100,000 Shots

April 23, 2025

This past weekend, I played in the Ivy League Club Basketball Tournament at Harvard. As a senior, it has crossed my mind that I may never play basketball at this competitive a level ever again. There’s lots to reflect on.

I don’t want to overromanticize my own life. I knew I was never going to make the NBA. But basketball was the biggest part of my life up until college. I took it more seriously than any other commitment. Aiming to shoot 100,000 shots completely changed how I perceive the world around me.

A Desperate Conversation

After losing yet another game in my sophomore year of high school, I was sitting in the front seat of Coach’s car. I didn’t want to talk on the way home. Our record for the 2018-19 season was 3-19. What was there to talk about?

I was fed up with a lot at that time, but one of the things that frustrated me most was my own weaknesses. As a 5’11” unathletic guard, my opportunities on offense were inherently limited. My ball handling skills could only take me so far without the ability to elevate and play creatively around the rim.

Perhaps worse than my abysmal vertical leaping abilities was my jump shooting. I shot 3/15 on three-point field goals that season. No athleticism and no jump shot meant defenders could sit in the paint and easily contain any other offensive threats I posed. It felt impossible to maneuver into the lane when teams could easily pack the paint. Pump fakes and hesitation moves don’t work if the defender knows the ball handler is a non-threat from range.

I had never been a good shooter, but I always had plenty of excuses ready, like “My parents didn’t play sports, so I had nobody to teach me how to shoot.” I lacked true accountability. I pitied myself.

Head spinning with frustration and doubt, Coach started talking about his own playing days. He said he had some other guys on his team who were really talented, so he knew he had to carve out a specific role for himself. As an undersized guard, it made sense strategically to become a floor spacer with a reliable jumper. He told me he spent one offseason shooting 100,000 shots to improve his accuracy.

It wasn’t that I thought Coach was the greatest shooter I’d ever met. I didn’t even necessarily know that he was telling the truth. Counting each of those 100,000 shots itself sounds obnoxiously obsessive, let alone shooting 100,000 shots. But that was beside the point. This wasn’t a challenge to “make the extra pass” or “stay disciplined on defense.” This was a challenge to work hard.

It isn’t true that 100,000 shots is the only way to improve one’s jump shot. But rejecting this challenge on the basis that 100,000 shots isn’t the optimal path is a pretext for indolence. Nothing else I tried was working. Even if 100,000 shots wouldn’t make me an elite shooter, it sure as hell would make me a better one— right? Just spending that much time, shooting 100,000 shots, watching the ball travel through the air that many times, trying to perfect the craft— surely, it would have to make me better. I couldn’t tell how much better. But better nonetheless. Committing to obsession necessitates improvement.

This isn’t just about basketball.

That night, I begged my parents to get me a membership to the local rec. Then, I made the below picture my lock screen, with a blunt reminder from Coach about the season we just had.

From memory, I cannot confirm I followed through on each of the goals I set for myself on the paper above. But I can share exactly how much progress I made getting shots up specifically, because I tracked every single number. You can’t improve what you don’t measure. I knew if I could look back and observe objective metrics, there would be no excuses to hide behind.

Every day, starting on February 10, 2019, I tracked how many shots I took in a single note document. This marks the beginning of my emotional journey of creating something great.

This Will Be Fun

At the beginning of the journey, I felt motivated. I committed to shooting only inside the paint for the first few weeks so I could re-shape my jump shot, which was cursed with a pretty nasty hitch. I was recording my workouts so I could adjust my form towards something more closely resembled shooters I looked up to. Shooting from close-range meant few long rebounds to chase down. It also meant the ball went through the net a lot. Things were new. Things felt good. Motivation was high.

Of course, motivation wavers. Discipline is necessary to build anything great.

Dark Swamp of Despair

Discipline meant doing what I knew I needed to do, even on days I didn’t feel like it. It sounds nice and inspiring when people talk about discipline like that. But the truth is, it often feels like the opposite. It can really, really suck. It feels good to know one is disciplined, but it oftentimes does not feel good to actually be disciplined. It doesn’t immediately feel good to do the things you don’t want to do.

On March 7, I wrote “600 70%ft garbage.” Two days later, on March 9, I wrote “470 two mental breakdowns one day.” I remember crying at the rec on multiple occasions out of frustration. I remember crying after high school workouts where I airballed open jumpers. I remember crying more than I remember the workouts.

The next week’s summary: “2,347 shots not enough.” That’s over 335 shots per day, without skipping, each shot chased down myself, and each attempt counted in my head.

What had started as a fun idea had led me down into a dark swamp of despair.

Excessive? Maybe. Obsessive? Definitely.

By March 30, I had gotten up over 18,000 shots since February 10. I missed days sparsely (>80% of the days since February 10, I got my shots up). It was good, consistent work. But I was only a fraction of the way there.

The challenge intensified in April, when AAU and high school ball overlapped— Mondays and Wednesdays were AAU practice, and Tuesdays and Thursdays were high school workouts. Weekends were usually AAU tournaments. I only counted shots taken during individual workouts, not team practices or games. If I wanted to maintain my high shooting volume, it would require the mental toughness to squeeze in my own workouts around my team commitments.

It Takes a Village

I was so focused. My jump shot had become so deeply intertwined with my identity at this point. It was almost all I could think about. Days when I shot well, I felt great pride. But days when I shot poorly caused me to question everything. Am I wasting my time? Am I making a fool of myself? Am I in way over my head?

Part of the pressure came from pursuing this project so publicly. My friends were aware, because I couldn’t play pickup with them— I had to get shots up. My family was aware, because they had to drive me around— I had to get shots up. My coaches were aware, because I would stay in the gym after practices ended while the rest of the team went to go get food— I had to get shots up.

I feared public failure.

With my mental fortitude wavering a bit into the month of April, it was the ambivalence of others which pushed me to keep going. My brother frequently offered to rebound for me. Soon, my friends did the same. Once people realized how serious I was about my mission, I think I earned some respect. People didn’t think I was in way over my head. They wanted me to succeed. I am forever grateful for those few friends who acknowledged how badly I wanted it.

I was initially fearful of telling others about my goal, for fear of being judged or ridiculed. But the more vulnerable I was about my mission, the more people actually looked to help. I think this is true of life in general. I sometimes overestimate how much others will judge me when making bold moves in public, but discount how much others will be willing to help me. I wonder if others can relate.

On April 2, during one of my workouts at the rec, I was approached by a kid I’d never met. He was the starting point guard at a private school near me— a pretty good basketball school, unlike my own. He noticed my systematic workout and asked why I was training with such intensity. I started to tell him my story.

Being a bit older than me, he told me how much he admired my work ethic. He told me a bit about his own story and shared some tips that made him into a better shooter. We exchanged phone numbers and agreed to get in a workout together soon. Finally, he helped rebound for me until I hit 360 jumpers on the day.

Earning the respect of the starting point guard at an established basketball program was everything for a 15-year-old Matt. Maybe I’m not crazy. Maybe I was on to something.

Revenge game

That offseason, in addition to all the stress I felt on my jump shot journey, I also dealt with the added stress of abandoning the AAU team I had played with since the 5th grade. I felt I wasn’t getting the opportunity I deserved anymore. With how much effort I was putting into my game, I decided to jump ship in March to join another (less talented) team. It was an opportunity to continue to redefine myself and take on the role of being a leader. One teammate from the old team was kind enough to give his explicit support.

In just my second tournament with my new team, we were coincidentally scheduled to play my old team in the very first game. I don’t know if I’ve ever been more nervous before a game. I felt like I had so much to prove.

We ended up losing in a close one. But I led all scorers with 18 points, including two 3-pointers and a number of pull-up midranges. After the game, I received praise from family members on both teams, old and new, for how much my jump shot had improved. One of the players from my old team texted me later that night.

I was finally starting to see my hard work pay off. People were finally taking notice.

From there, momentum continued to build in the right direction. A better jump shot meant less mental breakdowns. It still wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows. I remember having to leave my birthday party early to get shots up while it was still light outside. But in general, a self-reinforcing loop was created where better shooting performance created more confidence, which led to better shooting performance, so on and so forth.

By May 22, I had shot about 35,000 jump shots. That’s about 350 shots every single day for about 3.5 months straight. I made time for individual workouts on 84% of the days within that timeline.

Input vs. output-oriented goals

I can’t remember exactly which it was, but one skeptical coach had a conversation with me about my journey. They found it strange I was tracking only total shots, and not made shots in my experiment. Tracking made shots, they insisted, was a much better target. Making 100,000 shots in one offseason— now, that certainly would transform me into a better shooter.

I accepted the original challenge back in February. I wasn’t going to shy away from this one either. So I decided I would track only made shots until I reached that illustrious 100,000 mark.

On May 23, I started tracking makes. The problem was that it takes much, much longer to make 100,000 shots than it does to shoot 100,000 shots. In fact, it took so long that I wondered if anyone could achieve such a feat on their own.

I don’t have great documentation on why I stopped. But I do know that after two weeks of trying to track made shots, my notes document terminates. My journey ended abruptly.

Aiming to shoot X shots isn’t inherently worse than aiming to make Y shots. They are different goals in nature. The former is input-oriented, while the latter is output-oriented.

Output-oriented goals are more tightly coupled to the goal outcome (“I want to make more jump shots, so I will go make more jump shots”). But they also can induce more stress and frustration when output-oriented goals aren’t met (“Yesterday, I made 300 shots in an hour. Today, I’ve been here for three hours and I only just reached 100 makes. I hate myself”).

Input-oriented goals don’t contain the same kind of guarantees that output-oriented goals do. Even if I shoot 100,000 shots, I might miss every single one of them. Then, I’m almost definitely not improving. But, with the discipline to maintain attention to detail and chase a mark as high as 100,000, the odds of improvement increase.

Here is how I thought about my goal: I will record my workouts. I will watch them back to critique and iterate on my form. I will pick a north star number high enough to require consistency and resilience to reach. If I were to track only makes, my off days may totally derail my momentum. I may give up when I hit a cold spell. (This is what happened in early June when I cut myself off).

But by tracking the total number of shots taken, all that matters is my commitment. On the good days and the bad, the effort is what matters. If I stack effort day over day, for months at a time, I am optimistic the power of compounding will work its magic.

My central hypothesis: There is no way I can shoot 100,000 shots this offseason and still be a terrible shooter. It is just so unlikely. Spending that much time working on my craft must yield improvement, no matter how gradual.

The results

I think my hypothesis was validated. Although I never made it to 100,000— actually, I was only about 40% of the way there in the end— the consistency I did display that offseason indeed changed everything about my game.

My sophomore season, I shot 20% from three and only made three three-pointers the entire year. My junior year, I led the team shooting 47% from three, making more three-pointers than I even attempted the year before. My senior year, I led the team shooting 48% from three, 48% from the field, and 85% from the free throw line. I earned All-League First Team honors and All-County Second Team honors. I led our team to our first league title in 20 years.

This attempt to shoot 100,000 shots was the hardest thing I have ever done. I am grateful to be privileged enough to admit that. That means it was harder than getting into college, harder than passing any exam, and harder than getting any job or internship. I acknowledge and assert this fact.

Aiming for 100,000 shots taught me what it means to work hard. It taught me what it means to have a growth mindset. It taught me that to do anything truly great, things tend to get worse before they get better. It taught me that it is okay to be different from the crowd. It is okay to get shots up while your friends are playing pickup. It is okay to be misunderstood. It is okay to take the lonely road.

Any challenge I have faced since has paled in comparison. I face the world with cautious optimism that I can do anything because I made it out of the dark swamp of despair when I was 15-years old, shooting hundreds of shots in empty gyms just to prove to myself it was possible.

Like I mentioned earlier about discipline, this process wasn’t fun in the moment. The eventual success was worth it, but I don’t miss the days of shooting 100,000 shots. I missed parties. I missed times with friends and family. I drove myself to some of the lowest lows I have ever felt. It sounds dramatic. But I think when you fully immerse yourself in an uphill battle like shooting 100,000 shots, its par for the course.

I think everybody should experience some “100,000 shots journey” in their life. Becoming entirely consumed by one overly ambitious goal for at least months at a time. It is not just “setting goals” or “working hard.” It is becoming the journey itself. The journey blends into your identity. You think about it when you wake up and when you go to bed. You are all-consumed by chasing 100,000 shots.

Is shooting 100,000 shots the optimal path to becoming a better shooter? Of course not. But many fall victim to analysis paralysis, searching for the best way to do something, yet failing to act. Choosing to embark on 100,000 shots is choosing to accept that the journey will be imperfect. Time will be wasted. Mistakes will be made. Nonetheless, progress will be made in the right direction. Perhaps, enough progress to turn you from a 3-19 team to a league champion.

Because if you spend that much time and energy on perfecting your craft— no matter how slow the progress— how could you not improve?