I'm Going to China

My basketball career ended like many others across the country-- to Uconn.

Afterwards, I realized that the young, whippersnapper I once was, was no longer young. 

Five seasons later, I stand at the ripe age of 23, eagerly awaiting the day my four to five toddlers scurry about a safely confined, white picket fenced-in acre of bluegrass, with a dashing husband to boot. 

Yet, in order for that pipe dream to become a reality, a certain someone has to get a certain something.

I need a job.

___________

I remember sitting in the locker room after my last game looking around from player to player. Some had the sniffles, some were already talking about next year, and some (me) were smiling. Don't get me wrong, I was devastatingly sad about the fact that my season was over, my career was over, and my team's tournament run was over, but I couldn't help but think to myself-- I did it.

I was raised on horror stories of college basketball. My father loved to tell us kiddos how many suicides he ran in college, how little college coaches cared about one's personal feelings, and how hard it was to maintain a solid grade point average amongst a practice schedule straight from hell.

He likes to exaggerate.

Now you all know where I get it from. Contrary to popular belief, I don't get it from Tracy.

___________

For us kids on the West Coast, the quarter system is in full effect.

Meaning, we were playing in the Sweet Sixteen smack dab in the middle of finals week. 

Meaning, after the game it was Spring Break. 

Meaning, we lost; so I got to go on Spring Break.

My friends and I decided to pack up the car, mattress pad and all, and drive. We explored the entire coast of California in 5 days, on a budget of $197.15. I can tell you how we managed to do so on a following blog. Fascinating stuff. It took a few nights sleeping with a seatbelt cemented into your torso, lots of McDonald's, and an abundance of dedicated and loyal friends scattered across the coast graciously willing to house us when we couldn't quite stand the foot funk much longer. 

As soon as we piled into the car and merged onto the 405, I got an email. It was from my assistant coach. 

The subject line read, "Invitation to China Tour for Nicole Kornet and Kari Korver."

At first glance, I laughed.

I had been getting a bunch of emails from agents, coaches, and Euro-basket leagues reaching out asking the looming question,

"Are you playing professionally??"

No. 

Heck no. 

No, no, no. 

Remember that plan I so vividly detailed for you all in paragraph #1?? Playing in Europe doesn't fit into those parameters.

I love basketball with all of my heart. I love it, but I'm ready to be done with it. It's time to hang up the sneakers and go to work. I'm no Kelsey Plum. I know where I stand. Sure I could delay the inevitable and play overseas for a few years. I could explore the world, meet new people, and keep playing, but I don't want to. I want to stay in the USofA. I want to live on Top Ramen and pb&j sandwiches and pick up my boss's coffee and work from dawn till dusk and get very little for it. 

Yeah, I want to enter the work force.

After reading further into this "Invitation to China Tour" email it became loud & clear. I had been selected to be a part of the USA All-Star Team. I was asked to come to China, all expenses paid.

3 cities, 9 games, 14 days.

We play Lithuania, Canada, and of course, China; it's a world-wide, round-robin Four Nations tournament smack dab in the middle of China.

Now that's something I can't say no to. Even if I want to "hang up the sneakers." 

Best part is that my teammate Kari is invited too. The dynamic duo ain't done yet.

I emailed my coach back. Well, I called my mom first and asked permission, and then I emailed my coach back, and told him...

"I'm going to China."

___________

Just two hours before I had hopped in the car ready to traverse the land of milk and honey for Spring Break, I was on my first-ever job interview. 

I was offered an internship at Wasserman Sports Agency here in LA. Halfway through the season I knew my time as an athlete was coming to a close, therefore I knew I had to make a move in the job market.

It was time.

Wasserman offered me an internship for the spring. I graciously took it...and then proceeded to tell them about China.

"Nicole, GO!"

"We'll start you after you get back."

I'm really excited about this opportunity, but like I said, it's an internship. As soon as school ends, my internship ends too. 

I didn't join Wasserman because I want to be a sports agent. I joined because one should always say yes when opportunity comes a knockin' at my age. Wasserman is an uncommon agency, run by uncommon people, seeking uncommon results. I believe in the vision they have to help athletes, like my little brother, fulfill lifelong dreams of attaining a professional career in sports. 

Heck, I'm all about that.

However, my dream job involves a camera in front of my face. Somehow. Some way.

Fact of the matter is, I want to be on tv. That's all I know for sure. I don't think I necessarily want to be like mom, and I know I don't want to play professionally like my dad, but I think it would be really cool to combine the two. 

Maybe I could do commercials.

Or sports modeling.

Or sideline-reporting.

I love sports. Not just basketball, but football, golf, frisbee golf, volleyball, baseball, softball, horse racing-- you name it, I love it.

I may be done playing organized basketball, but that doesn't mean I'm done immersing myself in it on a M-F, 8-5 basis.

I think what would be really cool is to have my own "behind-the-scenes" show. I want to dig a little deeper. I could interview athletes in order to find that story we all really want to know. 

And then play them.

Maybe not in the sport they are paid millions to play, but in another. Just for some humor purposes. For some candid moments on camera, because that's the athlete we all want to see. The human.

Does that sound great or does that sound great?

___________

I leave for China tonight. I get to have my Kobe farewell tour once and for all, amongst the Chinese. Upon my return, I'll be a broke working woman, struggling to find that big break in order to live out my wildest dreams. 

One day I'll have that job in front of the camera, with a hunk-a-burnin-love by my side teaching little Jimmy to keep his elbow in and his wrist cocked.

BUT,

If you or any of your friends know someone who can make my wildest dreams come true just a little bit faster, you know where to reach me.

Until then, I'll be in China representing Team USA. Maybe this time I can finally end with a win, and a gold medal around my neck.

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.