How many ballplayers have you known who “never were”? In other words, you never saw someone with more hops, more handles, a “wetter” jump shot than ____________________. But _____________ never played one second in a real game with you because he quit too soon. He/She did not like how little he/she was playing – wanted 35 minutes a game instead of 20. He/She did not expect to be disciplined for violating team rules. So he/she gets to tell tall tales to his/her grandchildren of how some players are just too dominant to grace a high school team with
their expertise. Pardon the brief digression. This chapter poses this question: Why do you play? Is it because of who is watching you or because your dad expects big minutes? It did not take long for me to realize in high school and on my college team that I played for reasons other than the immediate gratification of minutes, points, rebounds etc. I was virtually un-recruited going into my senior season of high school. I was athletic but had two players on my team being recruited by Pacific-10 and Western Athletic Conference Schools. I was a low priority if a priority
at all. Just before season’s end I was introduced to the coach of a Division 3 college in Orange, California. The coach seemed to like me despite
my poor showing in a game he scouted when I defended a future NBA star. I applied and started college that fall at this particular university but seldom played. In fact, I was relegated to the junior varsity squad. I suited up for Varsity games but did not play. The way I saw it, all freshmen
went through this. But for me, one year turned into another frustrating year. I improved, weight trained, shot hundreds of jumpshots and still played in a unfamiliar position (post) though I was a guard. Junior college recruits and even one freshman played ahead of me. I often wondered why I did not quit. In the summers I sought out college leagues to sharpen skills against better competition and found my way onto teams with Division I caliber players. But the summer training seemed futile as I returned to my school and sat the bench most of my sophomore and junior seasons. I picked up garbage time minutes but never played in the crucial moments. I briefly entertained transferring schools after my sophomore year. There was at least one local coach of a private school near my home in the San Gabriel Valley who was interested in meeting with me to discuss how I could help his program. I cancelled the meeting and decided to stay put despite a chance to play on scholarship.
As a 19-year old going into my junior season I began to question whether or not transferring schools would be running from a fight. I had recently
passed on an opportunity to transfer schools which obviously makes me a glutton for punishment. (I have the tendency to blame myself for
hardships.) In other words, when I struggled to fit into the system of my college basketball program, I thought it was some sort of puzzle that simply needed solving. I figured that my ability to contribute to my team was I realized that instead of enjoying basketball because it was fun and
challenging I played it to prove my worth to others. contingent upon my own skill and understanding of a particular basketball philosophy that my coach had. Leaving the school seemed like admitting that I could not find a way to contribute at one of the lowest levels of college athletics. Consequently, I stayed and after some playing time early in the season I once again found myself watching most of the action. I became angry and embittered feeling trapped by a situation that daily revealed that I was obsessed with success as defined by the number of minutes played.
But an epiphany changed my perspective. I realized that instead of enjoying basketball because it was fun and challenging I played it to prove my worth to others. Has anyone ever told you that you have “drama” or “baggage”? Well I did and my drama was not even related to basketball. I put an immense amount of pressure on myself to be good because I wanted recognition. Coaches, family and teammates were why I played. But if I played to be heralded by onlookers, why was I suiting up for practice, giving up countless hours only to be disappointed come game time. Answer: I started a slow process toward understanding that I play because I enjoy how the sport makes me feel. I enjoyed being on a team, belonging to something. Some are the “Loner” types that don’t need to be around people or feel like they are a part of something bigger than themselves. That is not me. I realized that I do love team-oriented things. I also began to understand that only a select group of people ever even play college sports. The game became more of a gift to me, something I prized in and of itself. Every player wants to compete at a high level but why? As a younger athlete, the goal was always simple, “to be known, respected, worshiped, etc…” My reasons were arrogant just like all of yours.
Don’t fool yourself into thinking you’re just the “competitive type”. Long after my competitive days were done, however, I found that my newfound perspective would cause me to wonder just how good I could get. I thought it was foolish to still work at improving at something that no longer mattered. After all, my playing time was next to nothing. Nevertheless, I sought basketball mastery for mastery’s sake and I knew that this could not be defined purely by statistics. When I was ten years-old I used to walk to a park in Gardena, California with this undersized, raggedy basketball dribbling it from my sister’s grandfather’s house to the park. I never knew if when I got to the park there would be enough people to play a game. I did not have friends in Gardena to impress. I dribbled back-and-forth to the park because I liked basketball. That’s it. So then why should college have been any different? As time went on, I resolved to compete in every practice, maximize my level of conditioning, balance academic/school newspaper responsibilities with sports all the while proving to myself that I was committed to being the best that I could be. It sounds like a line from a movie but we must understand that we either operate from internal or external stimuli. When the external motivation to play is not provided, it is then that you must inventory your value for the game itself. Is it worth playing to you – to you? And that question is the point of this chapter. Is the team on which you play worth your time? I am not asking you if you feel your teammates are
worthless or if you perceive that you are better than the team for which you play. Rather, I am asking you the same question I asked myself,
“Are you playing for the wrong reasons.” If you play because you start the game, because people admire you or even because you need to
go pro to save your family from poverty, perhaps you are risking the loss of your satisfaction with the game itself. Plainly stated, you were once satisfied with the game in its purest form. The smell of the wood floor, the feel of the ball when it leaves your hand, the sound of squeaky feet shuffling to make plays and even the hollow sound of dribbling are among the amenities we all enjoy most about basketball. Perhaps your sport is not basketball but hopefully the application of this lesson is universal. It is in your control to enjoy the sport and teammates. How often a coach plays you is not within your control. It is in your control to prepare yourself physically and mentally for competition. It is outside of your control to determine how high up you are in a professional draft. On any given day, remember that your best is usually something no
team can afford to do without. Lest you think that I am prescribing that you learn how to like losing, relax. I will address vindication in the last
chapter. Where does all this stuff get you in the long run? You’ll find out.
It’s not accurate to say I sat the bench my whole career because I didn’t. But sitting on the side when you’d rather be in the game affords some strange lessons. You begin to wonder why you signed up, tried out, accepted the scholarship, etc. The photo is the reason I decided to start writing about lessons learned through what the world commonly calls failure. The photo is without a caption because I was at a loss for words when I wrote this post. What words go under this picture? Hmmm. I can tell you what words go above it. “Warm it up Norman!” I wrote that statement on a piece of an index card in college and attached it to this photo then placed it on my wall in my dormitory next to about 70 other posters and magazine photos of NBA players. There it was – the collage of greatness featuring players from KG fresh out of Farragut Academy to The Admiral David Robinson formerly of the San Antonio Spurs. Then there was this picture of me enjoying a moment with teammates at the tail end of a blowout against an opponent I don’t even remember. To me the picture represented failure, a constant reminder that I wasn’t good enough to play big minutes throughout college. It took me roughly 10 years to realize that this photo represented growth, resilience and so many other qualities that we need to make it through life. 10 years means that I was 31 when I could reminisce about basketball without feeling like a loser.
There’s an anonymous quote that says,