At the 2025 Summer League, I was hooping.

My feet felt light as I sprung up and down the court. I didn't hear the coaches on the sideline. I wasn't thinking about past mistakes or worried about future problems. There was flow. There was presence.

It didn't matter.

Before the last game, the Hawks had signed their entire roster. There was no spot for me. I still had to play. I was horrible. My shoulders hung an inch lower. My breath moved through my body seconds quicker. Every step on the court felt like a funeral for something I'd spent my whole life chasing.

The next day I flew to Houston to grab my stuff. Twelve hours to sell my car, pack my apartment, and get on a plane to Chicago to see my brother. In the panic, I squeezed in a phone call with my performance coach, Cody.

My phone was on the dashboard. The windows fogged up. The moment the call connected, I broke.

I yelled about the stupid NBA. I ranted. I never made eye contact. My feet pushed against the floor of the car while my back bent the top of the seat, making sure the car would never forget these last few moments together. I let out all of my disappointment.

Cody sat and listened. He was quiet for a long moment. Then he thanked me for the journey we'd been on together. He challenged me to reflect on the last year when the time was right. We hung up. I wound down the windows to let the car breathe and drove off to the mechanic.

On the plane, squished between a stranger and the window, I pulled out my notes. I started writing question after question. I couldn't answer any of them. I was still too close to the storm. But one question stuck.

Who do I need to become to hold my NBA dream?

The next year raced by. I finished a season with Cairns in the NBL. Became a father and played half a season in Puerto Rico.

Fourteen months after the phone call with Cody, I was back in offseason mode. Booking courts online. Texting my brother about trainers. Researching drills on YouTube at midnight. All while navigating life with my wife and new baby, Oaklynn.

The Sunday night before it all began, I couldn't sleep. My mind raced over whether I'd forgotten anything. I had.

The first week was a mess. I got my times wrong. I was slow to reply to people. It was clunky, inefficient. Midway through the week, while firing off messages, ignoring others and apologizing for late replies, it clicked.

I had to become more efficient off the court. I called Cody.

He defined the issue as a lack of integrity. I wasn't being true to my word. I wasn't being true to myself. This wasn't the first time he'd brought it up.

He was right, in some places. I reply to Beth on time. I'm never late to my trainer's workout. I always show up for a coach or mentor. But when it comes to being true to myself, I'm no good.

I snooze alarms. My phone overflows with unopened messages. My email has hit 999+ on the notifications. I eat the Reese's cup if no one sees.

It's in these small, silent moments, when I'm alone, that I needed to grow.

Cody put me through three steps.

Step one: Create a vision.

We built a clear picture of the 10/10 integrity version of myself.

10/10 integrity Jack doesn't snooze his alarm. I change the toilet paper roll when it's empty. I reply on time, I take notes in my phone that help organise my life. I check these notes when I wake up and before I go to sleep. When I am alone I don't eat the unhealthy snack or mindlessly scroll on Instagram. I organise our finances. I lead our breathwork and mindfulness practices. I check in on friends. I organise catch-ups and get-togethers. When I start a hobby, I create something meaningful. When I say I am going to do something, I get it done. I have integrity.

When I wrote it, I felt the energy swirl within. When I read it back, the same feeling lights me up. On my phone there are visions of myself as a basketball player, a husband, a father, a writer. Defining who I want to be helps me navigate the daily noise of temptations and tiredness.

Step two: Create a villain.

We talked about people in my life with low integrity and how it affected my relationship with them.

When a coach says they'll get you film and doesn't. When a friend says they'll get back to you and never does. You're left feeling unimportant. You question if they care about you.

Then we switched roles. We imagined the people I love distancing themselves from me. We imagined how they would feel when I don't reply, when I don't do what I promised. When they can't trust me.

I don't want that sick feeling in my stomach when my wife can't rely on me. I don't want my son to grow up with a father whose word means nothing. On the tough days, the days I'm tired, I think about that version of myself. The villain.

Step three: Build systems.

We put a plan together. A phone box in my house where I can't touch it. An app that blocks my social media. A rule: no sitting on the couch when I get home.

The systems started the flow. I'd do one small task. I'd confirm to myself: I am a person with integrity. That feeling got me to do another task. The cycle repeated.

Becoming a person of integrity has been one of the most rewarding changes I've made off the court. In a short time, I've had more meaningful conversations with my loved ones. My phone causes me less anxiety. My inner confidence has grown.

I'm not perfect. Some days I still leave my tax guy on read. I forget to grab something from Woolworths. I eat the Reese's cup.

But after every step back, I take steps forward. I am finding joy in changing the toilet paper roll. In having a clean inbox. In replying to a friend.

I don't know if this version of me makes it back to the NBA. But he's the one I want to be either way.