High expectations.
That’s what I demand from my students.
And that’s what I demand of myself.
It’s an instinct that started on the field and the court. As an athlete, I pushed myself to be the best I could be in every sport I played.
As a quarterback, I was the centerpiece—the one who had to know every play, every route, every move. Ten other players depended on me to know where they needed to be and what they needed to do. That kind of responsibility leaves no room for mediocrity. It forces you to chase perfection.
High expectations.
In basketball, I ran the show as point guard—setting up offensive plays, calling out defensive switches, putting my teammates in position to score. And when the moment came, I had to score too. That kind of pressure can do one of two things: make you crumble or make you rise. I chose to rise. And the only way to rise was to set my bar higher than anyone else’s.
In baseball, I played shortstop—the busiest position on the field. I fielded grounders, chased pop flies, tagged out runners, and turned double plays. Batting leadoff meant I set the tone for my team. If I got on base, the power hitters could drive me home. Every swing carried pressure. Every game demanded focus. And every mistake lingered.
My drive to be the best wasn’t selfish. It came from a deep sense of responsibility—to my team, to my coaches, and to myself. When I failed, I took it personally. I’d replay every bad pass, every missed shot, every strikeout in my head until sleep wouldn’t come.
I hate to lose more than you love to win.
That became my motto. And sometimes, I wish it hadn’t. Watching teammates underperform, seeing selfish play in a team sport, or realizing others didn’t want it as badly as I did—those things lit a fire inside me I didn’t always know how to control. I bottled it up until it boiled over. Losing tore at me in ways few ever saw.
That same fire—the same obsession with high expectations—followed me into teaching and writing.
I hold my students to the same standard I hold myself to. It doesn’t matter how well a paper is written—if there’s one mistake, it’s not 100%. Maybe a 99%, but never perfect. Not because I’m harsh, but because I want them to reach beyond “good enough.” I want them to exceed even their own best.
And I do the same for myself as an author. No matter how much praise a book receives, I’m always looking for the flaws, the missed moments, the lines I could’ve written better. I want each book to outdo the last—and if it does, part of me mourns the one before it.
It’s crazy, I know.
But that’s who I am.
I put pressure on myself because that’s what excellence demands. The same determination that once drove me on the field now drives me at the keyboard. And just like the athlete I once was, and sometimes still am, I’ll keep pushing—again and again—to rise to the occasion. Every time I write, I play to win.