Most coaches are mostly small guards because they think guards

In the blunt yet insightful words of Charles Oakley, we hear a truth that transcends basketball and touches the very structure of power and perception: “Most coaches are mostly small guards because they think guards have more knowledge.” On the surface, it sounds like a simple observation — a remark from a veteran who has seen the game from the trenches. Yet within it lies a deeper reflection on the nature of wisdom, leadership, and the ways in which society often mistakes perspective for superiority. Oakley, who was known not for finesse but for strength and grit, speaks here as one who knows that knowledge wears many forms — and that the quiet labor of those who battle in the paint is often overlooked by those who command from the perimeter.

To understand the origin of this quote, we must look to the world from which Oakley came — the world of the NBA in the 1980s and 1990s, an era of toughness, defense, and sacrifice. Oakley was no starry guard or elegant scorer; he was the anchor of his teams, the enforcer, the man who did the unseen work that allowed others to shine. When he looked around the league and noticed that most coaches came from the ranks of guards — smaller players who directed offenses and studied the flow of the game — he saw in it a reflection of a wider truth: that the world tends to elevate those who appear intellectual, those whose gifts are of the mind and voice, while neglecting those whose gifts lie in endurance, loyalty, and silent discipline. His words carry the tone of one who has seen strength undervalued, and intellect confused with insight.

In the ancient world, such wisdom was not new. The philosopher Epictetus, himself once a slave, reminded his students that “it is not the robe that makes the philosopher, but the understanding.” Likewise, Oakley reminds us that it is not the position on the court that gives one knowledge, but the depth of experience. A guard, by nature, sees the floor — the movement of players, the geometry of the game — and thus is thought to possess greater intellect. But the big man — the forward, the center — feels the game differently. He endures its weight in his body, its collisions in his bones. His knowledge is not theoretical; it is visceral, born from struggle, timing, and survival. Both ways of knowing are true — yet too often, the world crowns only one.

There is a story that echoes Oakley’s truth in another arena — that of warfare. In ancient Greece, generals often rose from the ranks of strategists, men of noble birth who studied the maps and issued commands. Yet when the Spartan king Leonidas led his three hundred warriors at Thermopylae, he did not lead from the rear, but from the front line. His wisdom was not merely tactical but lived. He understood that true leadership comes from participation in hardship, not observation from safety. So it is with the game of basketball — and with life itself. The great coaches, the true mentors, are not those who see from above, but those who have felt the battle in their own flesh.

The meaning of Oakley’s statement, then, is not to dismiss the intelligence of guards or thinkers, but to challenge the assumption that intellect belongs only to those who orchestrate rather than execute. He is warning us of a blindness that infects every field: the tendency to value the visible strategist over the silent worker, the speaker over the doer, the planner over the protector. Oakley’s lament is the lament of every craftsman, soldier, and laborer who has watched others praised for work they do not understand. He reminds us that there are many forms of knowledge — the mind that calculates, the heart that endures, and the body that remembers — and that wisdom is found not in size, position, or title, but in the integration of all three.

This truth is not confined to sports. In the world of business, in classrooms, and in governments, there exists the same imbalance. The ones who make decisions often come from the ranks of those who “see the court,” while those who build, defend, and sustain are rarely invited to lead. Yet when leaders forget the experience of the ground, when they lose touch with the sweat and struggle of those they command, their strategies grow brittle and their visions fade. The wise coach — or ruler, or teacher — listens to all voices, from the smallest guard to the strongest forward, and understands that knowledge is not hierarchy, but harmony.

The lesson to be drawn from Oakley’s words is one of humility and respect. For the leader, it is a call to broaden one’s vision — to recognize that intelligence takes many forms, and that greatness cannot be measured by height, role, or eloquence. For the follower, it is a call to value your own kind of wisdom, even if the world does not immediately see it. Every craft, every team, every society needs both the thinker and the doer, the planner and the protector. The balance of these forces is what sustains all human endeavor.

So let the words of Charles Oakley stand as a reminder to all generations: do not mistake perspective for wisdom, nor visibility for worth. In every arena — whether it be the court, the field, or the world — the measure of knowledge lies not in who commands, but in who understands. The truest coach, the noblest leader, is the one who honors every kind of knowing — the head that guides, the hands that build, and the heart that bears the burden. For only when all three are valued does the team, and the civilization it represents, rise to its fullest strength.