Kyrie Irving, before he even played one game of college

Jay Williams, a man who once walked the court with fire and later bore the scars of fate, spoke with solemn truth: “Kyrie Irving, before he even played one game of college basketball, had 7,000 fans on Twitter. Seven thousand. So these kids these days are put on this pedestal up here. I really think it discourages the value of hard work and of patience.” These words cut to the heart of our age, where glory often arrives before labor, and fame before mastery. They warn of a dangerous illusion: that greatness can be bestowed by numbers and applause, rather than forged through hard work and patience.

In the days of old, warriors earned their honor not by promise, but by proof. Achilles, though born of noble blood, was not praised until his deeds at Troy. Alexander was not crowned with the name “Great” until his campaigns carved empires from dust. Yet in this modern age, Williams laments, young athletes and artists are crowned before their battles are even fought. Through the mirrors of social media, they are raised to pedestals by adoring voices, praised for potential rather than proven effort. And this, he warns, can hollow the soul, robbing it of the hunger that drives true greatness.

The example of Kyrie Irving is striking. Before he dribbled a ball in college competition, he had already gathered thousands of admirers. Such a following, while flattering, can create a dangerous comfort. For when one already feels like a king, why struggle like a servant? When the crowd already chants your name, why spend lonely nights perfecting your craft? Williams’s wisdom is clear: premature glory may breed complacency, and without the grinding fire of patience, talent risks withering into waste.

History offers its lessons. Consider the tale of Icarus, who with wings of wax soared too high too soon, intoxicated by the rush of the sky. He mistook the promise of flight for the mastery of the heavens. And because he lacked discipline and heed for caution, his wings melted, and he fell. So too with those who ascend on fame without the ballast of hard work: their flight dazzles for a moment, but their fall is inevitable. The ancients knew, as Williams reminds us, that the crown must be earned, not gifted.

Yet his words are not merely a warning; they are a call to return to the old virtues. Patience is not weakness but strength — the willingness to endure long seasons of preparation before tasting glory. Hard work is not a burden but a blessing — the hammer that shapes raw talent into unbreakable steel. For while applause may come and go, the discipline of patience remains, and it is this that carries a person through storms when the crowd has fallen silent.

The meaning of Williams’s teaching is this: seek not to be placed on the pedestal too early. Seek instead to build the foundation that will allow you to stand when the weight of expectation presses upon you. For when fame arrives without labor, it blinds; but when fame follows labor, it becomes a crown that rests firmly upon the head.

Therefore, let the listener take heed. Do not measure your worth in followers, nor confuse attention for achievement. Dedicate yourself to the path, to the training, to the unseen hours that no one applauds. Accept patience as your ally and hard work as your companion. For true greatness is not given by the crowd but earned in the silence of preparation. And when your time comes, when your skill and your spirit are proven, then let the pedestal rise beneath you — not as an illusion, but as the solid ground of triumph.