The Hero's Journey: How Rock Lee Helped Me Survive College Basketball

I struggled as a college athlete.

Before trainings I would hide in the bathroom. At night I would count down the days until I was home. I felt alone, desperate and frustrated. Heading into my third year I knew I wasn't where I was meant to be. I needed help but didn't know where to go for it.

Luckily, I stumbled across a Japanese anime show called Naruto.

I had watched it randomly on TV as a kid and always enjoyed it, but when I watched it this time, my eyes were glued to the screen. It wasn't the main character Naruto that grabbed my attention, but a side character named Rock Lee.

Rock Lee was a kid born with no natural talent in a world that worshipped it. His entire life, he was told that he could never be a ninja.

Something deep within me resonated with Lee. It wasn't just entertainment. I felt seen. I felt heard. When practice was hard I thought of his story. When I failed I recalled his failures. When I thought about giving up I would focus on Rock Lee's epic fights.

At the time I didn't think much about why I loved Rock Lee so much. I just binged the show day after day.

What I was experiencing wasn't unique to me.

When I went online I found passionate Rock Lee appreciation groups. His story, character arc and personality resonated in the souls of people around the world.

Rock Lee isn't the only character to do this. The internet is filled with groups supporting all types of fictional characters. Aragorn from The Lord of the Rings. Luke Skywalker from Star Wars. Spider-Man. Batman. Different fictional characters affecting the lives of not just young kids, but college athletes, dads, school teachers, and everyone in between.

Why does a Japanese anime character resonate with an Australian basketball player? Why does a British made movie move a factory worker in Brazil? Why does a comic book hero give hope to a kid in Kenya?

These aren't coincidences.

The same characters grip people across cultures, generations and continents because they're telling the same story. The hero who starts with nothing. The mentor who believes when no one else does. The ordeal that almost breaks them. The transformation that follows.

When I watched Rock Lee, I wasn't just entertained. I was recognised. Something ancient in me saw something ancient in him.

That's the power of these characters. They're not just fictional. They're mirrors. They show us our own journey before we have the words for it.

Joseph Campbell spent his life studying myths and stories from cultures that never made contact. Greek, Hindu, Norse, African, Japanese. He found the same structure. The same stages. The same transformation.

He called it the Hero's Journey.

These patterns exist because story is built into us. Stories aren't just entertainment. They're how humans process change, fear and transformation. The Hero's Journey is a map of growth wired into your DNA.

Rock Lee's journey to becoming a ninja looks very different to my journey of becoming a professional basketball player. But they follow the same structure. This is why I used Rock Lee as motivation on my toughest days.

You can use this universal story to your advantage. Understanding the phases of your journey, embracing the challenges that are necessary for transformation and finding strength in other people's stories are tools that will help you navigate the treacherous road that lies in front of all those who answer the call.

The Hero's Journey involves three essential stages.

This is the call to adventure. The moment that takes you from your current life into the unknown.

Think of Gandalf arriving at the Shire. Peter Parker being bitten by a spider. Or in Rock Lee's case, his intense desire to be a ninja despite everyone telling him he couldn't.

The call can come from within or be forced upon you. This is a scary and unknown time, for the road ahead is unclear and you know answering the call will demand change.

But like me, you may reject the call in fear of what could come next.

In my college career the call was forced upon me. My thirst to make the NBA caused me to put too much pressure on myself. My on court performance struggled. I developed anxiety, burnout, and I resented myself and the game.

I had coaches tell me to my face that if I worked on the mental side of the game, I would be one hell of a player. Psychologists reached out. After games I begged the universe for help in enjoying basketball and playing well again.

Little did I know that the call had already been made. In my struggles was exactly where I needed to dive to transform as a basketball player and a man. The world was telling me to take the journey inwards and explore my psychological makeup.

But I was too blinded by fear and blame to see the path laid out before me.

It wasn't until I became a pro that the performance pressure got so bad I broke. In that darkest moment I accepted the call and took the first step forward. I reached out for help.

This is called crossing the threshold. The point of no return. I started dedicating every day to improving my mind.

Once you accept the call, mentors start to appear.

My first one showed up in Joey Wright, my NBL coach. He went from being my coach, to a mentor, to eventually a friend. We had long conversations about the mental side of elite performance. We talked about my fears and doubts, how to navigate them and take steps into becoming the new version of me.

I had just finished the departure stage.

Rock Lee's call was rejection. Everyone told him he couldn't be a ninja. He could have accepted their story. Instead, he used their rejection as fuel to walk a different path. His mentor Might Guy appeared and believed in him when no one else did.

For you, the call might already be knocking. You might be ignoring it.

The call rarely arrives as a clear sign. It comes disguised as discomfort. Frustration. A feeling that something isn't working. The anxiety before training. The emptiness after a win. The voice that says there has to be more than this.

If you're stuck in the departure phase, ask yourself: What problem keeps showing up that I keep avoiding? What change am I resisting because it scares me? Who could help me that I haven't asked?

The call doesn't require you to have answers. It requires one step. Reaching out. Admitting you're stuck. Asking for help.

I spent years rejecting the call. I blamed coaches. I blamed circumstances. I blamed the game. The whole time, the path was right in front of me. I just didn't want to walk it because walking it meant admitting I needed to change.

The threshold isn't crossed with a grand gesture. It's crossed with a small act of surrender. You stop pretending you have it figured out. You say the words: I need help.

That's how the journey begins.

Crossing the threshold doesn't mean the struggle ends. It means the real work begins.

Campbell called this stage the road of trials. The hero is tested, broken and remade. The old self doesn't die quietly. It fights back. You try new approaches that don't work. You think you've figured it out only to fall again. The trials burn away everything that isn't true.

In Adelaide, I tried to create a character. The high energy, angry player. I forced intensity. I performed a version of Jack that I thought would succeed.

It didn't work. You can't build a new self on top of a broken foundation.

When I moved to the JackJumpers, I had a fresh start. Three years of mental work behind me. Reading psychology and philosophy. Practising mindfulness and gratitude. I thought I had arrived.

I started that season averaging my lowest points per minute ever.

I would sit on the bench and slowly psych myself out. The longer I sat, the louder the voice got. "You're not good enough. You don't belong here." By the second half, I had convinced myself I wasn't capable of playing.

Three years of work and I was worse than when I started.

The story I told myself was brutal: the mental work doesn't work. You're broken and you can't be fixed.

But I didn't quit. I went deeper.

I started writing about what I was learning. I explored why I started playing basketball. The backyard. The joy before the pressure. I examined the old beliefs. That my value was tied to results. That my mind was weak.

Friedrich Nietzsche taught me I could write my own story. That I could become whoever I chose to become.

And I had allies. Beth, who stayed by my side no matter what. Alf, my weights coach. Eduardo, my coach. You don't survive the trials alone.

The old self didn't die in one moment. It burned slowly, belief by belief, game by game, until something new stood in its place.

Rock Lee's trials mirror this.

The Chunin Exams. Lee faces Gaara, a prodigy with overwhelming power. Lee removes the practice weights from his legs. He opens the inner gates, risking permanent damage. He gives everything.

He loses.

Gaara crushes his arm and leg. Doctors say he may never fight again.

But in that loss, Lee earns something no victory could give. Everyone watching sees who he truly is. Not a failure. A warrior who gave everything. He doesn't win the fight. He wins their respect. And his own.

Your trials will look different. But the pattern is the same.

You might try things that don't work. You might want to quit when the effort feels pointless. You might hit a low point where the whole journey seems like a mistake.

When that happens, remember Lee on the ground with his arm and leg crushed. Remember that the trial isn't designed to stop you. It's designed to show you who you really are.

Go deeper when surface fixes fail. Find allies who believe in you when you don't. Keep showing up even when the progress is invisible.

The old self burns slowly. That's how the new one is forged.

The trials don't last forever. At some point, the hero must return.

Campbell called this the return with the elixir. The hero comes back to the ordinary world, but they're not the same person who left. They've been transformed. And they bring something back. A gift. A lesson. Something that benefits others.

But first comes the final test. The resurrection. One last moment where everything the hero has learned is put on the line. The old self and the new self face each other. Only one survives.

My final test came at the Paris Olympics.

Quarterfinals against Serbia. Patty Mills hit a buzzer beater to send the game to overtime. The arena exploded. I'd played well. The coach decided to leave me in.

As I sat on the bench listening to the overtime plan, pressure tipped into panic. My eyes started to scatter. My breathing sped up. My chest got tight. My leg started shaking.

Then the thoughts came. What if I mess this up? I don't belong out here. I can't guard Nikola Jokić.

This was the moment. Years of work came down to these minutes. The old Jack would have crumbled. He would have disappeared. He would have let the pressure crush him like it did in college.

But I wasn't the old Jack anymore.

Right before I went over the edge, years of preparation kicked in. I caught the stress. I went back to the framework I'd built from earlier failures. CALM. Catch the signal. Accept the wave. Lock onto one anchor. Make one move.

I slowed my breath. I repeated: I'm grateful to be here. I focused on one job. Sprint back. Talk early. Contest without fouling.

We lost the game. But in overtime, I scored seven points. I hit big shots on Jokić. I played great defence. Most importantly, I handled the pressure and was proud of myself.

In the most pressure filled moment of my career, I rose. Not because I was more talented. Because I had transformed.

Walking off the court, I knew something had changed. Not just in that game. In me. The journey that started in a college bathroom, hiding before practice, hating the game, had led here. To overtime at the Olympics. To rising when it mattered most.

The old self had finally burned away.

Rock Lee's return mirrors this.

After Gaara destroyed his body, Lee faced a choice. Surgery with a 50% chance of death, or accept that his ninja career was over.

He chose the surgery. He survived.

But surviving wasn't enough. He had to return.

Lee came back to training. His body was broken but his spirit wasn't. When his team needed him, he showed up. Not as the strongest. Not as the most talented. As the one who refused to quit.

His return wasn't about proving he was better than everyone else. It was about proving he was better than he used to be. He brought back something no opponent could take from him. The knowledge that hard work could stand beside genius. That willpower could overcome limitation. That the kid born with nothing could become a true ninja.

That's the elixir. Not victory. Transformation.

Your return will come.

There will be a moment where everything you've learned is tested. The old stories will whisper. The pressure will build. And you'll have to choose.

When it happens, you probably won't win. I lost that game against Serbia. Lee lost to Gaara. The final test isn't about the outcome. It's about who you become in the fire.

And then comes the real question: what do you bring back?

The elixir isn't for you alone. What you've learned belongs to others now. That's why I write these articles. The journey gave me something. Now it's my job to pass it on.

The hero's journey isn't complete until you help someone else begin theirs.

I found Rock Lee when I was lost. His story became my map.

Wherever you are, know this: the path has been walked before. Not by you, but by thousands of heroes across thousands of stories. Their journeys are maps for yours. Their struggles are permission for yours. Their transformations are proof of what's possible.

Find the characters that grip you. The ones that make you feel seen. Look closer. They're showing you where you are. And where you need to go.

The journey is yours alone. But you don't have to walk it without a map.