Not A Game

What Allen Iverson Can Teach You About Writing

I watched the sixth episode of Ted Lasso last night. In case you haven’t seen it, there’s a scene where Ted gives a familiar-sounding lecture to a player who has decided to skip football practice. To American NBA fans, this speech is incredibly clever and funny. It’s a word-for-word reenactment of Allen Iverson’s infamous “Not A Game” rant. It is also plays well for fans of Nick Jonas, who heard the same speech in the bridge of his 2016 song Comfortable. Which category do I fall into? I’ll let you decide.

Iverson’s speech is seamlessly incorporated into the episode. Those unfamiliar with the original would have no sense of how bizarre it is, because – ingeniously – the characters never actually acknowledge it in the show. To people who aren’t fans of basketball and/or Nick Jonas, this speech was a serious moment cooked up in the writers’ room. For me it was hilarious, and it stuck with me for the rest of the evening.

“It’s easy to sum it up when you just talk about practice.”

Iverson made the speech (rant, whatever) in 2002. It had been a rough season and he was dealing with some real tragedies in his personal life. It was his answer to accusations from the press that he skipped practice – accusations that tend to threaten the reputation of a player. Iverson knew this and he was not going to stand for it:

“If somebody says, ‘He doesn't come to practice’ – it could be one practice. Out of all the practices this year – that’s enough. If I can’t practice, I can’t practice. If I’m hurt, I’m hurt.”

All of this sounds very reasonable to me. (I wish it had sounded reasonable to my hockey coach in high school, but that’s in the past now).

“I’m supposed to be the franchise player, and we're in here talking about practice. I mean, listen, we’re talking about practice. Not a game. Not a game. Not a game. We’re talking about practice. Not the game.”

Hearing Iverson’s speech again in a whole new context made me think about how universally applicable his take on practice is. In Ted Lasso, it’s a serious moment between a coach and an insolent player. In the song Comfortable, it’s a moment of self-reflection. Today, sitting down to write, I couldn’t stop thinking about how it even relates to my own life: to the practice of writing itself. Despite my recent vow to treat writing more like practice, I’ve struggled with the reality of it. It’s hard to know when to cut myself some slack and when to step up to the plate (to unashamedly mix sports metaphors). And that’s probably why Iverson’s speech is replaying in my head right now.

“We’re talking about practice.”

“Not the game, we’re talking about practice, man. I mean, how silly is that? I know I’m supposed to be there, I know I’m supposed to lead by example, I know that. And I’m not shoving it aside like it don’t mean anything.”

For some, this quote might look like a moment where Iverson comes full circle. But I don’t see it that way – I see it as an acknowledgement of the duality of practice. Because practice can be two things: something to be taken seriously, but also something that shouldn’t be taken too seriously. After all, it’s not the game.

Easier said than done, right? People aren’t good at holding two truths at the same time. We like labels, categories, putting things in boxes. There’s a misconception that nuance is a sign of weakness, a way to avoid bold statements and meaningful decision-making. Sometimes nuance can be a virtue, sometimes it can be a way of avoiding the inevitable. It’s the reason most first-year university essays conclude with some variation of “a little bit yes, but not entirely”.

In this case, nuance is necessary. Life is complicated; our inner lives are even more complicated. Practice is incredibly important, but stressing the importance of any task can often result in hours of avoidance or procrastination. I know this from personal experience – including the experience of writing this piece.

Famously, Iverson said the word “practice” 22 times during that speech. But he also said the word “game” a whole lot. It got me thinking about the relationship between practice and the game, and how it can help me reframe my approach to writing. Showing up for practice is crucial. You don’t have to show up every day, but you do have to show up. Once you’re there, you don’t have to perform particularly well. It’s just practice. But it’s so much easier to go into the game, and do the real work that people will see, with a solid history of practice under your belt.

“The actual game. When it matters.”

If I treat the first draft like the game, then I’ll never finish it. Why? Because a) I'm thinking too much about the audience and how I might be judged, instead of allowing for honesty and vulnerability to shine through and b) I’ll fall victim to perfectionism. I’ll read the same paragraph over and over, trying to figure out why it doesn’t read well. How silly is that?

Then I can approach the final draft like it’s the game. I allow the judgemental voices to speak up. I give it my everything; because now it matters, because people will read it. As Iverson says to the reporter who accused him of skipping practice:

“When you come into an arena ... you see me play, don’t you? You see me give everything I got, right?”

Because it’s alright to skip a day of practice every now and then. It’s okay to show up late, greasy-haired and eating breakfast at your desk. I don’t have to write an amazing first draft, because no one’s going to read it. Ultimately, it only matters that you show up for game. Sure, it helps if you’ve been practicing. But that's nobody’s business except yours.