A Day That Almost Broke Me

I woke up that morning not with fire—but with fatigue.

Not from the schedule, not from the coaching… but from the emotional weight of being a volunteer coach carrying the hopes and development of these kids—and wondering if it even matters anymore.

There’s no guidebook for this. No rulebook that tells you how to process discouragement when it comes from all sides.

The first hit came in the form of an email—from a player’s guardian.

He wouldn’t be at Saturday’s playoff game. He’s attending a basketball camp.

And while that might seem minor, it cut deep.

We’re two games away from a championship three-peat. The commitment had been made long before the camp.

And I found myself thinking—not with anger, but with honest disappointment—Does that matter to anyone else but me?

Then came another email—from my son’s mom.

A long message about next season. Concerns about continued involvement. Logistics. Uncertainty.

And while I understand it all… it added weight. Because I’ve invested in my son not just as a father, but as a coach, as a mentor, as someone trying to build something real—not just in him, but through him.

And then the final blow—walking into the gym… and seeing only four players show up to the most important practice of the season.

The Thought That Crossed My Mind

I’ll be honest: I considered not coaching this season to the end.

Not because I don’t love this team.

But because something shifted. I felt like I was carrying all of it alone.

The belief. The planning. The energy.

In that moment, it felt like everyone else had moved on.

Kids treating it like “just the YMCA.” Parents already into summer mode.

Even Nathan, who’s been through the full arc of this program, wasn’t at practice.

And part of me thought: maybe this is the universe saying, “Let it go.”

But then… they walked in.

The Core Walks In

The original remaining four players from the first championship.

The original culture-carriers.

The ones who built this with me.

The ones who were there when we didn’t know how to win, and who were there when we figured it out.

And seeing them walk in—it brought me back.

With no plan, no dramatic reset, I simply decided something:

I decided: nothing changes.

We run our system.

We honor the routine.

We practice like this is a championship week.

Because it is.

Same Practice. Different Numbers.

So I ran it exactly the same way we always do.

Usually, we start in two lines of five. Today? One line of four.

Our defensive shuffle warm-up? Still did it.

Our signature A/B circle? I modified it just slightly—one from each “group” circled, leaving the other two awkwardly standing alone.

One player laughed awkwardly, feeling out of place. I told him:

“Good. Stay there. Feel it. Because this is what consistency feels like—even when things are different.”

Then we huddled.

“Who are we?”

“Hornets!”

“What do we do?”

“Hustle hard!”

“One, two, three…”

“Swarm!”

Back to Coaching

And something lit back up in me.

We went through our offensive set—just one play. That’s all we’re running on Saturday. And it started clicking.

Later, they wanted to play 1-on-1. The shots were off, energy scattered, and it looked rough. I pulled them together again.

“That’s not how we end practice. Let’s run our play again.”

They ran it. Scored.

That’s the note we ended on.

Clean. Crisp. Intentional.

And just like that—I was coaching again.

Not surviving. Leading.

Why This Practice Meant Everything

It wasn’t about what we did. It was why we did it.

Because it’s easy to stick to a system when everything goes right.

It’s when things fall apart that systems prove their worth.

This is how we’ve gone 27–3 since creating the AI Assistant Coach and implementing structure.

It’s not talent alone.

It’s culture.

It’s commitment.

It’s clarity.

These four? They brought all of it.

And so did I.

The View from Across the Gym

As we practiced, I noticed the Clippers on the other side of the court.

And they looked different.

Tighter. More cohesive. More confident.

I walked over to their young coach, looked him in the eye, and said:

“I see it. Y’all are coming together. Good work.”

Then I turned back to my players and said:

“Forget the Lakers. Forget the Warriors. When we make it to the finals, it’s the Clippers we may need to prepare for.”

But I reminded them—we’ve been doing this longer. We’ve been doing this better.

And while other teams are starting to find unity—we’ve been living it.

What I Told Them at the End

“You four showed up. And that’s why we’re going to win.”

“Even if it’s just five of us on Saturday, we’ll run what we practiced. We’ll execute. We’ll control the pace.

And when we walk off that court, we’ll feel exactly what we’ve always felt: pride, belief, and results.”

Because this isn’t about numbers.

It’s about intention.

The Hidden Message to Every Hornet

If you’re a player reading this…

This is what commitment looks like.

Not just showing up when it’s easy—but showing up when you could’ve walked away.

That’s what champions are made of.

When we win this playoff game—it won’t be because of individual talent.

It’ll be because of what happened Thursday night.

Four players.

One coach.

And a system that never broke.

Thank You

To the ones who showed up: you carried the culture.

To the ones who’ll be there for the finals: you carry the legacy.

And to everyone else watching…

This is what the Hornets are made of.

Let’s go get it.