The art of improving

Most people don't improve.

Day in and day out they show up, put in the work, and don't get any better at what they do. It's extremely noticeable in sports. Players train and practice year-round but never grow or develop on the court.

I was this player.

In college I worked hard, listened to the coaches, tried my best. But I got worse on the basketball court. My skill declined. Confidence collapsed. Eventually, I was benched, leading to me dropping out.

Improvement is rare. In college I thought showing up and working hard was enough. It's not. Improving is a skill in itself.

Over the last eight years as a pro, I've studied how to improve. It worked. I went from college dropout to playing in the NBA.

These are my NBL points per game, season by season: 3.4, 6.0, 9.4, 12.2, 14.8, 17.3, 21.2.

Consistent improvement every year. That isn't luck. Improving is a skill.

I was in Abu Dhabi for the FIBA World Cup qualifiers. Recently, I had spent a couple months learning how to rope flow—the practice of swinging a heavy rope around your body in different patterns.

By the beach on a hot day, the boys got curious about what I was doing and wanted to learn. I decided to teach them the underhand sneak, an intermediate move.

One by one they tried but couldn't get it.

Until Perth Wildcats young superstar Ben Henshall stepped up. He watched and listened. Made some mistakes. I offered to teach him an easier move. He shook his head in disgust and replied, "Nah bro, I'm really quick at improving at things."

This response stunned me.

In the next 15 minutes, he was the only one out of all the boys to get the underhand sneak.

I have zero doubt that Ben will achieve success in his life, because he holds an extremely powerful belief. He sees himself as a professional improver. That's his identity.

No matter what tricks, theories, or drill design you come up with, none of it will matter if you don't have the improver's mindset. I've been studying what internal factors make a great improver my whole career. Four pillars stand out.

You can't improve what you won't see.

In college I hid from film, feedback, and confrontation. When things didn't go well I blamed the coaches. When my body struggled I blamed circumstances. When I made mistakes I blamed teammates.

This left me blinded. I wasn't sure where my weaknesses were, what I was doing wrong, or how to correct errors—all because my ego wasn't letting me see the truth.

Yes, it hurts to feel the weight of your mistakes. But that is the only way to improve.

When Ben was practicing rope flow, he didn't care about looking stupid. He asked for feedback. He knew that to get that move down, he needed to see clearly. He needed honesty—his own and mine.

When I was 23 years old I struggled to put my shoes on in the morning. I could barely move on the basketball court. Retirement felt close.

My back pain had been slowly getting worse for five years. I did my physio-recommended exercises, got scans done, did everything I thought I was supposed to do. But it still got worse. I was grinding with no results.

I was interested in my back, but it wasn't until I was at breaking point that I became actively curious. I started studying the body, different approaches to fitness. I did Pilates, yoga, stretching, while talking to different physios around Australia. I questioned how I walk, the way I sit, what shoes I wear.

After two years of searching, I found a movement coach who helped me understand how to integrate the body as one. Within one month of working with him, my back was fixed.

Without curiosity you repeat the same problems over and over again. Curiosity turned repetition into iteration. That's when growth happens.

When my career started in Adelaide, I would ride the highs and lows of being a professional athlete. A great practice day, I left feeling invincible, reflecting on my tough buckets and made shots. But when I trained poorly, my whole world crumbled. I felt helpless, frustrated, and tired.

I wouldn't review practice or make any changes to how I played or approached the day-to-day process. My focus only went to outcomes.

This mindset over the long term will not work. Focusing on where to improve, how you are improving, and where you make changes creates growth. Fall in love with the process, because that’s where stars are made.

In 1995, wolves were reintroduced to Yellowstone National Park after being absent for 70 years. Without wolves, the elk had overgrazed the river valleys, destroying vegetation. Without vegetation, the riverbanks eroded. The rivers themselves changed shape.

When the wolves returned, they didn't fix the rivers directly. They scared the elk. The elk moved. The vegetation grew back. The rivers stabilized.

One change upstream transformed everything downstream.

Improvement works the same way.

For years I tried to improve my basketball in isolation. More reps, more film, more skill work. But I ignored my sleep, my relationships, my mind. I was trying to fix the river while neglecting the whole system.

When I started improving everything in my life, the basketball followed. The off-court work is on-court work. You can't separate them.

If you're plateauing, the problem might not be more practice. It might be something upstream you've neglected. Improve the system, not just the skill.

Mindset is the foundation. But you still need a method.

This is the system I used to go from a kid who couldn't shoot to an NBA player known for shooting. STACK is a method you use daily to plan your workouts and help you maximize your growth.

In high school I would shoot on the shooting gun every day. Thousands of shots. But I didn't improve. I was repeating the same mistakes and reinforcing the same bad habits. That's not how you get better.

Improvement happens when you learn, apply those lessons, make mistakes, then learn from those mistakes.

I started to improve as a shooter when I moved out of home and stumbled upon a great shooting coach. Former Boomer Brad Davidson showed me the importance of routine, arc, and touch. Combining footwork with balance and follow-through. Every shooting session I was learning—not just random facts about shooting, but a deep understanding of my mechanics and how certain drills would affect my shot.

If I stayed under the ring and shot form shots, would I have become a great shot maker? Of course not. The growth happens in the discomfort.

Every day I do off-balance shooting, change shooting drills, put in new defense and footwork. Growth doesn't happen when you are comfortable. It happens when you push yourself to your edge—the physical and mental limits of your capabilities.

Every day you should have doubt that you are good enough to accomplish what you have set out to achieve. That's the only way to know you are pushing yourself enough.

Traditional coaching tells you how to move—elbow in, follow through, arc on the ball. Constraints-led coaching makes you figure it out by changing the environment. Instead of instructions, you get problems to solve.

A defender with a hand in your face. A time limit that demands quicker release. Catching off-balance so you learn to gather and stabilize. Each constraint removes the comfortable option and forces adaptation.

When I practice shooting, I rarely do it from a standstill in an empty gym. I add a closeout. I add movement. I add fatigue. By the time I'm in a game, the shot isn't new—I've already solved that problem hundreds of times.

Constraints turn repetition into problem-solving. Problem-solving is how skill develops.

This one is simple. You only get better when you are locked in, treating every rep with the importance it deserves.

A couple years ago I trained a bunch of NBL1 guys every morning for two months. Same drills. Same coaching. Same time investment. I was shocked at how differently they improved. Some got significantly better. Others barely changed.

The difference wasn't talent or athleticism. It was focus.

The guys who improved treated every rep like it mattered. They locked in, adjusted, competed with themselves. The others went through the motions—present but not engaged.

When I'm shooting, I imagine players are closing out or the shot clock is running out. I add time restraints or scores to hit in shooting drills, using my competitiveness to create focus and intent.

Reps without concentration are just cardio.

Iteration means to repeat something while improving it a little bit each time.

It's not ten thousand hours to achieve mastery. It's ten thousand iterations.

My shooting routine changes monthly. What I need now is different than what I needed a month ago, and vastly different from what I needed ten years ago. Every session requires review, then a response to that review.

What did you do well? Which drill helped you improve? How could your processes be smoother?

Change is the sign of intelligence. Don't be stuck in old habits. Review them and improve them.

STACK.

The only way to improve is to stack days, weeks, months, years, and decades. It takes time. The process is different and unique for everyone—that's why it's more of an art form than a science.

You can't copy exact workouts or replicate drills. To become the best version of yourself requires a unique form of intelligence: the art of improving.

The internal mindset of a professional improver. And a system to go with it.