Suddenly, the franchise saviour seemed to have checked out.

Eventually, Ujiri decided he’d had enough. By this point, the Raptors had already said goodbye to Fred VanVleet and head coach Nick Nurse. It was time for an overhaul. So they traded away Pascal Siakam and OG Anunoby and then, last summer, signed Barnes to a five-year, $225-million extension, a contract that could balloon to $270 million if he meets certain incentives like making the All-NBA team and being named defensive player of the year. The Raptors were officially pinning their hopes on a young player who had shown only glimpses of being the superstar they needed.

 

On the eve of their training camp in August of last year, the Raptors went on a team trip to Malaga, Spain, where players and coaches could get to know one another. They have one of the youngest rosters in the league, a handful of rookies, some of whom could develop into Barnes’s future co-stars. But, before they played any games together, head coach Darko Rajaković wanted to put them in an environment where they could build the chemistry that had been missing.

Between practices, the players spent their downtime in Malaga partying on the beach and sightseeing. One evening, the team had dinner at one of Antonio Banderas’s restaurants. The actor surprised the players during the meal. (Proof of the relative age of the current roster: most of the guys recognized Banderas as the voice of Puss in Boots from Shrek.) Even before the players started the six-month grind of the NBA season, the emphasis was on getting along. “When we go to work in an environment where we’re loved and accepted, that’s when we’re going to be able to give our best every single day,” Rajaković explains. “Having those bonds with the other players is very important. When adversity hits, they’ll be able to talk and hold each other to a high standard.” The team was already beginning to coalesce around Barnes. Starting centre Jakob Poeltl praised him for adapting his playing style to support his teammates; RJ Barrett called him the most unselfish superstar he’d ever seen.

Related: “I’m not about yelling. I don’t believe in that kind of leadership”—A Q&A with Raptors coach Darko Rajaković

This isn’t a team that’s looking for a crash course in how to win a championship. The Raptors are in a clear rebuild. Selling hope buys them some time. They can play up buzzwords like camaraderie, growth and individual development. But fans will tolerate a losing team for only so long. They need to believe that an era of wins is on the horizon. For the Raptors, the rebuild begins with making Barnes their lynchpin. Ujiri insists that this is intentional long-term planning rather than the last-ditch effort of a team circling the drain. “People think we’re just going to put this big responsibility on this kid,” he says. “We see something in this kid. He’s showing that there is a possibility that he can be a big-time player. Why don’t we at least try to give him some platform to see if it works?”

The Chosen One: At just 23, Scottie Barnes is the new face of the Raptors—and the team’s best chance of salvation
The Chosen One: At just 23, Scottie Barnes is the new face of the Raptors—and the team’s best chance of salvation

Barnes is keen to prove himself worthy of Ujiri’s trust. He’s been working to become a more vocal leader, speaking up during huddles and owning up to his mistakes on the court. Where he used to hang his head or flap his arms in disappointment, he now understands that his body language sets the tone for the rest of the squad. Part of being a leader means embracing his role as the face of the team.

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Over the past couple of years, Barnes has developed a frosty relationship with the media—he’s been called out by reporters and columnists for not working hard enough in the off season. He admits that he prefers to lie low and keep his public speaking to a minimum. After all, in the social media era, there’s little upside to saying too much. But he’s now accepted that public scrutiny is the trade-off of becoming a celebrity in 2025. Though he tries to laugh off his iffy public relations (“Media is going to be media”), he’s working to correct his image. He’s hired a media coach to help him show off his personality on press circuits and channel his natural enthusiasm. He admits he’s come up short at times. “I’m young,” he says. “I’ma make mistakes.”

Still, he’s more interested in looking forward than in revisiting the ups and downs of the past few seasons. “This is the most connected roster that I’ve been a part of,” he says. “Being close in age really does help.” Barnes is now on a team with players who have similar interests. He plays video games with point guard Immanuel Quickley and shoots TikTok videos with second-year sharpshooter Gradey Dick. Barnes and forward RJ Barrett used to face off in high school. The Raptors also drafted Barnes’s childhood friend Jonathan Mogbo, who grew up with him in West Palm Beach. They’ve been playing 2K together since fourth grade. With this crew, Barnes has embraced the Raptors’ current sales pitch. “I’m ready to build this place back up and win games,” he says.

 

On opening night of the current season, Barnes’s optimism ran headlong into the realities of playing for a rebuilding club. The Raptors kicked off their year-long 30th-anniversary celebration with a home game against the Cleveland Cavaliers. They were sporting new purple jerseys, a throwback to the team’s early 2000s look, and the franchise’s first-ever Rookie of the Year winner, Damon Stoudamire, was in attendance. Barnes wore a statement-making fit (black suit, no shirt), ready for his red-carpet debut as the face of the Raptors. Before tip-off, he strolled to midcourt, grabbed the microphone and addressed the sold-out house. “What up, Toronto?” he shouted, a giant smile on his face. “It’s Raps’ 30th. Let’s go!”

From the start, the Raptors struggled to keep up with the Cavaliers. Barrett and Quickley both left with injuries. The remaining players were a mess on offence and lacked hustle on defence. At halftime, they were trailing their opponents by double digits, and boos rained down from the stands. By the start of the fourth quarter, only half of the crowd remained, and those who stuck around to the buzzer watched the Raptors lose by 30 points, their worst season-opening performance ever. A week later, Barnes took an elbow to the face in another home loss, sustaining an orbital fracture that would keep him off the court for close to a month. Without him, the under-manned Raptors finished the first month of the season at the bottom of the standings.

In late November, Barnes made a return to the court. Sporting a pair of goggles, he set career highs in points (35) and assists (14) in the same week. With his characteristic exuberance, he helped the Raptors climb slowly up the standings. But, just two weeks later, he sprained his ankle. Through the first two months of the season, the Raptors had players out for injuries more often than almost any other team in the league. Even after Barnes got back on the court two weeks later, the team lost 11 games in a row.

Scottie Barnes coaching for the Jr. NBA youth program
Barnes has coached for the Jr. NBA and Jr. WNBA youth basketball programs. Photo by Steve Russell/Toronto Star/Getty Images

And yet, despite the setbacks, Barnes remains upbeat, which seems odd for a wins-obsessed player on a losing streak. But he really does believe in the big-picture plan the Raptors have spread out before him, that they’re merely laying the foundation and that the rest of the build will take time. “One thing I tell people often is that, in the NBA, you mature pretty quick,” he says. “A lot of people who know me and hang around me, they can see how much I’ve grown in just the first three years. With everything that’s thrown at you, you really have no choice.”

Meanwhile, he’s made enough money to take care of his family for the rest of their lives. Simpson remains a key influence, offering advice on life and basketball. The people who grew up with Barnes, like his trainer Brian Macon and the childhood friends he plays 2K with, are still by his side.

There may be no championship dreams any time soon, but with Barnes leading the way, the new Raptors are starting to establish an identity as a young run-and-gun squad who move quickly and pass frequently, a team full of players who are working together and rooting for one another. If his new role as their leader feels like too big a burden for a 23-year-old to shoulder, Barnes is certainly not showing it. “I don’t feel pressure,” he says. “There’s no pressure playing basketball. If I could play basketball every day, I would. I’m doing what I love to do.”

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This story appears in the February 2025 issue of Toronto Life magazineTo subscribe, click here. To purchase single issues, click here.

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The February issue of Toronto Life features Scottie Barnes, the new face of the Raptors—and the team’s best chance of salvation. Plus, our obsessive coverage of everything that matters now in the city.