The End

Losing in college is equivalent to a root canal, to taking a huge bite of that juicy bratwurst then watching a huge dollop of spicy Dijon mustard fall off the back of the bun and onto your freshly washed white t, to annihilating your fourth toe against the corner of the kitchen island as you peel around the countertop in a rush to take the cookies out of the oven.

In other words, losing sucks.

Last night, however, I felt a type of loss that only a senior can feel.

Luke played in his last game as a Vanderbilt Commodore.

Watching Luke has been the highlight of my week, every week. 

Thank you SEC Network for allowing me to watch my little brother halfway across the country these past four years. Yes, it's typically at 3 in the afternoon, smack dab in the middle class, but that's what privacy folders and earbuds under the shirt are for. What the professor doesn't see won't hurt him.

As of late, I've been wishing time would just stop. 

Basketball has been the most fun it has ever been this past year. 

After my junior season at Oklahoma, before I had even known I was going to transfer, I knew I wasn't ready to be a senior. I wasn't ready for it to be over. I wasn't ready to hang up the sneakers.

I'm not saying I'm ready now, but I do know my heart is so much more full. I do know that playing my senior season alongside my little brother has been a dream come true. That sneaking off to Nashville in between off days to cheer him on was something I never thought would be a possibility for me. 

Let me tell ya why.

Luke Francis Kornet is an angel.

Back in high school, the attention wasn't exactly ever on him. Recruitment mayhem started in 8th grade. Not for Luke, but for me. Year by year, Luke would sit there at the kitchen island filtering through my letters with me. He was always so proud-- never jealous, never wishing he could be me, never saddened that I was getting all the praise and that he was just the little brother along for the ride. He was excited. Genuinely excited. He loved basketball with all of his heart, and if it meant that I could play for a Division 1 school in college, he was over the moon. He was so happy for me.

Coaches would come over for home visits and he would politely introduce himself, then scurry back over to the kitchen table and finish his Calculus homework. At 3:30 sharp it was time for Pardon The Interruption and Capn' Crunch. 

Hours later, the coaches would leave and Luke would begrudgingly help tutor me with my own math homework. Remember, I'm the older sister. I'm the older sister, yet we were in the same math class. He was so advanced he was in my grade's math class. Thanks to him, my homework assignments never wavered below a 100%.

By the time my senior year hit, I finally signed on the dotted line. I was off to Oklahoma.

The day I stepped foot outside of my house and left for Norman, that boy flourished. He came to life.

He was a keen 6'7" or so back then. Still had a silky stroke, but had the body of a broken bird. He was a string bean with really big shins. After a disappointing loss in his state-semifinal game against Nolan Catholic, I realized Luke wouldn't get that chance that I got after high school. His career would be over. He'd be done playing the sport he loved so much. The sport my mom would cringe over because whenever someone would ask the brilliant boy who read Harry Potter at age 5, the one with a perfect score on his Math ACT & SAT portion, the one who knew how to do his older sister's physics homework before he had even taken a physics course himself, wanted to play in the NBA, and not be an engineer.

__________

I remember it like it was yesterday. My old AAU coach asked me a question.

"Nic, where's Luke going to school next year?" 

"I'm not sure. I think he said he really liked SMU when he went on his college visits."

"Wait, you're telling me the boy is as tall as your father and can shoot like you and he's not going anywhere to play??"

Coach Adrian signed him up for a tournament for unsigned seniors the following weekend. 

That weekend Luke went off. 

The next day, his phone went off too.

Arizona, Kansas State, Oklahoma... Vanderbilt.

Coaches from across the country wanted the gangly kid with uncapped potential who could shoot it from deep.

As many of you know, my father played at Vanderbilt. Luke & I were born in Lexington, Kentucky. So we made many-a-roadtrip to Nashville. My father would happily prance through campus reminiscing about his glory days, trying his best to lure me back to his alma mater, as I sat in the backseat shaking my head wishing I could just get another cool t-shirt from the campus store and hit the road again. Meanwhile, Luke was mesmerized.

"I want to go to Vanderbilt, dad."

__________

I will forever applaud Coach Kevin Stallings. 

He saw Luke for what he is today when no one else did. He saw what my father saw. A kid who was already 6'9,” could knock down the 3 ball, had a mean lefty, jump hook, and had the IQ of an engineer. 

Coach Stallings offered Luke right after his record-breaking unsigned senior tournament debut, along with several other coaches.

I remember getting off the phone with Luke the following day. He had told me he had a couple of visits lined up. Vanderbilt was slated for visit #1. 

As soon as he said that, I knew Vanderbilt was going to be his first and last. He was going to Vanderbilt. He told us in the backseat when he was 10.

Looking back at it now, it's hard to remember the way Luke was even a couple of years ago. The days when Luke's voice was higher than mine and he could belt out Aretha Franklin with the best of 'em.

But now?

He's a man, baby.

Luke is a man who is still getting bigger. Who is still getting better.

Think about his freshman year, Vandy fans. 

Now look where he is now.

He's just getting started.

My favorite part, however, has been watching him blossom into the man he is off the court. He's still that same goofy, lanky, brilliant, servant-hearted, emotional, loving, caring kid we all know and love who goes by the name of @bigshin32. He hasn't changed a bit.

The recognition, the awards, the prestige, the "NBA" talk-- none of it has phased him. He's still that same little kid who wanted to go to Vanderbilt, who wants to go to the NBA. 

He's still my little brother.

__________

After last night, it hit me.

Luke's time at Vanderbilt University is finished. No more Tracy cameos, no more setting my alarm for 9am PT to catch an 11am CT game, no more logging on to Twitter to find my favorite Vandy fans cheering on my beloved little bro.

It's over.

And it hits you like a brick wall. 

When you're a senior, losing the game isn't the only thing on your mind either.

The game you've played since you were 3, the game that has taught you how to overcome the deepest adversity, the game that has brought together 15 of the most diverse individuals, the game that has made you into the person you are today is over. 

The countless car rides where my older brother and father would scream at each other after a loss, the cones I would set up on the street to practice my A.I. like agility, the broken ankles and wrists that would ensue on the Kornet driveway, the thank you cards your college coaches force you to write, the community service you have to endure on an off-day, the Spring Breaks you miss, the Christmas Breaks that get cut short, the tears after a heartbreaking loss, the joy after your school's name is called on Selection Sunday all comes to an abrupt halt.

There is no "next year."

__________

For many after high school, basketball careers come to an end. For some, after college is when careers finally come to a close. For a select few, careers continue on into the NBA.

But there's something special about those 4 years representing something bigger than yourself with those letters stitched across your chest.

There's something child-like. Something honorable.

__________

Today, I sit at my kitchen table the day before my own First Round NCAA tournament game. My heart is heavy for Luke, but hey, I'm a senior too. Unlike him, there's no professional basketball in my future. There are no guarantees in this life, but I can guarantee I will never play in the NBA. Fifteen days from now the Final Four will take place in Dallas. I have fifteen days, at the most, of college basketball left to play. 

So, why not make little brother proud like he has made me? 

I can't guarantee what will happen tomorrow, or the next day, or the day after that, but I can guarantee you that I will forever be grateful for Vanderbilt University, my family, and James Naismith.

Anchor Down. 

And Go Bruins.

Slumped

Let's address the elephant in the room:

I'm a shooter who wears a shooter's sleeve who can't shoot. 

In kinder words, I'm in a slump.

Out of the past four years, this has been the worst drought of my career. I've been purposefully avoiding the stat sheet because, well, it's not too hard to calculate a bunch of goose eggs. 

But, we're winning. 

My team's good. I'm shooting this poorly yet we're still cranking out W's. I'm shooting this poorly yet my coaches are still telling me to shoot. I'm shooting this poorly yet my point guard keeps passing me the ball. I'm shooting this poorly yet the only negative voice I'm hearing is in my own head.

Shooters shoot. 

How does a shooter get out of a slump? They shoot out of it. 

Yeah, yeah, yeah we've heard it all before.

"Keep shooting."

"You're hesitating."

"Don't overthink it."

I missed this.

And this.

Kari & I were a combined 1-17 this game. 

I made the one. Nbd.

My dad called me the other day and told me a story. It was long and drawn out and I spaced out a few times, but nonetheless, he hit the nail on the head.

"What do you say to yourself after you miss a shot?"

"Dad, you know how much I like to shoot. If I miss one, it doesn't matter. You know the next one is going up."

"Let me ask you one more time. What do you say to yourself after you miss a shot?"

"I'll make the next one."

"See, that's negative."

"Huh? No, I'm being positive."

"Think about that statement, Nicole. You're acknowledging the fact that you missed your last shot. That's negative thinking. What you should be saying is 'Give me the dang ball. This is cash.'"

Francis knows. 

Ya see, I've been that player from the day I was born. Every time I touch it I want to shoot it because I know it's going in. Why do I think that? Because of the countless hours I've put in doing just that. From when I was 3 and couldn't even hit rim on a ten foot goal, I'd be out there for hours heaving it up there till I did.

Confidence comes from preparation. 

And that's something I've been lacking lately. Confidence. And preparation. 

Coach gave us two days off this week. Today and tomorrow. For any of you who know Cori Close, THIS IS HUGE.

After yet another night of sulking in sadness due to a treacherous shooting performance the night before, I crawled into my roommate's bed.

"Kari, will you shoot with me?"

For those of you who do not know, Kari went 6-11 from 3 last night. She's wise counsel to seek.

We woke up this morning, despite our precious "off-day sleep-in" routine, and shot. 

Confidence comes from preparation. 

500 shots later, we finished at 80%. Put me in the game, coach.

During season, sometimes one can get too caught up on the game plan. 

Too caught up on the scout.

Too caught up on recovery. 

Too caught up in your weaknesses, and not your strengths.

Now known as a defensive stopper.

In order to get out of my slump, I do need to shoot out of it. 

I do need to not overthink it. 

I do need to stop hesitating. 

But what I really need to do is practice.

Shooting with Kari this morning was so fun. I got lost in the game again. I got lost in the fun. I got lost in playing with my best friend. I got lost in competing.

Tomorrow morning we're going to do the same thing. The next day too, and the day after that, and the day after that. All the way up until we play Cal on Friday.

This is my last go-around. I'm done playing the sport I've played since I was 3 in exactly two months. I can't just wake up in the morning and hope I shoot better next game.

To be honest, as of late, the joy of playing basketball has started to wane. Yes, we're winning and yes that is the most important part, but it is my senior year. This is my last shot. I'm here at UCLA, the happiest I've ever been, shooting the worst I ever have. In order to change the latter I need to do something about it. I need to take matters into my own hands.

Kari doesn't need to. Kari plays almost 40 minutes a game. Her grandma fifth year knees need rest.

But me? I'm a role player. 

I'm a fifth year senior who doesn't start. 

And I'm not afraid to say it. 

My freshman year? I was afraid to say it. It was my main focus to never ever ever be second string. I wanted to be a bad mamba jamba. Three years later, it's safe to say I'm still not the star. I'm a role player. And that's okay. 

Now he's the star.

Oh, how the tables have turned.

Have you seen Jordin Canada and Monique Billings? They're my teammates. And they're on another level. Mo almost dunked on a girl last week. My vertical is about that of a loose leaf sheet of paper. 

I'm framing this for my daughter one day.

Best seat in the house, amirite??

Yeah that's my leg bottom left.

I tripped after selflessly giving her this assist on a breakaway.

Can't you tell why? #LooseLeaf

The coolest part about role players, though? Come March they make or break teams. It's about the work in the dark that comes to light in March. All 14 girls are needed in March. Foul trouble, injuries, (slumps) all seem to take shape during this madness, and more times than none, that's when us role players better step up to the plate.

With that being said, I'm not playing 40 minutes a game. I don't need to rest my weary fifth year playing knees. I need to shoot. I need to be prepared. Because the opportunity may present itself in a big way very, very soon. 

Just after one day of extra shooting my shot feels so much better. I feel so much lighter. I feel so much smoother. I feel like Kobe.

I made this one.

See?

I'm a shooter who wears a shooter's sleeve who can really shoot.

Home Sweet House

I was born in Kentucky, and then moved to Arizona, and then to Texas, then left for school in Oklahoma, while my parents moved to Tennessee, as I currently type this in California.

Is my dad in the military?

No. My mom's a news anchor.

  

As I fly home for the holidays, I've come to a shocking realization: I'm a family girl. Bee bopping from one state to the next, I've never experienced that warm and fuzzy feeling of smelling momma's home cooking as I step foot into my childhood home for two solid reasons:

1. Momma can't cook.
2. I've had 8 childhood homes.

Hate to throw you under the bus there mom, but you & I both know the crock pot ain't cuttin' it. Although 8 homes may seem like a terribly large, foreboding number to many, I think of them as 8 spectacularly different, grand adventures.

"I call this room!"

"Luke, they have tennis courts in this neighborhood!!!"

"Wanna build a skateboard ramp from the leftover construction wood??"

Moving brought my family closer. Each time we had to leave our incredible group of family friends, God surprised us with a bucket full more.

The hardest move for my dad was leaving his old Kentucky home. Born and raised, he never moved from his childhood home where his neighbors are still his neighbors from preschool, and his best friends all attend the same 11 o'clock Sunday mass. For the first time in his life, he was uprooted from family, friends, and familiarity.

Some days, I think that would have been really cool. To grow up living in one house my whole life, to have best friends since birth, to be forced to go to my cousin's graduation because, well, that's what families do. Right?

But you know what, if that was my life I wouldn't be who I am today. Coming home for the holidays means coming home to my family of 5. Yup, that means Mom, Dad, John & Luke. My cousins may live in Kentucky, my grade school friends may live in Arizona, my high school friends may live in Texas, but you know what? My best friends live in Nashville, Tennessee.

  

  

Some days I really think this Kornet family is weird. Do other people hang out with their family this much? Do other people like their family this much? Why do I frequently think such thoughts? Because I can't get enough of them. They're so funny. I can lay on the couch and watch HGTV with my mom and dad til 2am, I can watch Luke roll his eyes all night as my mother pleads to pluck his brows and shave the unkempt beard, I can gladly suffer through yet another long-winded, older brother John spiel for a few minutes. I love these guys. It's not that I'm forced to stay home during my few days off a year, but it's that I want to.

  

  

I just finished my last pre-conference road trip before Christmas break. Luke plays Dayton tomorrow at Dayton and I get to go. 5 hours in the car with John. I plan on bringing my Bible so he can't talk the whole time. I mean who interrupts a girl trying to read her bible?

Bottom line is this- I'll do anything and everything in the world for my family. I love how close we are, how driving 10 hours to Dayton University on the few days I have off a year isn't even a question, how Christmas is Christmas in all 50 states, not just where one old childhood home awaits, how the dear Lord has given me 23 years of crazy adventure, lifelong friends, and a plethora of friends' homes I can always crash in if I end up with a bad layover.

I love this life of mine. I love my mom. I love my dad. I love my little Luke. And yes John, I love you too.

There's Enough Pie For Everyone

She knows very little about basketball, but she paced the stands screaming the Lady Warriors on to a 4A State Championship, she videoed me with the coveted family camcorder for hours as I practiced my tap dancing in a triple XL Backstreet Boys t, she found me bawling in my bathroom over the fictional deaths of Old Dan and Little Ann, she found me practicing my kissing on my arm on the toilet and then having to sift through that very toilet to find my loose tooth that fell in (the tooth fairy wasn't going to look for it in there), she endured my wails after Dillard’s warned us the store was closing in 10 minutes and I could not think of anything worse than being trapped in a Dillard's all night at the age of 8, she taught me to seek out 5-star luxury hotel restrooms, lock myself in the stall and wait for her if I ever got lost in the unruly crowds of New York City the very first time we visited, she flew with me across the country from college campus to college campus to college campus for a basketball camp.

She’s my mom.

(Pretending to golf when we all know we're here for a sun tan & sweet tea)

 (Probably basket #3 of Roadhouse rolls)

(Posing with someone else's pint of Guinness in Ireland)

(My first day of college)

I want to take the focus away from my basketball blurbs and simply give credit where credit is due.

Ya know, my mom was the first one to start this whole blogging idea. John, Luke, & I knew it was going to take a turn for the worst as soon as we heard the news. We’ve scolded her for most of her sappy, over-exaggerated posts, but after it’s all said and done, there’s nothing I enjoy reading more.

When I was younger my mom taught me one very important lesson that resonates with me deeply today as I write 30,000 ft. above ground on my way to Cancun for, you guessed it, basketball.

“There’s enough pie for everyone.”

I can hear my mom’s voice shout it from the mountaintops.

There’s enough success for everyone. There’s no need for jealously, for stealing someone else’s joy, or for making someone else’s accomplishments inferior to your own. There’s enough pie for everyone!

Courtesy of Delta Airlines, Bad Moms is the complimentary movie of the flight. I thought it was going to be worth a two-hour nap. Contrary to popular belief, Mila Kunis stole the show. It even tug at the heart strings a little as I thought about 'ol Tracy Nicole.

My mom taught me that people matter. People’s successes matter. There’s no use for comparison. There’s no use for anger. There’s no use for tearing another woman, or man down. At the end of the day what’s that get ya? Jack squat.

I can remember it clear as day. Every Thanksgiving, my mother would get up from the kitchen table and take out this giant, silver plated fork.

“Everyone, let me introduce to you all the ‘talking fork.’ Each person take a moment with the fork and share what you’re thankful for."

A collective sigh quickly ensued. Typical Tracy antics at their best. Person by person we begrudgingly gave her what she wanted. By the end, we couldn’t stop smiling. That’s what Thanksgiving is all about, isn’t it? Gathering around those people you’re biologically forced to gather around a few times a year in order to remember how good you’ve got it.

Pure bliss.

Even though my mom engrained her patented quote into my brain long ago, it’s taken me awhile to fully put it into practice. Truly being happy for someone, when someone else’s successes are just as important as your own, when you don’t have to feel inadequate about your own accomplishments because someone else’s just must be a little bit “better,” you will soon realize that people are people no matter how (tall). The dear Lord wants us to build each other up in order to build His kingdom up. Be happy for another, compliment one another, and most importantly, love one another. 

I've learned from the best. I've learned from my mom.

Slices of success never run out. There’s enough pie for everyone.

Just Because I Transferred Doesn't Mean You Should Too

Since my first blog post, several younger college players have asked me: "Should I transfer?"

Realization #1:

At some point, everyone wants to transfer.

The thought usually creeps in during your freshman year. 

After all the lovey-dovey, one-on-one recruitment praise wears off, most start to realize there are ten to twelve other teammates fighting for the spotlight, too. It's not all about you anymore, Dorothy. Suddenly the high school star who has waltzed through life now has some competition.

For many of us, after the first year starring as "role player," pride begins to sink in.

"Why doesn't coach play me more?"

"I hate it here."

"I should have gone to..."

Realization #2:

Everyone thinks they're going to be the man.

At Oklahoma I thought I was going to be the freshman phenom.

Let me tell you why.

I've already explained why my heart was never fully invested in Oklahoma's program. 

Still, I wanted to play basketball. I wanted to succeed. I wanted to be the best there ever was. 

Coming from a small private high school in Texas, I could never shake a comparison to one of Liberty Christian's greatest basketball stars, Whitney Hand. Whitney had signed to play at Oklahoma four years before me. 

It's all people talked about. 

Since we were four years apart, I never got to play with her in high school. Due to the dreaded injury bug, she got a few extra years at Oklahoma. Meaning, we finally became teammates.

As much as I love, admire, and respect Whitney, during my freshman year I so badly wanted to be different than Whitney. I didn't want to follow in her footsteps; I wanted footsteps of my own. I had always wanted to "one-up" her in a way. I didn't want to go to Oklahoma like Whitney, I wanted to go to (fill in the blank) like Nicole. 

I had to come to grips that Whitney was the star here too, and I was not.

Realization #3:

All college coaches are slightly nuts.

All of them. Every single one. 

They're full of passion for this game. As nice and caring as they were to you back in high school, as soon as you sign on the dotted line and officially become a student-athlete, you belong to them. 

That's why it's so important to pick a coach who doesn't falsely recruit you. 

CAUTION: Don't fall for one-liners.

"You'll start right away."

"You will be the face of our program."

"Those other schools don't have what we have here."

Most will say whatever they can to get you to sign that National Letter of Intent. And once you're there, don't expect all those empty promises to magically come true. You have to earn your spot now.

You want a coach to like you right off the bat? Learn how to play defense.

Realization #4:

If you can find a coach who ultimately cares for your well-being at the end of the day, you're in the right hands. 

Yes, most will scream their heads off. Yes, their expectations are extremely high. But hey, that's their job.

Realization #5:

Your teammates will be different than you.

Hate to break it to ya kid, but it's hiiiiiiiighly likely you wouldn't be friends with half of your teammates if it weren't for that round rubber ball. 

Granted, you need to hold your future teammates to a certain standard.

But let's face it--there will be teammates who are just flat out not like you. In any way, shape, or form. You have to find a way to play with them anyway. They're your teammates. Someone has to pass you the ball. They have to trust you, and you have to trust them. 

This next sentence may shock you.

You don't even have to be friends with them. 

At the end of the day, what matters most is what happens on the court. You don't have to treat them to a cup of coffee off of it.

This can be hard. But just because something is hard, doesn't mean a certain someone should transfer. 

Realization #6:

Know your role. 

I know you're used to being the star. 

You're used to everyone loving you. You're a cool, hard working, natural-born athlete. However, that does not necessarily mean your college teammates are cool and hard working, too. 

Sometimes they do bad things on the weekends. Sometimes they don't even work as hard as you, yet they get all the praise. But as long as you put forth continued effort and stay true to yourself, you should never feel defeated. You'll grow from it at the end of the day, and especially at the end of the season.

For me, that took a long time to grasp. I thought I was going to be the All-American freshman who would be an immediate starter, take our team to the Final Four, and be the face of Sports Illustrated. 

I thought our team was going to be different than all of the rest, because I was on it. 

If I can tell you one thing about freshman year, it's that only about 5% of D1 athletes get to live out that pipe dream their first year. Don't get down on yourself, though. Remember, you're a freshman. (Or a 5th year senior...)

Realization #7:

Make mistakes. 

The worst thing you can do, especially as a freshman, is try to be perfect all the time. Let your coaches coach you. And trust me, you need to be coached. This ain't high school anymore, Toto.

The truth is, not many people play their freshman year. The sadder truth, not many people put their pride aside and learn from why they didn't. 

Instead, they transfer.

Realization #8:

Don't bolt too soon.

This is an opportunity of a lifetime. You're with the best of the best. It will be hard, but it will be worth it.

So here's the deal:

What's more important to you? What is your heart set on? Are you escaping confrontation with teammates? Do you try to avoid certain individuals? Are you giving them a chance? Have you talked to your coaches? Do they know how you feel? Is playing time your motivating factor? Is your confidence low and that's what's causing you to have all these doubts? Are you looking for a way out, or can your issues be mended?

If you have at least one or two girls on the team who share your same morals and values, I would say trust the process and lean on them for strength and guidance. If you are truly in a tough place and there doesn't appear to be any type of safe haven, maybe you really should consider the "T" word. 

At OU I gave it time. I believe there's a lesson to be learned in waiting, in trying to tackle your issues head on instead of fleeing from them. 

Don't get me wrong, at some point you have to stick up for yourself. But until you hit your breaking point, I would strongly advise seeing where this year takes you.

Whether you play 40 minutes a game, or sit 40 minutes a game, YOU were a contributing factor. Yes, you.

How do you think your star teammates get better every day? The answer better be you. You better be pushing them each practice; you better have the mindset that one day that could be you in their shoes, and that one day could be tomorrow. Sometimes that's the role of a freshman, but that role is just as important. High-level basketball takes high-level patience.

When I think of patience, one of my best friends, Kari Korver, comes to mind. Her freshman year at UCLA was hell. I won't get into the details, but let's just say I don't think anyone else has ever had worse. Her sophomore year didn't get much better either. She tore her ACL for the second time in her playing career and had to sit out for those dreaded 7-9 months. 

Realization: #9

Ask yourself these questions:

"If I get injured this year, will I be okay here? Will I want to run away, or do the people here have my best interests at heart?"

Kari stuck it out. She wanted to be at UCLA and no one was going to stop her. She wasn't going to quit. 

And you know what, look where she is now. Kari Korver is the cornerstone of UCLA basketball. She is one of the best shooters in the country. She has broken an abundance of records. But what matters most is the leader and friend that she is to all who are lucky enough to cross her path. The lifelong respect she has gained from a multitude of teammates--and the happiness she exudes every time she dons those four letters across her chest--is immeasurable. Others radiate just by being around her. What a college career she has had so far. And she still has a final season to go.

Kari is an example of a player who stayed. A player who picked a program, because it's the place where her heart was led. She had countless hardships and learned from each and every one. 

Realization #10:

Stats, prestige, recognition, and celebrity are all crap. 

It's okay to believe you're the best in the gym. That you're All-American status. That you got game.

However, if that's all you're playing for, your play will soon show it. Your lack of respect will show it. 

What I truly care about now are relationships. I want nothing more than to see Kari have her best year yet at UCLA. And by golly, that's exactly what's going to happen. I want to see each and every one of my teammates shine this year. To see my coaches push us until our potential becomes who we really are. 

I will do whatever it takes to win; and if that's as a role player, I will be the best role player there is. If that's to put up points, you'll find me in the gym shooting until my arms fall off. 

UCLA is where I'm meant to be. I'm happy.  And let me tell you, once I let all of my pridefulness go, my anxieties left with it and fulfilling friendships came flooding in. 

When you're where you're meant to be, you'll know it. Don't run when the going gets tough. Embrace it. Embrace the suck.

Just because I transferred doesn't mean you should too.