(or, how do you become great?)
A few days ago, the Las Vegas Aces played the Seattle Storm in a WNBA matchup. The Aces won, which was good for me because, if you’ve followed me much, you know I’ve become a big fan of the W and the Aces in particular. I was lucky enough to come to Las Vegas just as the Aces run began in earnest, and after attending a game in person, I was hooked.
I love basketball best when it’s played below the rim.
I don’t want to talk about the game, though. Nor even the Aces.
I want, instead, to talk about one Ace. The Ace of all Aces. The A’ce, if you will: A’ja Wilson.
And I don’t want to talk about what she does on the floor in the middle of the game, though. Instead, I want to talk about what she did on the floor an hour before the game.
To set the stage (and for those who don’t know), A’ja Wilson is, relative to her league, arguably the greatest player of her time. Actually, it’s not even arguable at this point. Like all sports leagues, the W has a lot of great players, and on any given day one or another might win out, but at this point you have to be a real homer or a world-class hater to point to anyone but A’ja Wilson as the best, most valuable, most coveted player in the league. Beyond raw numbers and beyond individual awards, the bottom line is that her teams win. Last season, for example, she took a team that was floundering and, by her force of will, drove them to their third championship in four seasons. I think it’s fair to say that every GM in the league would trade whatever it took to get her. When the PA guy announces her at games, she’s the “Best Player on the Planet, Period.” And, as you can tell, I think that’s true. For now, anyway.
As a cherry on top of that, given how talent grows over time, this makes her the greatest to ever play the game, again, for now.
Note: I use that “relative to her league” phrase above to acknowledge the differences between the M and the W, as well as every other sport in existence. I’m not trying to tell you that A’ja Wilson would be a star in the M. She might have her moments, but as I said, the game in the M is a different beast. I’m telling you that in the context of the sport she plays, she’s the elite of the elite. She’s the Michael Schumacher of her sport. The Shohei Ohtani. There’s no one really close to her.
All that stage being set, here’s the thing I want to talk about today.
We arrived at the Seattle game earlier than usual. Early enough to watch as, in front of a nearly empty arena, A’ja Wilson, the greatest player on the planet, was out on the floor with an array of trainers and guys I assume are part of the club’s practice squad, running drills. No one else was there. Or, rather, there were two players for the Storm on their end of the floor, shooting—loosening up, basically. But A’ja Wilson was not loosening up. She was, as I said, running drills. Reps of five. Post moves inside. Receiving high passes. Receiving low passes. Moving. Gathering herself. Going to the rim. Turning for jumpers.
It took me a few moments to realize what she was doing.
But as I watched, I saw what it means to be great.
A’ja Wilson—Best Player on the Planet, Period—put in twenty solid minutes of what experts would call deliberate practice. Station to station, move to move, including a series where one of her practice partners deliberately bumped her in the middle of all her moves.
And including a series of give-and-go stations. Including a ball-handling thing that I swear will make her even more unstoppable when she brings it out in a game.
Between each station, she went to the free throw line for two shots.
Twenty minutes.
It was one of the most uplifting things I’ve ever seen. With no one watching, someone at the top of her game, working. Focusing on the details. Breaking her process down into small pieces. Doing the reps with the intensity of a rookie, but the clarity of a true professional.
Later, in the middle of the game, A’ja got the ball in the precise location of one of those stations she ran. She jabbed a fake right, then dribbled once and turned left to hit one of those beautiful mid-range jumpers she has. I looked at one of the friends we had gone to the game with, and over the din of the crowd, yelled, “that’s exactly what she practiced!”
Her numbers for the game: 34 points, 12 rebounds, 9 assists, 3 blocked shots.
Yes.
The Greatest Ever.
For now.
I’m not sure what message I want you to take from this little essay of mine, but I do want you to think about it. Whoever you are. Whatever you do. I want you to think about loving something so much that, even in the quiet moments when no one is really watching, you give it all of your heart.
I want you to think about what it means to show up like A’ja Wilson showed up, even when you are already the Best at whatever it is you’re the best at.
You will get your own answer, of course.
But at my core, I’m a writer.
Thinking about A’ja’s practice session makes me want to write. A word at a time. A phrase, maybe.
A snip of dialog that makes me smile.
A line that I love.
A line that might, if I work it just right, make it into this story I’m working on.