The Death of the Dawg 🏀

The game ain’t soft. The players are. And that ain’t just some tired old-head gripe either—it’s a fact, chiseled into the cracked wood of benches across the country, whispered by assistant coaches burning through antacids and sleepless nights.

Back in the day, you didn’t run when things got tight—you dug in. You didn’t call your parents to talk to the coach. You didn’t hop in the portal like it was a damn Uber. You sat in the trenches, tape on your ankles, rage in your chest, and earned every minute like your name depended on it. Because it did.

Now? They treat adversity like it’s radioactive. The moment the wind shifts—the slightest whiff of discomfort—they vanish. Poof. Gone. Off to the next school, next system, next promise. Looking for a shortcut, praying for comfort, hunting for someone to lie to them with stars and filters.

We’ve got kids who never sat the bench thinking they’re being wronged. Players who want the ball in crunch time but duck every hard rep in practice. Everybody wants to start, nobody wants to suffer. And make no mistake—suffering is the currency of greatness.

The game is spiritual warfare. A ritual. You gotta bleed a little. You gotta bury your ego. You gotta sweat when nobody's watching, grind when it’s cold, and rise when every voice tells you to fold.

But the culture now? It's selling a different sermon. Microwaved greatness. Pre-packaged glory. Trainers selling dreams, handlers whispering nonsense, parents walking around with stat sheets like résumés. Everybody’s a brand. Everybody’s “him.” But nobody’s ready to fight for it.

Coach David Bennett said it with preacher truth: “We need more dawgs.” Not recruiters’ favorites. Not social media superstars. Dawgs. The kind who walk into gyms and change the temperature. The kind who don’t need a mixtape because their presence is the highlight.

This ain’t just about basketball—it’s about what we’re raising. Are we building men or are we building brands? Are we teaching them to endure or to escape?

This game will expose you. Strip you to the bone. But that’s the point. That’s the beauty. You face it, or you run. And when you run long enough, the only thing waiting is regret.

We don’t need more players. We need more fighters. More sons of steel with cracked knuckles and heavy hearts, unbothered by the chaos because they were built in it.

You want to be great? Then stay. Stay when it’s hard. Stay when you're doubted. Stay when you're not the favorite. And fight like hell until you are.

Because the game don’t lie.

And neither do dawgs.