"Some games you design for the players and some games you design for yourself." - Sid Meier
Have a schema (representation of the world). We serve a basketball experience every day. Entering a restaurant, we 'expect' a sequence (greeting, seating, waitstaff, ordering, beverages, etc.). Exceptional relates to service and food execution. How does our basketball schema differ from our players'? How can we model a "quality" schema that they can bring forward?
Does our team play and execute a defined style or is it random? If I were a player, would I want to play that way? As a fan, do I want to watch that?
Imprint your core:
"This is what we do."
"This is how we do it."
"This is who we are." (That is who we are not.)
Learn from watching practice and games. Constantly revisit assumptions (where am I right; where am I wrong?). Defenders have to be like a sheepdog. They can't just watch one sheep; own the herd.
Separate signal from noise. Where are the bugs?
"Every book ever written is about someone searching for something." - Matt Haig
What do we see through coaches eyes?
OFFENSE
- How good is the spacing?
- How long are players holding the ball before making decisions?
- Do players immediately put the ball on the floor?
- Does the ball get paint touches and ball reversal?
- What is the average quality of shots? Develop a scoring system for shot quality.
- Do we not score because of shot quality, ability, or both? (The quality of shots relates to the quality of passing.)
- Where are we scoring?
- How are we scoring (cutting, pick-and-roll, catch-and-shoot, putbacks, isolation?)
DEFENSE
- Is there ball pressure?
- Do defenders arrive in proximity to the catch (color to color)?
- Are post defenders active or totems?
- What is the level of communication?
- How much penetration is allowed?
- Do we challenge shots without fouling?
- How energized is the transition defense?
- Where are the opponents scoring?
Keep editing our process, making a better experience for players, families, fans, and assistants.
Lagniappe: a stunning poem from Billy Collins (The Lanyard)
The other day as I was ricocheting slowly
off the blue walls of this room
bouncing from typewriter to piano
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the 'L' section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word, Lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past.
A past where I sat at a workbench
at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips into a lanyard.
A gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard.
Or wear one, if that's what you did with them.
But that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand
again and again until I had made a boxy, red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold facecloths on my forehead
then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim and I in turn presented her with a lanyard.
'Here are thousands of meals' she said,
'and here is clothing and a good education.'
'And here is your lanyard,' I replied,
'which I made with a little help from a counselor.'
'Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth and two clear eyes to read the world.' she whispered.
'And here,' I said, 'is the lanyard I made at camp.'
'And here,' I wish to say to her now,
'is a smaller gift. Not the archaic truth,
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took the two-toned lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom
would be enough to make us even.'
off the blue walls of this room
bouncing from typewriter to piano
from bookshelf to an envelope lying on the floor,
I found myself in the 'L' section of the dictionary
where my eyes fell upon the word, Lanyard.
No cookie nibbled by a French novelist
could send one more suddenly into the past.
A past where I sat at a workbench
at a camp by a deep Adirondack lake
learning how to braid thin plastic strips into a lanyard.
A gift for my mother.
I had never seen anyone use a lanyard.
Or wear one, if that's what you did with them.
But that did not keep me from crossing strand over strand
again and again until I had made a boxy, red and white lanyard for my mother.
She gave me life and milk from her breasts,
and I gave her a lanyard
She nursed me in many a sick room,
lifted teaspoons of medicine to my lips,
set cold facecloths on my forehead
then led me out into the airy light
and taught me to walk and swim and I in turn presented her with a lanyard.
'Here are thousands of meals' she said,
'and here is clothing and a good education.'
'And here is your lanyard,' I replied,
'which I made with a little help from a counselor.'
'Here is a breathing body and a beating heart,
strong legs, bones and teeth and two clear eyes to read the world.' she whispered.
'And here,' I said, 'is the lanyard I made at camp.'
'And here,' I wish to say to her now,
'is a smaller gift. Not the archaic truth,
that you can never repay your mother,
but the rueful admission that when she took the two-toned lanyard from my hands,
I was as sure as a boy could be
that this useless worthless thing I wove out of boredom
would be enough to make us even.'
