An athlete’s journey: learning to quit

Photo by Rocky Lin

A young eighth grade Christina brings the ball down the court against a press during a Tri City PA-PAP Squad game against Tri City Shoyu Sisters in 2018.

After eight years of playing basketball, my athletic career came to an end my junior year. Unlike the senior night celebration many high school athletes envision, my years-long journey was capped off with a game where I sat on the bench the whole way through — much like the rest of the season. 

So I quit.

As this year’s girls’ basketball season has come to a close, I’ve decided it’s time I take the opportunity to reflect on that decision.

Many people talk about how quitting shows a lack of commitment. But by the start of my senior year, I realized quitting was actually the brave thing to do, and staying was the coward’s way out — at least for me. 

For me, it’s easy to stay. I start something when I’m young; it becomes a hobby; I invest myself in it and spend dozens of hours a week doing it because it’s what I love. And it becomes a routine — staying. 

But quitting is straying from what’s expected. It takes choosing to put yourself first and standing up for what’s best for you. And that was my story with basketball. 

Early years: perseverance despite setbacks

Mine was the generic story of an athlete learning persistence and perseverance through a sport. And I think that’s still true. I was always just good enough to make a team, but not good enough to receive significant playing time. 

I’d play six days a week at one point, at least two hours a day. Over the years, I played on several club and recreational teams: Buena Vista, Fremont Youth Ball Club, Tri City, Top Flight Elite Amateur Athletic Union (AAU), National Junior Basketball (NJB) and Silicon Valley Basketball Club. The goal since I started? To play on my high school varsity team. And I achieved that in my junior year. I’m proud that I did. 

On the surface, it seems like just the picture perfect story of someone achieving their childhood dream. But below the surface, I faced a number of challenges with the sport. 

I was told by my coach in fourth grade that basketball wasn’t my sport — that maybe I should try something else. But I was given a second chance, and decided to continue. 

Then I tried out for my middle school team in sixth grade. With two years of experience under my belt, I thought getting on the team would be easy. Turns out, that was not the case. 

Receiving the email that I was one of only a few girls who didn’t make the team — despite my years of practice compared to many who were completely new to the sport — was a punch to the gut. What made it worse was that the day after tryouts, other students asked if I was going to practice. My cheeks flushed in embarrassment as I replied that I had been cut.

But as I dribbled on the sidelines during my older brother’s practice (he was in seventh grade at the time), the coach — who happened to also be the coach for the girls’ team — walked up to me and, ironically, asked why I hadn’t tried out. In disbelief, I explained that I had tried out but didn’t make the cut. He had me practice with the boys’ team for the day and ultimately guaranteed me a spot on the following year’s team, where he introduced me as “a valuable new addition.” 

That year, my teammate invited me to join an outside-of-school NJB team. I met coaches who, for the first time, believed in me from the very start — coaches who had confidence in me, who played me as a starter and who truly believed I was good at the sport.

High school: coming to the difficult decision to quit

So when it was announced the NJB coaches would be the new JV girls’ basketball coaches my freshman year, I was excited. I thought I’d find that supportive environment again and maybe even be a starter. But halfway through the season, I was benched. I felt like the only coaches who had ever believed in me had lost their confidence in me.

I took sophomore year off due to the pandemic. By my junior year, the coaches were hired as the new varsity coaches. I had played for so many years just to make the varsity team, and junior year was my chance to achieve that goal. I signed up thinking maybe it would be different — with the starting seniors graduated, maybe I’d receive more playing time. Then I was benched pretty much the entire season. 

Yet even into my senior summer, a part of me wanted to continue with the sport. It was the sunk cost fallacy; I wanted to finish off strong. When you play senior year, you’re celebrated. You’re given an honorable leave with a dazzling senior night: speeches in your honor, heartfelt gifts, crowds cheering you on. Quitting doesn’t earn that level of respect. 

Years of dedication and hard work meant I began to tie my identity to basketball and my self-worth to the external validation of receiving play time on the court. 

I cared whether I played; I cared whether I was good; I cared whether I could contribute to the team; and most of all, I cared about the fact that I cared so much. Because I cared, each turnover I made, each shot I missed and each foul I made slowly ate away from me. 

I was the last to leave the bench and the first to get taken out of the game. And when I was benched time and time again, my self-confidence became depleted. I’d cry after most practices and games and lie awake late at night overthinking what occurred on the court. My mental health deteriorated. My grades fell.

The turning point was when I had a post-junior season 3 a.m. conversation with a friend about quitting. He brought up the questions: “This year, did you actually enjoy being on the team? Were there moments where you thought, ‘This is why I joined basketball. This is why I play. This is why I love the sport. This is why it’s special to me?’”

It stung when I realized I didn’t have any of those moments during the season, and if I did, I must’ve forgotten about them since the bad very clearly outweighed the good. I didn’t love being on the team as much as the idea of being on the team. I didn’t want to play so much as prove to myself that I could accomplish my goal of making the varsity team.

The conversation closed with him saying I had two choices: 1) continue playing, maybe get benched and be sad or maybe get more playing time next year and be happy; or 2) don’t play and escape the anxiety and stress that may come with it, but maybe feel bad about not finishing through high school and regret it in the future. 

As painful as it was, I chose the latter.

While a small part of me still yearned to have my own senior night last month as friends I’ve played with and against posted on social media about theirs, I’ve found solace in realizing I made the right choice for me. 

Some of my most cherished childhood memories are of weekends spent commuting all across the Bay for tournaments. My teammates and I would sit along the sidelines munching on concession snacks like Furikake Chex Mix and butter mochi as we watched friends on other teams compete. When it came our turn, we’d feed off the adrenaline rush and play our hearts out. We’d finish off the night celebrating victories with team dinners where we’d joke around, burst with laughter and use leftover food to try and mix the grossest concoction possible. 

And when I look back at these experiences, it seems unfortunate that I didn’t play through my last year of high school as a younger me had dreamed. However, in my more recent years of playing, I didn’t find the same joy in the game that I had in my early years. Quitting both spared me the pain of another year of disappointing myself and allowed me to redirect my attention to other activities that more closely align with my current interests.

I also found closure in my athletic career by knowing I had accomplished what I wanted with basketball — in fact, I accomplished more than what I wanted. I wanted to make my varsity team, and I did. I met new people — people who are still among my closest friends to this day. 

And beyond that, I got to use my skills for good. I got to coordinate and direct a basketball camp for the neurodivergent community. I helped coach an NJB team teaching third- through fifth-grade girls fundamental basketball skills. I got to scorekeep and operate the scoreboard for two NJB winter seasons so fifth- through eighth-grade boys could compete against each other. All these experiences were incredibly fulfilling.

Development of this story: end of an era

I’ve written many variations of this story. It began as a Journalism 1 personal column assignment. I later added a 2 a.m. brain dump I had written in my Notes app in the summer going into my sophomore year. A 5 a.m. rant written in junior year directly after the aforementioned conversation I had with a friend is also woven in. Additionally, I included a few senior year insights I gained upon reflecting on my experiences for a college essay.

Each version contained a different ending. The first, written before my freshman season, reflected on my middle school experience: “Amazed that I could keep up [with the boys’ team], Coach guaranteed me a spot on the next year’s school team, where I ended up being a starter as well as ‘a valuable new addition to the team.’”

Another, as I was heading into junior year, was “And now my first varsity season is approaching. So let the dream begin — I’m ready.” 

And yet another, written just after junior year — admittedly a bit cheesy — detailed enjoying the moments of joy amid the difficulties: “At the end of the day, it’s not about how many points you scored, assists and steals you made or rebounds you secured; those are just numbers on a statistics sheet, and numbers don’t tell the full story. It’s about the memories you made — the good and the bad, both of which are equally important to represent the wholeness of life itself.”

This story has grown with my experiences. As my high school years come to a close, it only seems right that I finally cap this story off. So I’ll end it with this: Basketball served its purpose and more in my growing up. Sure, it was challenging at times, but it taught me a key lesson about moving on — that quitting is sometimes a testament to one’s courage rather than one’s cowardice. I still love basketball. I’m grateful for every experience I’ve had with the sport. But I’m proud of myself for understanding it’s OK to grow out of something and quit when it no longer aligns with my current interests and future goals.