That faded Bulls jersey hanging in my closet? The one with Scottrade patches that are literally crumbling off like ancient paint chips? Emma keeps threatening to use it as a cleaning rag, and honestly, I can’t even argue with her logic anymore. The thing looks like it survived a nuclear blast, which, considering how the Bulls have played lately, might actually be an accurate metaphor.
But here’s the thing about team gear that nobody wants to admit – most of it is absolutely terrible from a design perspective. I’m talking bargain-bin polyester that feels like sandpaper, colors that look radioactive under fluorescent lights, and fits that assume every sports fan has the exact same body type as a refrigerator. It’s like the manufacturers are actively trying to make us look as bad as possible while charging premium prices for the privilege.
I learned this lesson the hard way during my peak hypebeast phase around 2016. I’d drop $400 on a Supreme hoodie without blinking, then turn around and wear a $60 official NBA jersey that fit like a garbage bag and made me look like I was cosplaying as a middle schooler from 1998. The cognitive dissonance was real – caring obsessively about the cut and materials of streetwear while completely ignoring how terrible my sports merch looked.
My friend Jake from design school is the perfect example of what not to do. Dude’s entire personality is Lakers everything – Lakers jersey to dinner, Lakers snapback to his nephew’s baptism, Lakers slides to his own wedding (I’m not kidding, his wife still brings this up three years later). Walking around Portland in head-to-toe purple and gold makes you look like you took a wrong turn on your way to a costume party, especially when half the city is wearing muted earth tones and Japanese denim.
The weird part is how territorial guys get about this stuff. I once made the mistake of suggesting to Jake that maybe, possibly, he could wear something without the Lakers logo for his job interview at a tech startup. You’d have thought I insulted his mother. “It’s about loyalty, man. Real fans don’t hide their allegiance.” Meanwhile, he didn’t get the job, and I’m pretty sure his Shaq throwback jersey didn’t help his case during the final interview.
So what are your team gear choices actually saying about you? If you’re still rocking official jerseys as everyday wear, you’re basically announcing to the world that you peaked in college and haven’t updated your style since Obama’s first term. Nothing wrong with comfort zones, but there’s a difference between being comfortable and being lazy. I see dudes at coffee shops wearing Seahawks jerseys with cargo shorts and New Balance dad shoes, looking like they got dressed in a Dick’s Sporting Goods clearance section.
The vintage sports merch guys have the right idea though. There’s something genuinely cool about a perfectly faded 1980s Lakers tee or a beat-up Bulls snapback from the Jordan era. The logos were cleaner back then, before everything got covered in gradients and unnecessary swooshes and chrome effects that look dated five minutes after they’re released. I spent way too much money on eBay last year hunting down vintage Bulls gear from the ’90s – found this incredible crewneck sweatshirt from 1991 that cost me $180 but looks better than anything I can buy retail today.
Then there are the color-coordination guys who think they’re being subtle but absolutely are not. My neighbor Dave swears he doesn’t own any Blazers merchandise, but somehow every single thing he wears is red and black. Red flannel, black jeans, red sneakers, black cap – dude looks like he’s sponsored by the team without actually wearing any logos. His girlfriend called him out on it last summer, and he spent twenty minutes explaining how it was “just a coincidence” while wearing a red t-shirt and black shorts. We all see what you’re doing, Dave.
The luxury collaboration collectors are playing a completely different game. These are the guys who copped the Supreme x Nike NBA collection or those $500 leather goods with tiny team logos embossed in corners only other obsessives would notice. I respect the commitment, but man, paying $800 for a Louis Vuitton wallet just because it has Lakers colors feels like the kind of purchase I’d make during a manic episode and regret for months afterward.
Here’s what actually works if you want to rep your team without looking like a walking advertisement: vintage everything. Older team merchandise had simpler, cleaner designs before marketing departments decided every logo needed to look like a transformer exploding. I’ve got this perfectly worn-in Bulls tee from the late ’80s that I found at a thrift store in Seattle for $6. The logo is just the simple red C on white – no shadows, no gradients, no unnecessary details. Gets more compliments than Supreme pieces that cost fifty times as much.
Quality collaborations are worth hunting down too. When heritage brands like Carhartt or Levi’s do team collections, they’re usually bringing better materials and fits to the table. I picked up a Bulls x Carhartt jacket two seasons ago that’s become my most-worn piece. The team connection is subtle enough that you have to look for it, which makes it feel more sophisticated than wearing a billboard across your chest.
For work settings, accessories are your friend. Team-colored pocket squares, subtle cufflinks, socks that nobody sees but you know are there – it’s like having a secret handshake with other fans without announcing your allegiance to the entire office. I know a guy who runs a consulting firm and wears custom dress shirts with team-colored button threads. Costs extra but nobody notices unless he points it out, which is exactly the right level of subtlety for professional environments.
Custom pieces from places like Ebbets Field Flannels are where you really start seeing the difference. Yeah, it costs more than buying official merchandise at the team store, but the materials are better, the fits are more thoughtful, and you’re not walking around in the exact same jersey as twenty thousand other people at the stadium. I have a custom wool baseball cap in Bulls colors that works for everything from client meetings to actual games.
Fit matters more than you think, by the way. Nothing screams “I’ve given up on myself” quite like swimming in an XXL jersey when you wear medium everything else. If you’re going to wear official merchandise, at least size it correctly. The NBA’s “fashion fit” lines aren’t terrible these days – slightly slimmer cuts, better fabrics, less circus tent energy. Still not great, but significantly better than the traditional baggy mess.
Adjacent colors can be your secret weapon too. Instead of wearing the exact shade of Bulls red, which is basically traffic cone orange and looks terrible on most people, try deeper burgundy or rust tones that reference the team without being so literal about it. I learned this after showing up to a work meeting in a tie that perfectly matched Bulls orange. My client – this incredibly stylish older woman who definitely knew more about fashion than me – just looked at me and said, “That’s… very bright.” Not the impression you want to make when someone’s deciding whether to hire you.
Know when to leave the team gear at home though. Weddings, job interviews, first dates – unless you’re literally at the stadium, there are situations where your team allegiance should take a backseat to basic social awareness. I broke this rule last year, wore a vintage Bulls tee to a coffee date with someone I’d met through friends. Turned out she was a hardcore Lakers fan from LA. Instead of bonding over basketball, we spent an hour arguing about the Jordan vs. LeBron debate before agreeing we probably weren’t compatible. Some rivalries run too deep for romance, I guess.
The truth is, your team gear choices are communicating something about you whether you realize it or not. That Raiders jersey you wear to everything isn’t just showing team loyalty – it’s also saying something about your priorities, your self-awareness, and your willingness to put effort into how you present yourself to the world. Your team might not win every season, but there’s no excuse for your style taking an L every single day.
Keith’s a Portland designer with a soft spot for sneakers and a growing allergy to hype. He writes about streetwear’s creative side, its excesses, and learning to build real personal style beyond the latest drops.
