I’m a Shooter. That’s My Job. That’s What I Do.

Have you ever noticed that your toughest conversations rarely happen with other people?

They happen with yourself.

Long before I became a business executive, and long before I became an executive coach, I was a basketball player.

In high school, I had the privilege of playing alongside teammates who would go on to become McDonald’s All Americans. Later, I played college basketball. Nothing remarkable enough to make anyone remember my statistics, but enough to truthfully say I shared the floor with NBA Hall of Famer Dennis Rodman.

I say “shared the floor” because saying I played against Dennis Rodman gives me far more credit than I deserve. I just happened to be on the court while he dominated.

But the greatest lesson I learned from basketball didn’t come from a Hall of Famer.

It came from a teammate whose last name I can’t even remember.

To me, and to everyone else on the team, he was simply Little Marvin.

Little Marvin was a guard. More specifically, he was a shooting guard.

One practice, nothing was falling. Every jumper seemed to catch the rim and bounce away. I happened to be guarding him that day. While I’d love to tell you my defense had something to do with it, the truth is much less flattering.

It was simply an off night.

Then I heard him say something under his breath.

Not to me.

Not to our coach.

To himself.

“That’s okay. I’m a shooter. That’s my job. That’s what I do.”

I don’t know if that was an ongoing mantra for Little Marvin. I don’t know if he ever said those words again. But on that day, in that practice, I was guarding him so closely that I could hear him say them to himself.

He probably forgot that moment years ago.

I never did.

For him, it may have been a passing thought between missed shots. For me, it became a lifetime of leadership lessons.

Especially during seasons when I found myself on the outside of the outcomes I wanted.

When a client chose someone else.

When an opportunity disappeared.

When a project stalled.

When circumstances whispered that maybe I wasn’t who I believed myself to be.

I found myself returning to that practice.

To those words.

“I’m a shooter. That’s my job. That’s what I do.”

It took me years to understand why I never forgot that moment.

Little Marvin wasn’t trying to inspire anybody.

He was reminding himself who he was before taking the next shot.

I’ve seen executives lose that conversation with themselves.

I’ve lost it myself.

A promotion doesn’t happen, and suddenly you’re questioning whether you’re leadership material. A presentation goes poorly, and you wonder whether you’re really as effective as people believed. A client walks away. A strategy fails. A season doesn’t unfold the way you imagined.

Without realizing it, one outcome begins to negotiate with your identity.

Pressure’s first target isn’t your performance.

It’s your identity.

The leaders who endure aren’t the ones who never miss.

They’re the ones who refuse to let a missed shot answer the question, “Who am I?”

Which is why I still think about a teammate whose last name I’ve forgotten.

Because sometimes the most important lessons don’t come from people who set out to teach us.

They come from ordinary moments that quietly change the way we see ourselves.

I don’t know if Little Marvin ever said those words again.

I only know he said them once.

I was guarding him so closely that I could hear him.

Decades later...

I still can.

Questions to Sit With

• Where has a recent disappointment started negotiating with your identity?

• What truth about yourself do you need to remember before you take your next shot?

• What conversation are you having with yourself when no one else can hear it?

Power is built. Never granted.

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