"Switch, switch, switch," echoed from my collapsed chest as I scampered from my man to Milton Doyle at the top of the court. This moment was exactly what I'd been preparing for. We were up by 4 points in a close game and with my defence, I had a chance push the lead out.

Milton dribbled the ball from left to right as I slowly closed the space. Our eyes locked and there was a smirk between us. We had played so many ones against each other when we were teammates and had always talked our shit. Now it was the real deal out there in front of 5000 screaming people in the arena.

I made the first move, taking a jab at the ball. He stepped back, putting the ball next to his hip rather than where my hand went. Milton attacked left. I slid my feet and cut him off. He snatched back but I stayed attached at his hip. Again he attacked left. In anticipation I went to chest blast him but I was too antsy. Instead of driving left he crossed it back to the right and blew by me. As his shoulder flew by my hip I grabbed his shorts and fouled him. He walked to the free throw line because our team already had 5 team fouls.

I lost the battle.

As I stepped to the team huddle before Milton’s free throw e that same voice appeared in my head.

"I'm not quick enough. I'm not strong enough. Your feet are too slow."

I've been a pro for 10 years and have spent the last 12 months rebuilding my identity on the defensive end. But in one possession, I was sixteen again, sitting across from three state coaches telling me my body wasn't good enough to play defence at the national level.

None of those words were mine. I picked them up, one by one, as I grew up, in rooms like that one.

In the 1930s, a Soviet psychologist named Lev Vygotsky noticed that young kids talk to themselves out loud while they play. Over time that speech goes quiet and moves inside. He concluded that the voice in your head started as voices outside it. Parents, coaches, teachers, strangers on a basketball website who say you aren't good enough to be a long term pro. We take their words in, and years later they speak in our accent.

That's why it's so convincing. It doesn't feel like someone else's opinion. It feels like the truth.

For years I thought the answer was to shut the voice up. More training reps under pressure, more affirmations about being enough, more meditation practices before I start my morning, hoping that one day it would go quiet. Ten years in, that voice still shows up around basketball, around being a dad, and even in random hobbies like learning the ukulele.

What changed is my relationship to it. I learnt that the negative voice isn't me. I'm the person who hears it.

So that's what I do now. When the voice told me I was too slow to compete with Milton Doyle, the first thing I did was notice it. "There's that weight on my shoulder," I thought. Then I redirected my attention to the huddle I was about to walk into with my teammates. I named our next offensive play, and then we lined up on the free throw line to watch my mistake. Milton made both free throws, but I ran to half court with my posture held high, my feet light, ready to start the next possession.

Milton and I continued to trade blow for blow the rest of the game. I got some stops and he got some buckets. We ended up losing the game, and my mistake played a small part in that, but that's the game of basketball.