There is a phrase that gets thrown around in retirement speeches and “what next” interviews. It is often delivered with the best intentions, and also people who have never actually laced their sports shoes one last time, give this “advice” . They tell you that you need to learn how to “kill the player.”
The implication is that the athlete is a skin you need to shed. A mask that comes off. That the competitor is a part of yourself who cannot survive in the “real world.” But I am here to tell you that this is not just bad advice; it is impossible, and attempting it would be a crime against yourself. A true crime
Because here is the truth: You cannot kill the player. The player is not a separate entity that lives inside you. The player is you.
The Soul’s Architecture
Think about the thousands of hours that built you. They weren’t just physical repetitions; they were spiritual architecture. That player inside you isn’t just the person who scored the winning goal or set the personal record. The player is the sum of every single moment that happened between the lines and in the shadows. While the clock was running and while it was stopped and you were alone.
The player is the person who learned to get up at 5:30 a.m. when the rest of the world was asleep, not because a coach was watching or ordering, but because the work demanded it.
The player is the person who sat in the locker room after a devastating loss, the sting of failure so acute it felt physical, and learned that the world keeps spinning and you have to go back to work tomorrow.
The player is the person who trusted the person to their left and right with their body, their reputation, and their heart.
The player is the person who stood in the shower hoping that the water would hide the tears. And then blame the red eyes on the shampoo.
To suggest that you “kill” that person is to suggest that you amputate the very traits that make you functional, unique, you. Who can decide which part can go without side effects? It is not a part, it is the core and that is the truth. It is not something dead and weak, it is the hidden part of your soul. The part that hid beneath the layers of the persona that was playing the game. The inner fuel.
The Ghost
Some of us stay in the game. We transition to the sidelines, becoming coaches or trainers. In this role, it is easy to assume the player is asleep. But he isn’t. He is the one who knows exactly what the kid in front of him is feeling. He is the one who can sense the momentum shift before the scoreboard shows it. He is the one who designs a game plan not just for the X’s and O’s, but for the feeling of the game, the familiar feeling of been there, done that.
And for those who transition out—who step into the corporate world, the trades, the arts, or the quiet of a 9-to-5 life—the player does not vanish simply because the uniform is in a closet somewhere.
He is the one who walks into a boardroom and immediately assesses the competition across the table.
She is the one who stays late to finish the project, not for the overtime pay, but because the job isn’t done.
He is the one who handles the stress of a company restructuring with the same steady breath he used in the final two minutes of a tied game.
They are the ones all the others look at and go: “how is he/she so calm while everything is stressing us all around?”
Why It’s a Terrible Lie
Telling a retired athlete to “kill the player” is going against the Thou shall not kill command.
It is telling a fire to stop burning.
It is going against nature. Period.
If you try to kill that part of yourself, you are not left with a well-adjusted civilian. You are left with a hollow shell. You are left with someone who is constantly trying to forget the best parts of themselves in an effort to fit into a box they were never meant to fit into. That path leads to identity crisis, depression, and a longing for a past that feels more alive than the present.
The player inside you is the most valuable asset you will ever own. It is the engine that powered your athletic career, and it is the engine that will power the rest of your life.
Stop trying to silence the voice.
Stop trying to put out the fire.
Let the player run the meeting. Let the player set the goal. Let the player decide that quitting is not an option.
Athlete Legacy’s message to athletes is this one:
You cannot kill the player. And you shouldn’t want to. The player is the best thing you ever became. Let him lead the way into the next chapter. He’s been preparing for this his whole life.