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A’ja Wilson and the Aces turned basketball into the city’s best live show and made us believers along the way.
The curtain call
When the confetti finally fell in Phoenix after the 97–86 sweep, it didn’t feel like the end of a season. It felt like the curtain dropping on the best show on the Strip.
We didn’t plan on falling in love that night. Not with each other; that part was already settled, but with a basketball team.
The opening act
It started as something casual. A Wednesday game at Michelob ULTRA Arena, the Las Vegas Aces hosting the Phoenix Mercury. I had twenty bucks on A’ja Wilson to score twenty. She finished with nineteen. I lost the bet, but we won something bigger.
My wife had never been to a pro basketball game. That first night, she sat politely, clapped when the crowd clapped, and asked who was who. She liked the music, but the game itself was still background noise.
Then we went back. And again. Somewhere between the third and fourth home game, something shifted. The cheers got louder. The chants started to make sense. By the time the playoffs rolled around, she was waving her rally towel, shouting “WOOO!” after every three-pointer, and rallying the team with “Defense! Defense!” like she was sitting on the Aces bench instead of in the stands.
That first game we attended, August 21, 2025, the Aces crushed the Mercury 83–61. It should have been just another night out, but it became the start of something. We walked out buzzing, not from the drinks but from the energy, like we’d discovered Vegas’ best-kept secret.
The main event
You can feel the electricity the moment you walk in. Arena hosts CJ and Joe Brown keep the place buzzing, tossing prizes, leading chants, and setting the tone. When Joe yells “Everybody on your feet,” the arena shakes.
Chet Buchanan’s voice grounds it all. His “TWO SHOTS!” echoes through the arena like a Vegas cue, a phrase so catchy my wife and I now yell it when tossing socks into the laundry hamper.
The Wild Card Crew brings the flash. The High Rollers, a senior dance team with endless energy, always steal halftime. And BUCKET$, the black-tailed jackrabbit mascot, adds just enough chaos to keep things fun.
Every game feels like a celebration, a perfect blend of basketball and performance. The Aces don’t just play for the city. They perform for it.
The headliners
By playoff time, we knew the roster like family. My wife loved Jackie Young’s steadiness. I claimed A’ja, the MVP and heartbeat of the dynasty. We both cheered for Chelsea Gray, “the Point Gawwwd,” and Jewell Loyd, “the Gold Mamba.” Dana Evans brought fire, Megan Gustafson brought joy, and Coach Becky Hammon ruled with calm Vegas confidence.
We thought we’d seen it all until September 21, when A’ja Wilson accepted her third MVP trophy before the game. It wasn’t over the top, no fireworks or long speeches, but the crowd made it feel big. The cheers rolled through Michelob ULTRA Arena like a wave. A few hours later, the Aces lost by sixteen to the Fever, the only home game we saw them drop. Still, watching A’ja lift that trophy and smile through defeat said everything about her. It was her third MVP and second Finals MVP in four seasons, the kind of run that defines a dynasty. Two weeks later, when she buried that Finals buzzer-beater, it felt like the moment came full circle.
That’s when we realized something. We weren’t just fans anymore. We were invested. We’d found our people, our section, our team.
The encore
The Aces games became our date nights. We’d talk about lineups in the car. My wife started asking about players’ hometowns and college teams, the kind of details only real fans care about. Before long, we were collecting their rookie cards together, part hobby and part keepsake from a season that had become ours.
Vegas is a city built on illusion, but the Aces are real. They make you feel something.
The stars prove it. Juvenile performed “Back That Azz Up.” Too Short took a courtside seat. Wanda Sykes watched from the crowd. Usher sat a few rows over, taking it all in. Even the fans feel like part of the cast.
When the last confetti fell in Phoenix, we screamed like we were back in Section 113. We skipped the victory parade; a rookie mistake we won’t repeat. I’m calling it now, the Aces win again next year, and we’ll be there when the city celebrates ring number four.
The Las Vegas Aces gave us more than a championship run. They gave us connection to each other, to the city, and to something bigger than both.
The best show in Vegas doesn’t use smoke or mirrors.It tips off at seven and never misses its cue.
We came for the basketball. We stayed for the feeling. The Aces didn’t just win. They reminded us what it feels like to belong.
