I. The Name That Echoed Around the World
“Ho You Fat with a three. Yes, I just said that. That is the man’s name. Don’t tweet at me!”
In the swirling noise of social media, where novelty is often confused with substance, one name cut through in 2022 with the power of both: Steeve Ho You Fat. The moment his jersey appeared during the G League Ignite tour in Las Vegas—plain, bold, and bearing what many assumed was a joke—he became an overnight viral sensation. The NBA world blinked twice. Commentators chuckled mid-broadcast. Memes erupted. Kevin Hart did a whole bit on it in front of millions.
But Steeve? He didn’t flinch. He smiled, took the mic, and owned it.
“If everybody’s happy about it, I feel good,” he said in a 2023 interview with the AfroBallers. “Keep enjoying. This is also a chance… a chance for me to talk about my story.”
And what a story it is. One that spans from the streets of Cayenne, French Guiana, where survival often outweighed dreams, to packed arenas in France’s top pro leagues. From a childhood of playing basketball in secret—hidden from a disapproving father who worshipped soccer—to becoming the veteran backbone of Victor Wembanyama’s Metropolitans 92. A story of identity, resilience, and growth. A story in which the name is only the entry point—not the punchline.
When the announcer called out his name in Las Vegas, I already knew what was coming. He knew as well. As we sat down for our conversation, Steeve didn’t dodge it. He embraced it—with a grin that told me he’d seen this moment coming for a long time.
II. From French Guiana to France: A Flight for More Than Basketball
Growing up in Brazil, I know what it’s like to come from a place where football is king, where infrastructure is scarce, and where the odds are rarely in your favor. That’s why when Steeve talked about his upbringing in French Guiana, something clicked in me.
He wasn’t looking for a basketball career at first—he was looking for a way out.
“I didn’t move to France to be a professional basketball player,” he said, pausing just enough for the gravity of that sentence to land. “I moved just to have another future.”
There’s a kind of pain that doesn’t need drama to feel heavy. His tone was calm, but there was truth layered under every word. French Guiana, he told me, wasn’t poor—but it was tough. Drugs. Violence. A constant sense that the future was something that only happened to other people.
So at 14, he left. Alone.
I remembered what it felt like when I moved abroad as a teenager, chasing hoops across borders—into a new culture, an uncharted country and leaving behind every single person you’ve known in your life.
“I wasn’t even going to school before,” he admitted. “But in France, I started again. I learned everything. My goal was to not go back.”
He didn’t say it like someone running from his roots. He said it like someone determined to build new ones. And he did. Through grit, through relentless focus, and through basketball—his unexpected ally.
“At first, I just liked playing,” he recalled, with a jovial smile. “Then I realized… I could live off this. I could stay (in France). So I worked.”
That word—worked—came up a lot in our talk. It wasn’t flashy. It wasn’t some romanticized grind. It was survival, reshaped into discipline.
III. Secret Hoops and a Father’s Silence
If you’ve ever had to hide your love for something, you’ll feel this next part in your bones.
“I used to play basketball in secret,” Steeve revealed, his smile shrinking just a little. “My father hated the game.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. Steeve’s dad—like so many fathers from football-first cultures—saw basketball as a distraction. A waste. Not a path.
So Steeve hooped in silence. In hidden corners. Behind his father’s back. Every dribble was an act of quiet liberation.
Then came the opportunity: a chance to move to France through basketball. His father was furious—but he understood.
“He didn’t say it,” Steeve said, eyes softening, “but his actions showed that he supported me.”
That’s the kind of love a lot of us know. The unsaid kind. The love that doesn’t come in big declarations, but in late-night calls about Kobe stats, in unexpected pride.
“Now he loves basketball more than me,” Steeve laughed. “Man, I’d be asleep, and he’d be calling me like, ‘Did you see LeBron?’”
That part hit me. Steeve never needed the apology. He just needed the space to grow. And eventually, he got it. Through that growth, his own father’s mentality also evolved to a loving embrace of the game of basketball.
IV. Building a Career in the Shadows
Steeve Ho You Fat has spent his entire professional career in France—over 16 seasons of consistent, high-level competitive basketball. That’s not a stat that shows up in American media. It doesn’t trend. But it matters.
You see, in Europe, careers are built differently. There’s no “one-and-done,” no ESPN mixtapes. There’s just work. And Steeve has done a lot of work.
“I used to just crash the rim,” he told me, laughing. “Trying to dunk everything.”
But that version of him had to evolve. His body changed. The game changed. So he adapted.
“I wasn’t a great shooter. But basketball is like life—you gotta improve. You gotta survive. So I worked on my shot. Worked on my form. And now I can shoot.”
He’s not lying either. His three-point percentages speak for themselves—year after year, over 30%, often closer to 40%. He became what we now call a stretch four—years before the term was even common.
I nodded while he talked, because I knew that path. That moment in your 30s when you realize: you can’t play above the rim anymore. That crushing intensity takes an ever growing toll in an aging body. So you build a new weapon. A new rhythm. A new way to stay on the floor. Through the grit of hard-work and repetition, finesse is born to give a veteran new life.
But what really set Steeve apart? The playoffs.
“You work all season, all summer, for that game,” he reminisced. “Playoffs, man… that’s life or death. It’s not the same as the regular season. That’s survival mode.”
I felt it when he said it. Because I’ve been in that space—where the gym goes quiet between whistles, and every possession carries weight. The pressure either crushes you or sharpens you. For Steeve, it always sharpened him.
“I give 100% all the time,” he said, “but playoffs? Playoffs bring out another 100%.” Not everyone is built for that. The numbers don’t lie, the expected is that efficiency, total stats – you name it – go down as the competition goes to its highest levels. To go against the norm in this
setting, you need to be cut from a different cloth. From getting to know Steeve and relating to my own experience, I think the key to that is that same word: work. When you give 100% in every practice, every drill, you reap the rewards when the air gets thick. You don’t know any other way, so when all the chips are down, you give that 100% and then some, because that’s the culmination of all the blood, sweat and tears you put into reaching that point. In any fight, it’s the guy who’s willing to die who’ll come out on top. When that’s the only way you know how to play, the pressure is a privilege, an added bonus to that inner-fire.
V. The Viral Moment: “Yeah… That’s My Name”
I’ll never forget the look on Steeve’s face when we started talking about that game in Las Vegas. He gave me the kind of slow-building smile that says: “You already know where this is going.”
We were both laughing before the words even came out. Because how could we not?
His jersey had just gone viral in the United States. Not for a game-winner. Not for a fight or a dunk. For the name stitched across his back.
HO YOU FAT.
That night, the basketball world met Steeve. The memes exploded. Kevin Hart riffed on him during an appearance. People swore it had to be a joke. But that name, three words, was absolutely real. And it wasn’t just a name—it was legacy.
“I’ve been hearing jokes about it for 15 years,” Steeve told me, smiling, shaking his head. “At first, I didn’t get it. I didn’t even speak English that well. But when I realized what people meant? Yeah… that’s me. That’s my name.”
He leaned back in his chair, still grinning. “It is what it is.”
What I found beautiful was how grounded he was. Where most might get defensive—or feel reduced to a viral punchline—Steeve saw it differently. He saw opportunity.
“There’s a joke. But I’m glad there’s more than a joke,” he told me. “Now people come to me and want to know the story behind the name. That’s cool. That’s pretty cool.”
It was around this moment I caught myself reflecting, too. As someone who played in the U.S. system, coached college ball, and watched dozens of players try to hold on to relevance with everything they had—I knew what it meant for a guy like Steeve to go viral not for his game, but his name. And I respected the hell out of how he embraced it.
“You’ve got to understand,” he told me, “people want to buy my jersey now. With my name. That means something to my family. I come from a small country. Life is life—you never know what’s gonna happen.”
He paused, softer now. “So yeah… I’m gonna enjoy the moment.”
VI. Playing With Giants: Victor Wembanyama and the Humble Mirror
One of the coolest moments in our conversation came when I asked him what it’s like to play alongside the most hyped basketball prospect since LeBron James—Victor Wembanyama.
I expected something along the lines of “I’m being his vet, showing him the ropes.” Instead, Steeve just chuckled and looked down for a second, shaking his head. “Man,” he said, eyes wide with admiration, “he’s mentoring me.”
Let that sink in.
Here’s a 34-year-old veteran of France’s top leagues—someone who’s guarded EuroLeague stars, made playoff runs, survived the churn of pro ball—telling me that an 18-year-old is teaching him something new about the game.
But that’s Steeve.
“He’s got a different vision,” he said. “He’s not just playing. He’s creating. When he steps on the court, it’s like… freedom.”
We laughed remembering that one-legged three-pointer Victor hit in a game—the kind of shot you’d get benched for anywhere else. But Steeve knew it was coming.
“He was practicing it in the preseason,” he recalled. “He was like, ‘Yeah, I’m gonna try that in a game one day.’ And he did.”
That moment reminded me of my own time in the U.S., where playing at Hoosier state, we were taught discipline, execution, the right reads. If you missed a box-out? ‘To the line!’ is what we’d hear from coach, and a flurry of suicides would follow. But Victor? Victor’s from a different planet.
And Steeve gets it.
“When you’re around that kind of creativity, it opens you up too,” he said. “Even me, I’m learning. I’m 34, and I’m still learning.”
There was a moment of genuine admiration when Steeve told me, “If I have a son, I want him to be like Victor.” He wasn’t just talking about talent—he was talking about the humility, the way Victor treated teammates, helped in the locker room, stayed hungry.
“He could be different, you know?” Steeve said. “He has everything. And he’s still so respectful. That’s rare.”
I’ve met hundreds of players in my life. The great ones? They often carry ego like a badge. But Steeve? He carries reverence. Gratitude. You can see it in his face when he speaks about these moments—not as an aging veteran, but as someone wide-eyed in the presence of greatness. He recalled advising Victor during challenging moments to “enjoy the game” and reminded him, “You’re going to miss baskets, you’re going to lose games, but enjoy everything now.”
With his unique talent and Steeve’s sound advice, I’d say Wemby has everything to soon become the face of the game of basketball and hold that spot for several years to come.
VII. Identity, Dynasty, and What “Ho You Fat” Really Means
There was one moment in our conversation that caught me completely off guard—when I asked him about his name.
I expected a quick story, maybe some shrugging humor. But instead, I saw something shift. Steeve leaned forward a little, the smile giving way to something more serious.
“I don’t know the full story,” he admitted, “but what I do know is that Ho You Fat is part of a dynasty. A big one.”
He explained that his surname is composed of three Chinese characters, each holding significance in his family’s lineage. That family spread across Southeast Asia, the Caribbean, and eventually French Guiana. Different branches with variations like Ho Sim, Ho Chong Yu, Ho Ferg. But they were all connected.
“It’s a symbol,” he told me. “And now… the world knows it.”
We shared a moment there. Two sons of the diaspora. Both of us shaped by continents and cultures and families who often sacrificed more than they could ever explain. For Steeve, the name wasn’t just a punchline. It was proof that he—and the people behind him—had made it to the world stage.
And whether people came for the joke or the jump shot, they were going to leave with something deeper.
VIII. Leadership, Legacy, and Life After Basketball
Steeve knew then time was ticking.
“I’m 34,” he said back in 2022, matter-of-factly. “I want to play five more years at this level. But we’ll see.”
What struck me most is that he’s not afraid of what comes next. He was ready for it. While still suiting up as a pro, he finished his master’s degree in management. He’s already giving back in French Guiana, running youth camps and working with fellow ex-pro Kevin Seraphin to develop local talent.
“I want kids to have a better shot than I did,” he told me. “I want to build something that lasts.”
It reminded me of that post-playing void I felt—the moment the final buzzer sounds and you’re not sure who you are without a jersey. But Steeve? He’s walking toward that next chapter with his head high and his heart full. It felt very natural to him, same as I perceived that transition was for the late great Kobe Bryant, who made such a seamless and yet successful transition into his post-playing life. Or the trajectory of another AfroBaller, the legendary Dikembe Mutombo, who set the golden standard for leveraging what the game of basketball provided him with to give back – exponentially – to his community in the Motherland.
Steeve is building a legacy rooted in impact, not just stats. In giving back, not just going viral. In bridging generations, not just leading them.
And that’s why this story matters.
Not because of the name on the back of the jersey. But because of the man who wears it.
