It was 1993, the year Jurassic Park stormed the box office, and somewhere in a boardroom, someone decided that if Canada was going to have an NBA team, it should have teeth. As part of the franchise launch, a nationwide "Name the Team" contest was held. Over 2,000 names poured in—some Canadian classics like the Beavers and the Huskies, others oddities like the Tarantulas or the Hogs. “Grizzlies” was in the mix too, though it would eventually head west to Vancouver.
But this was the summer of raptors—velociraptors, to be precise. Riding the wave of Spielbergian dinosaur mania, the name “Raptors” caught the public imagination. When the final vote came in, it wasn’t even close. The people had spoken, and they wanted claws.
The final name—Toronto Raptors—was revealed alongside a logo that could have only come from the 1990s: a cartoon raptor in sneakers, dribbling a basketball, set against bold purple and black. It was loud, it was brash, and it immediately gave the team an identity. Critics sneered. Purists rolled their eyes. But kids bought the jerseys, and that was enough. What began as a marketing gimmick became a badge of loyalty.
The Raptors took the court in the 1995–96 season. They played at the SkyDome, where foul shots echoed like whispers in a cathedral. The rosters were forgettable, the records worse. But the Raptors were never just a novelty. They were laying down roots, even if it was a slow and sometimes painful process.
Then came Vince Carter in 1998.
He didn’t just dunk—he rewrote the laws of motion. With Carter, the Raptors were no longer just a franchise—they were a phenomenon. The dunk contest in 2000 sealed it: It’s over! the announcer cried, and for once, it wasn’t hyperbole. Carter turned Toronto into a basketball town. Young fans across Canada began choosing basketballs over hockey sticks. Vinsanity was real, and it was contagious.
But like all shooting stars, Carter flamed out. His departure was acrimonious. The team floundered in his absence. Chris Bosh arrived, quietly excellent but alone in the spotlight. The Raptors spent much of the 2000s searching—coaches came and went, playoff appearances were brief and bitter. And always, there was LeBron. For a time, he owned the Raptors so thoroughly that fans dubbed the city LeBronto. It was cruel. It was fair.
Then, in 2018, everything changed.
In a daring move, team president Masai Ujiri traded fan favorite DeMar DeRozan for the enigmatic superstar Kawhi Leonard. It was a risk. Leonard was coming off an injury. He had one year left on his contract. But the bet paid off. The 2018–2019 season was a dream. Kawhi’s buzzer-beater in Game 7 against the Sixers—the ball bouncing four times before falling—became an instant Canadian myth.
The Raptors defeated the Bucks. Then the Warriors. And just like that, the Larry O’Brien trophy crossed the border for the first time in NBA history.
Toronto—no, Canada—erupted.
The parade stretched for miles. Millions lined the streets. Kawhi, famously stoic, even smiled. For one perfect moment, the Raptors were on top of the world.
Kawhi left, of course. The years since have been filled with ups and downs. But something fundamental changed in 2019. The Raptors stopped being a novelty and became a permanent part of basketball’s story. The name that was once chosen as a pop culture nod now adorns a championship banner. The team that was once mocked for its purple dinosaur now commands respect.
They play today in Scotiabank Arena, alongside the Maple Leafs, and carry the hopes of a nation that still remembers 2019 like a fever dream. They are no longer just Toronto’s team. They are Canada’s team.
And perhaps that’s the real Raptors story: from cartoons to champions, from gimmick to greatness. A franchise born in a Hollywood summer, raised in northern winters, and forged—finally—in gold.