People sometimes ask why I take things so personally when it comes to my sons — why I still speak with so much fire when I talk about their journey. The truth is, I’ve got a chip on my shoulder. It’s not born from anger or resentment; it comes from memory. I remember every early morning workout, every tournament where they barely touched the floor, and every stretch when no college coach picked up the phone. I remember the looks of doubt, the quiet moments after tough games, and the determination that never faded. That chip didn’t just appear; it was earned through years of showing up and believing when no one else did.
My boys weren’t handed a path. There were no shortcuts, no guaranteed minutes, and no special treatment. What they had was work — and we leaned into it. We spent years training in driveways before sunrise, finding open gyms on weekends, and driving for hours just to compete. I can still picture the morning light bouncing off the rim while they shot jumpers, one of them drenched in sweat before most kids even woke up. Those moments built more than skill; they built identity. When you’ve lived that kind of grind, you carry it with you. You don’t forget the sacrifices or the silence. You don’t forget what it took for them to belong.
That chip, for me, isn’t bitterness — it’s proof. It’s proof that discipline still matters, that consistency beats politics, and that showing up day after day still counts in a world that often rewards shortcuts. I’ve learned to turn frustration into fuel. That edge keeps me grounded and reminds me that my job as a father isn’t to protect my sons from difficulty, but to prepare them for it. Every tough moment is a lesson. Every overlooked opportunity is motivation. And every breakthrough — no matter how small — is proof that persistence pays off.
There’s a special kind of weight that comes with watching your child give everything and still not get the recognition they deserve. As a parent, that’s hard to swallow. You want to fix it, but deep down you know the struggle is shaping them. You start to realize that the process is the point. You stop chasing validation and start trusting the work. That’s when the chip transforms from frustration into perspective. It becomes a constant reminder of who you are and why you started.
Over the years, that mindset has shaped how I parent, how I coach, and how I live. The chip has never been about proving people wrong — it’s about helping my sons prove themselves right. It’s about being the steady presence when things don’t go their way, and the voice that reminds them that preparation will always outlast perception. I’ve carried that mentality into everything I do, both as a father and as a mentor, because it’s not just about basketball — it’s about life. The same lessons that built them as players are building them as men.
When I look back now, I realize that chip is the heartbeat behind everything we’ve built — from those early driveway sessions to this platform. It represents belief, discipline, and presence. It’s what drives me to share these stories and lessons with other parents who understand what it feels like to raise a dream from the ground up. Because at the end of the day, the chip isn’t about anger — it’s about love with a memory. And sometimes, that’s exactly what keeps you moving forward.