A couple of weeks ago, my usual mindless Twitter scrolling was interrupted by this tweet breaking the news that Tyrell Terry, former 31st overall pick by the NBA's Dallas Mavericks, was retiring from professional basketball at 22 years old, citing "the anxiety this sport has caused me".
It caught my attention for a few reasons. First, I had a quarter-life crisis when I realized a dude younger than me was already retired. Second, seeing a professional athlete retire so young is quite unusual. Third, the replies.
Like it usually is on Twitter, the replies were a mixed bag. There was some sympathy. There was some empathy. And there was a lot of hate.
It is the haters that I want to discuss in this article.
First and foremost, hating on somebody for their mental health is lame as fuck. You think he wants to have anxiety that forces him out of the multi-million dollar career he's been working for his whole life? Seriously dude, get a grip.
Second, and what everybody, including those sympathetic to Terry, is missing is that he actually chose the tougher path. This is for two reasons: one tangible and one more abstract.
On the tangible side, continuing to tough out basketball is much easier than leaving the game for uncertain waters. There's more money in basketball than almost anything he'll do next, and he's also a lot better at basketball than whatever he does next. How many people would quit something like that? Now, how many people would quit knowing a wave of scrutiny will inevitably follow?
In no way was Terry's choice "soft" or the "easy way out".
On the abstract side, as he says in the post, leaving the game means letting go of his identity. People don't realize how hard that is, but I do, because it prevented me from quitting basketball in the past.
For most of my life, basketball was my passion. From 2nd grade to my junior year of high school, I played as much as possible and loved every second of it. But then, the summer before my senior year, something changed.
The game just wasn't as fun anymore.
I still enjoyed it, but I didn't love it anymore. I didn't look forward to working out. I didn't want to go to practice. The season was fun, but I wasn't depressed when it ended. I knew something was off, but I kept going because it was all I knew.
College ball didn't bring relief. By the end of my sophomore season, I was cooked. Ball was the last thing I wanted to be doing. I should've quit, get the weight off my shoulders, and pursued other interests. But I didn't. I was too scared of losing my identity to quit.
I had spent the better part of two decades being tied to basketball. My childhood friends knew me as a basketball player. My high school friends knew me as a basketball player. My college friends…you get the point. The game was all I knew, and I didn't know who I was without it.
So I kept playing, even though I hated it.
And I was just a D3 player. Imagine how wrapped up in basketball Terry's identity was. It takes a ridiculous amount of strength to let that go.
The haters don't understand that because they've never had a true passion. A passion that you totally devote yourself to. A passion that becomes you.
You can only understand what it means to leave that behind if you've experienced it yourself.
And that's the ironic thing about passion. On the one hand, passion's like a jet pack for your life, giving you purpose and powering you to your full potential. However, it's also a black hole, consuming your identity to the point where you feel like you have to keep going, even if you no longer want to.
That Terry was able to escape this black hole is something to commend, not criticize.