What Consistency Builds When the Court is Crooked
Playing the Long Game
In high school, my coach told us to shoot 500 shots a day. “Consistency is how you get better,” he said.
So I did.
We had a court behind the house—a patch of yard my dad dug up with the tractor. He laid down shale and poured blacktop. The rim was slightly off, the surface never truly level—at least not the way a regulation court would be.
He built it for my older sister.
She had a beautiful shot. Graceful—balletic, even. When she rose up to shoot, her body curved inward like a V. The rotation on the ball was perfect—clean, tight. And every shot she took seemed to end the same way: swish, swish, swish.
She had raw, natural talent. The kind that didn’t need much shaping. But she walked away from the game. She admits now she wishes she hadn’t. I wish she hadn’t too.
But back then?
What could a girl with raw, natural basketball talent do beyond high school?
Not much. Caitlin Clark wouldn’t come along for decades.
But I stayed. I kept playing. I loved basketball. And maybe—if I’m being honest—I loved that my dad loved basketball. Maybe I wanted more of his attention. Maybe the game was my way of earning it.
I admired my sister, too—her grace, her talent. I wanted to follow in her footsteps. I wanted to shoot like her, move like her, be like her. She made the game look effortless. I wanted that kind of beauty to live in me, too.
So I practiced. I ran four miles a day. Lifted weights. Shot hundreds of shots.
I did what coach said.
I was consistent.
I wasn’t allowed to walk to Mansion Park—the nicer, regulation court across town. My mom was worried. The world felt unpredictable, especially for a girl alone. She was doing what she thought was best. What love told her to do.
Still, for me, it felt like a noose tightening. Like possibility shrinking. Like a boundary I wasn’t allowed to test.
On the rare occasions I made it there, I’d snuck out of the house. Not out of defiance—out of hunger.
For the game.
For space.
For something that felt like mine.
So I stayed on the crooked court.
And I got better—
at shooting a knuckleball.
That’s what they don’t tell you:
Consistency without the right conditions doesn’t make you great.
It just makes your habits harder to break.
I wasn’t lazy.
I was loyal.
Still, I warmed the bench—freshman year, sophomore year, junior year… because I played behind the stars of what people called the Golden Era of Lady Lion basketball.
During my junior year, I went to Cathy Rush Basketball Camp with some of my teammates. Coach wasn’t there.
And without his presence—without the roles, the labels, the system—I played free. I had the best camp experience of my life.
I played well.
Really well.
So well that letters from Division I coaches started showing up at our house.
But coach never knew.
He never asked, and I never told him.
I wasn’t a “star,” so he wasn’t particularly invested in helping me get into school, and I was never showy, so I didn’t “report.”
So the letters sat there, and that door stayed mostly closed.
I carried that disappointment into senior year. I could’ve let it harden me. But I didn’t. The stars were gone. The ones who’d led the Golden Era had graduated.
And suddenly—there was space.
Not for stardom.
But for leadership.
For heart.
For work.
We were predicted to be big, fat losers.
And maybe that’s what made us dangerous.
We lost more than half our first ten games.
But we practiced like our hearts were on fire.
I practiced like every scrimmage was a game. Pushed my teammates hard. Pushed myself harder.
We were workhorses. And we were relentless. And we made it—to the state semifinals.
No one thought we’d get that far. I’m not even sure we did. But we had hustle, and we had heart. And that had to matter, right?
We lost by twenty points to Penn Hills, a powerhouse in the PIAA.
I can still feel the weight of that loss.
But I did not feel defeat.
Because we went farther than anyone thought we could. And I helped get us there.
On the bus ride home, our point guard—just a junior—sat crying over the loss.
It. Pissed. Me. Off. And I may have unleashed on her. I’m not sorry.
She’d get another shot.
I wouldn’t.
This was it.
The show was over.
And I let her know—her tears were wasted; her sadness, useless.
Not because it didn’t matter. But because we had given everything. And I had given everything.
So now, when people talk about writing and posting content and say:
“Just be consistent.”
“Post every day.”
“Keep showing up.”
I think about that crooked court.
I think about the years I spent conditioning myself for someone else’s definition of success.
I think about the grit that no one clapped for until it went farther than anyone expected.
And I know this: consistency isn’t enough.
Without the right support, the right court, the right reason—it doesn’t build greatness.
It builds grief.
These days, I write instead of shoot. Unfold is my court now. The book I’m writing, too. And I still believe in showing up.
But I show up differently now.
I ask better questions:
Is this court even level?
Is this “success” really mine to chase?
Am I aiming for the spotlight—or for something I can live with when the show is over?
Because I don’t want to just keep shooting. I want to shoot true. And walk off the court knowing:
I gave everything.
But here’s what else I know:
After I graduated, I kept playing—summer leagues, then college ball at Penn State Altoona. And that summer, we played at Mansion Park. The Mansion Park.
I was on a team with the women who’d become my college teammates, playing against Altoona High—my alma mater.
I dropped 27 points in that game. Most of them threes.
And my old high school coach was in the crowd. He yelled out, “Holtzinger, when did you become a shooter?!”
And in that moment, I felt something I had never fully felt in all my years chasing minutes and approval:
Pride.
Not because I finally got noticed.
But because I knew the answer to his question:
I’ve always been a shooter. You just couldn’t see it from where you stood.
And just to be clear—I don’t resent him.
He was a good coach. Smart. Strategic. Ahead of his time. He was one of the first high school coaches—ever—to land a contract with Nike. We were all outfitted in sharp Nike gear, every single year I played. All of us.
And we were respected—not just as a team, but as a symbol. Our town showed up for us. Believed in us. We weren’t just players. We were a source of pride.
He led winning teams. He helped the stars on our roster land Division I scholarships. He knew how to spotlight talent.
He just didn’t always know how to shape it when it wasn’t already obvious.
And maybe that’s true for all of them—my sister, my mom, my dad.
Each gave me part of the game: the beauty, the boundary, the blacktop.
They didn’t always understand the path I was on. But they showed up the way they knew how. And they showed up consistently.
So now I wonder—was it the reps I put in?
Or was it their steady, imperfect, unwavering love that created the space for me to one day walk onto that court—not the high school court, but a new one—and score 27 points?
Maybe the truth is: it was never just the shooting.
It was the foundation beneath it.
The love that paved the court.
The belief—silent, maybe, but real—that I was worth the work.
And if I carry anything with me now, in my writing, in my living, in this unfolding life, it’s that kind of consistency.
The kind that lets someone become exactly who they were always meant to be.
