“Some people flip the switch. Others never turn it off.”

That line used to hang in my head during practices that didn’t matter. Pick-up games. Offseason sessions. Random rec runs where the stakes were low—but something still burned. It wasn’t about showing off. It wasn’t even about winning. It was about not being able to show up without some level of intent, even when everyone else was just there to sweat and smile.

That’s where it started. A quiet noticing: There’s a gap between doing something for fun and doing it like it’s part of your wiring. There’s recreational. There’s professional. But in between? That’s where I lived. That strange middle ground I came to call “Recreationally Average.”

Let’s define it: Recreational: An activity done for enjoyment—especially when one is not working. Average: The standard. The usual. The norm. Professional: Skilled. Competent. Often paid. But more than that—embodied.

I didn’t start with professional standards. I started with time. Hours poured into spaces others passed through. I was average by the numbers—but not in effort. I wasn’t trying to make the league. I just couldn’t not treat it seriously.

When you grow up in places where talent gets you noticed—but work gets you trusted—something shifts. You stop counting wins and start watching how you carry yourself through losses. That’s when you notice who always stays late, who watches film harder than they need to, who knows the system better than the starter. Those were the professionals to me. Not all of them had contracts.

“Professional is both learned and inherent.” Some people are it. Others build it, brick by brick, rep by rep.

To be “recreationally average” isn’t a label. It’s a tension. You care more than others expect. You work like you’re chasing something, even when there’s nothing on the line. You obsess, refine, reflect—but you’re still playing the same game as everyone else.

I used to wonder: Is this enough? Not elite. Not raw. Just… there. Always working. Always trying. Even if no one’s watching.

Over time, I realized—there’s honor in the middle. Because the middle sees everything. Because the middle still shows up. Because the middle chooses—every damn day—to care when no one’s watching.

Being “recreationally average” taught me: Professionalism isn’t a title—it’s a temperament.

It’s how you reset after a drop. It’s how you treat the 20th ball like it’s the first. It’s not about being the best—it’s about refusing to be casual with your craft.

Because professionalism isn’t reserved for professionals. And average isn’t an insult—if you carry it with uncommon intent.

The switch doesn’t have to flip. It can stay on. Quietly. Relentlessly. Even if you’re just playing for fun.