By the time Alex Caruso strolled into the Raising Cane’s on N. May Ave in Oklahoma City, fans were already packed against the barricades, cheering and chanting “O-K-C” as he made his way inside. A sea of fans spilled across the Raising Cane’s parking lot, packed shoulder to shoulder under a cloudless Oklahoma sky.
Some had been there since as early as 3:30 in the morning, just to see a glimpse of their new champion. One wore a Thunder jersey with a paper headband drawn to look like Caruso’s signature white one. Another held a sign that read a familiar nickname: “Bald Mamba.”
Caruso greeted them with a grin as he stepped out of his car, playfully shouting, “There’s not enough chicken fingers for everyone!” before heading inside to take part in the festivities. He threw on a Raising Cane’s hat and stood behind the counter for a few minutes, handing out meals to a few lucky fans at the register and drive-thru.
It was a promo appearance, sure, but in a week full of surreal moments for Oklahoma City, it was another that just felt right. Their newly crowned champion, the veteran glue guy of the youngest Finals team in decades, passing out chicken fingers and posing for selfies like it was just another Thursday.
That’s the thing about this Thunder team. They managed to make the extraordinary feel normal.
This wasn’t just an ordinary fan service promotional event. I can’t lie, it felt like something bigger. Something communal. The thunderous (pun intended) applause that followed Caruso into that restaurant wasn’t just for him. It was for everything he represented. For what this team represented. The culmination of a season — and, in many ways, a city’s identity — being fully realized.
Because this isn’t Los Angeles. It’s not Chicago. This is Oklahoma City, where the Thunder aren’t one of many team options — they’re the team. The only pro sports franchise in town. And on that day, in that Cane’s packed with hundreds of fans decked out in Thunder blue, it didn’t feel like a celebrity had shown up. It felt like one of their own had come home.
That feeling extended far beyond the walls of that Raising Cane’s. Around the city, the evidence was everywhere. “WE HEART THUNDER” signs covered storefront windows. Pop-up kiosks sold playoff merch on every other block. Murals were suddenly pilgrimage sites. Car windows were decked out in blue and orange paint, with hand-scrawled messages like “Thunder Up” and “2025 Champs.” Shai Gilgeous-Alexander’s face might as well have been on the state flag.
Even for someone just visiting, it was impossible not to notice how deeply embedded this team had become in the city’s identity. The Thunder haven’t even been here two full decades, yet they feel like something Oklahoma City’s been waiting forever for.
Caruso almost sounded offended when asked about the difference between playing in big cities like Los Angeles or Chicago and a smaller market like OKC. “Well, OKC is going to be a big city,” he claimed.
There was pride in the way he said it. Maybe even a little defiance. Like he wasn’t just repping a jersey, he was standing up for the place that had embraced him. A city that often gets overlooked. A team that finally refused to be.
In Oklahoma City, the Thunder don’t share the spotlight. They are the spotlight. And now, after 17 seasons, they’re champions.
But to truly understand how they got here, you have to understand who helped them cross the finish line. And few stories on this roster are more fascinating than that of Alex Caruso.
Caruso grew up in College Station, Texas, not all that far from the Oklahoma border, but a world away from NBA stardom. He stayed close to home for college, playing four full years at Texas A&M and suiting up in nearly 140 games.
He didn’t look the part of a pro. Too wiry, too slow, too unassuming. But he ended his career as the school’s all-time leader in both assists (649) and steals (276). Still, draft night came and went without his name being called.
He grinded. First in the G League, as he landed with the Oklahoma City Blue, playing for none other than future Thunder head coach Mark Daigneault. It wasn’t glamorous. He wasn’t guaranteed anything. But it was a start.
A few years later, after bouncing between two-way deals and summer league stints, he finally broke out with the Lakers, carving out a role as a defensive pest and surprise contributor on the 2020 bubble championship team. That run earned him his first real payday, a four-year, $37 million contract with the Bulls in 2021. For many players, that would’ve been the story. The “I made it” moment.
But this is Alex Caruso we’re talking about.
In June 2024, he was traded to Oklahoma City in exchange for Josh Giddey, a move that raised eyebrows across the league but made perfect sense to those who knew him. It was a reunion. With Daigneault. With a city that once served as his proving ground. A few months later, the Thunder doubled down, signing him to a four-year, $81 million extension.
“When I won a championship with the Lakers, I was with Hall of Famers and still trying to figure it out,” Caruso said. “Six years later, I knew the answers to the test, and I picked it up and ran with it.”
And that’s exactly what he did. Caruso helped set the tone for this Thunder team. On the court, he gave them grit. Off the court, he gave them veteran guidance — not just with his basketball knowledge, but with his real-world experience.
In the locker room after Game 7, when most of his teammates fumbled nervously with champagne bottles, unsure how to even pop them, it was Caruso who stepped in and showed them how. It’s a small thing, but it’s telling. He’d been here before. And now, he was the one showing others the way.
For a team full of kids, Caruso was the veteran who showed them how to win. He was the example.
And yet, nothing about this team ever felt like it was built to dominate, at least not on the surface. But over the course of the season, dominate is exactly what they did. The 2024-25 Oklahoma City Thunder turned into one of the most formidable teams in NBA history, without ever needing to look the part.
They won 68 regular-season games and finished with 84 total wins, becoming just the fourth team in NBA history to reach that mark. Their combined regular season and playoff net rating tied the 2017 Warriors for the second-highest ever, trailing only the ‘96 Bulls.
They entered the playoffs as the Western Conference’s top seed. They reached the NBA Finals as the second-youngest team to ever do it. And when the final buzzer sounded in Game 7, the first NBA Finals Game 7 since 2016, their reaction was, well… not what most fans expected.
SGA and Jalen Williams calmly walked over to dap up their opponents. Caruso barely cracked a smile. No screaming. No chest-pounding. No dramatic floor dives or sobbing. Just the quiet exhale of a team that had come in, done its job, and moved on.
“They carried themselves like champions all season,” head coach Mark Daigneault later said.
He’s right. Never before has a team embodied “business as usual” more than this one.
This wasn’t a group of stars trying to outshine each other. Hell, some of them don’t even drink. Jalen Williams had his first sip of alcohol after the title win, and according to the man himself, he hated it.
That’s the kind of team this was. No frills. No drama. Just kids, really, who played hard, played smart, and played for each other.
Fans of the team know that after every Thunder win, something quietly beautiful happens. The star of the night stays behind for a postgame interview, as is typical for any NBA game.
But instead of disappearing into the tunnel, the rest of the team gathers around, arm in arm, standing behind him. Some players wrap towels around each other like superhero capes. Others stand in silence, forming a wall of support. What started as a spontaneous gesture has now become a ritual — a symbol of organizational culture.
Infamous NBA villain Draymond Green once mocked it, saying it made the team look unserious. But that misses the point entirely. These moments aren’t about optics. They’re about choosing to show up for one another. Even the guys who’ve never been interviewed before. Especially those guys.
The spotlight isn’t something this team chases. It’s something they share.
Of course, this team had an MVP in Shai Gilgeous-Alexander. The NBA’s new highest-paid player is the superstar presence, the walking mismatch, that drives this OKC team. But none of it happens without the rest.
Without Jalen Williams dropping 40 in a crucial Game 5 victory.
Without Chet Holmgren anchoring the team’s defense.
Without Lu Dort making life hell for opposing players.
Without Isaiah Hartenstein setting screens and nailing floaters.
Without Alex Caruso setting the tone and doing all the little things.
Without the hordes of talented bench players — developmental success stories like Aaron Wiggins, Cason Wallace, Isaiah Joe, and (the other) Jaylin Williams — allowing the Thunder to overwhelm opponents with their depth.
Kevin Durant and Russell Westbrook gave this city greatness in the form of two generational superstars. But they couldn’t give it this. This team, this version of the Thunder, did.
And they did it the only way they know how: together.
Oklahoma City waited 17 years for this. For the confetti. For the closure. For the kind of joy that doesn’t come from a Shams Charania report or a rookie Summer League standout, but from a banner — a permanent one at that.
And when it finally came, it didn’t arrive in the form of a superstar spectacle or a dynasty coronation. It came in the form of a team that treated winning like clockwork. A team that didn’t flaunt about greatness, but quietly went out and proved it. A team that won 84 games and made it feel routine. Never before has dominant looked so ordinary.
Ironically, that’s what made it feel so special.
Again, this wasn’t Los Angeles or New York or Miami. This was Oklahoma City. A place where this Thunder team is the heartbeat. Where kids wear SGA jerseys to school and learn the word “unselfish” from a postgame interview. Where a Raising Cane’s parking lot turns into a city-wide celebration just because Alex Caruso showed up in a championship hat.
It’s easy to call this a small market, but you walk around OKC days after a Thunder championship and try saying that with a straight face. The murals. The painted windows. The sidewalk chalk. The Caruso headbands and “O-K-C” chants and homemade signs. This team isn’t just the talk of the town — they are the town.
And maybe that’s the whole point. This title didn’t just belong to Shai or J-Dub or Chet or Caruso. It belonged to the people who waited in line. Who watched through the heartbreak. Who never stopped believing that their team could do something like this.
The Thunder gave them that. Not with drama or flash or noise, but with humility, grit, and a team identity stronger than any single moment.
This is what a championship looks like in Oklahoma City. Not loud. Not arrogant. Just right.
And now, it’s finally theirs.