A legendary NBA player and beloved teammate shares his hard-earned wisdom about finding your true purpose and mastering your inner game, whatever that game might be.

Chris Bosh is on any list of the Top 100 NBA players of all time--an eleven-time All Star, two-time Finals winner, Olympic gold medalist, and currently the league's Global Ambassador. Always an uncommonly philosophical NBA star, he found himself needing all the mindfulness he could muster in 2017, when his career was cut short at its prime by a freak medical condition. Suddenly, he was thrown out of the work that had given so much more than just a livelihood, and had to think deeply about his  identity in the world. This game had taught him so much; what could he make of it all?

Out of that place of deep reflection has emerged an uncommon book for a retired superstar to write. While it has the best elements of a memoir--the portraits of the great players and coaches, from LeBron and Kobe to Pat Riley and Coach K, and the accounts of extraordinary competitive moments--it is really a wisdom book, a blend of The Inner Game of Tennis, Wynton Marsalis's To a Young Jazz Musician, and Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. It is rich with insight about basketball, but even richer with insight about life. It's a book about finding a purpose that is deep and real, not shallow and external, and about navigating success and failure as the twin mirages they are--pushing past fear, past ego, past fatigue to the pure flow of sustained accomplishment in a mesh with teammates who have given themselves to the same thing. Chris Bosh found that flow, and sustained it at the highest level. He misses basketball keenly still, but he has no regrets. Deep, honest, unflinching, this book is his friend's hand up to those coming up behind, whatever their pursuit might be.
© Photo by Moyo Oyelola
Chris Bosh fell in love with basketball at an early age and earned the prestigious “Mr. Basketball” title while still at Lincoln High School in Dallas, Texas. A McDonald’s All-American, Bosh was selected fourth overall by the Toronto Raptors after one year attending Georgia Tech. In March 2019, Bosh's #1 jersey was officially retired for the Miami Heat. In addition to his basketball career, in 2010 he founded Team Tomorrow as a community-uplift organization. Bosh regularly speaks to youths about the benefits of reading, coding and leadership. Bosh, his wife Adrienne, and their five children reside in Austin, Texas. View titles by Chris Bosh

Introduction


The last thing you probably want is another voice in your head.

I get it.

There’s a lot coming at you these days. Whether you’re a once-in-a-lifetime talent just arriving in the pros, or an ordinary kid in an after-school league; whether you’re playing basketball or lacrosse, throwing a shotput or suiting up as a tight end—or whether you’re trying to excel in the classroom or start a career—you’ve got a lot of people coming at you.

Coaches.

Crushes.

Teammates.

Teachers.

Parents.

Peers.

The crowd.

There can also be recruiters, reporters, haters, and on and on. And then there’s the toughest voice of all: the voice inside your own head. Nothing can intimidate you like that voice. Nothing can mislead you, shame you, puff you up, lead you astray, or keep you down quite like the running monologue between your own two ears.

But wherever they come from, all of those voices have some-thing in common. Everybody thinks they know. They all want to tell you something—want to cop a few seconds to get in your ear. Or maybe they’re firmer than that: Sit your ass down, kid. You better listen to me. 

So here I am, another voice in your ear. What makes me any different?

Because I know. I don’t just think I know. I’ve been there.

And where is “there”? It’s where you are right now—high school, college, rookie—and where you want to go. I’ve been the kid in the driveway practicing buzzer-beaters and the guy in front of sold-out crowds hitting them, and neither all that long ago.

I remember what it was like to love the game. To break some kid’s ankles on a crossover or drain a deep shot and realize, Maybe I’m not like them. Maybe I’ve been given something special. I remember what it was like to see that talent reflected back in the eyes of coaches and teammates, to realize that I had a future in basketball. I remember that hunger to make it, to get out of my hometown and make it. I remember being barraged by all the same people barraging you—about homework, about planning for the future, about sportsmanship, about being a team leader, about not hanging out with the wrong crowd, about trying hard, about the way you dress or the music you listen to, about everything that young athletes have always been hassled about.

I started playing baseball and basketball early. I was always tall. From maybe fourth grade on, basketball was more or less my life. I was Texas high school player of the year and an All-American before I was recruited by multiple colleges.

I’ve been there. I’ve been somewhere I imagine you want to go, even if it’s the most unlikely of fantasies. I’ve heard thousands of people scream my name at once. I’ve been mobbed in the streets of foreign countries. I’ve run out of the tunnel onto an NBA court for a Game 7. I’ve won Game 7s. I’ve seen the confetti fall from the rafters. I played long enough to see my own jersey get raised up there, where it will hang forever.

I also avoided the trouble that a lot of athletes get into. I learned a lot about the game and about life. I know about heart-break and pain, too. I made it to the pros and climbed to the very top of the profession I had worked my entire life to be a part of . . . only to suddenly lose it all when the thing that got me there—my body—betrayed me. A surprise blood clot in 2016 meant I would never again lace up my sneakers and play basket-ball in the NBA.

I was Bo Jackson, undone by a hip injury. I was Dajuan Wagner, forced to retire early because of Crohn’s disease. I was Jay Williams, severely injured in a motorcycle crash before his rookie year in the NBA. I was a million athletes you never heard of, because they were cut down before their prime. I was one of those athletes whose career didn’t end soaked in champagne, celebrating a championship, or even in tears on the court. Instead, mine ended in a doctor’s office in the middle of the afternoon. My playing days ended with a whimper, the slow drip of test results, doctors, and lawyers arguing over clauses in contracts over email.

As I write this, a part of me wishes I was still out there in the mix, chasing rings, but my dad always told me that when God closes a door, He opens a window. Our conversation here is a window for me. A window to explore the game from another angle and to give something back to the game that has given so much to me.

Believe me, I get that you probably don’t want to listen to another person right now, but if you can make room for one more voice—for my voice—I think I can help you get where you want to go.

I’ve had lots of coaches. I’ve been lucky to play for some of the best—Erik Spoelstra, Coach K, Pat Riley, Mike D’Antoni. I’ve had coaches pull me aside and whisper exactly what I needed to hear at pivotal moments in a game, and in my life. I’ve had some pretty awful coaches in my life, too—the ones who don’t have any motivational techniques beyond “yell louder” and “get more in their face.” I’ve been screamed at by a lot of people. I tried to think about it the other day—the average attendance for an NBA game is about 18,000, and I played in 982 games in my NBA career. Add it all up, and that means I’ve had something like 17 million fans screaming at me in person—not to mention the millions more screaming at me through their TV.

The point is, I know about noise, and that’s not what I’m going to throw at you.

There’s too much at stake.

You see, you’re at a crossroads in your life. You have two paths ahead of you, and you can only take one. I want to make sure you take the right one, the one that helps you get the most out of yourself, out of your potential, out of this game—whatever that game is for you. Whether you’re staying at the gym hours after practice to work on your shot or cramming for an AP exam, I can help you get the most out of that.

Looking back, what really gives me vertigo is to think of those moments when I easily could have listened to the wrong voice. Where at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, even twenty-seven, I could’ve messed things up forever with one wrong step. One moment of indulging the devil on my shoulder, and my life, my career, could have gone in a very different direction. My entire future—years in the pros, an Olympic gold medal, two championship rings—suddenly erased. And worse, like so many talented kids out there, I might never have even known what I had unwritten. Would I have my kids? Have my creativity? Would I even be here, alive? I was lucky in that way. I want you to be lucky, too.

One of the lucky moments for me was a conversation I still remember like yesterday. I was in high school, at the gym—I was always at the gym, I loved it—and my coach Thomas Hill asked me the kind of question most young kids never get, but almost always need.

Coach had been walking me through a drill. Maybe it was a low-post drill designed to teach the footwork for the jump hook, one of the most simple and devastating back-to-the-basket moves in all of basketball. They say you play like you practice, and for a low-post move like the jump hook to work, you’ve really got to commit, you’ve got to establish your position, get your footwork down, and get maximum arm extension to hopefully get you an easy two. Or maybe we were working on inbounding the ball and he was right up in my face, trying to flood me with pressure. Anyway, I must have been having a good workout because sud-denly Coach Hill stopped everything, looked me in the eyes, and said, “What do you want to do with this, Chris?”

What do I want to do with this? Man, I thought, I am doing this. Don’t you see me playing?

I stammered and stumbled a bit, thinking he wanted to hear about my goals for that very drill or maybe my goals for basketball. I explained I was maybe hoping to win a state championship or get a college scholarship, thinking that, of course, that’s what every coach wants to hear. But he was thinking much bigger. He was thinking beyond the game. Nah, he said, I’m talking more than that. He wanted me to think bigger, too. What did I want to do with my life? Who did I want to be? How could basketball help me get there? Where could my talents take me and where could I go if I really sold that first step and put everything I had into driving toward my goals?

No matter what kind of talent you’ve been blessed with, you still have to answer the same question: What do you want to do with this? Where are you going, and how can you use what you’ve been given to get there?

That conversation changed my life, and a big reason I’m writing this book is that I want to ask the same question of you. However you answer it, answer it honestly—and I’ll try to give you some honest advice about how I think you can get there. I don’t want this to be just another noise in your ear—I want it to be one of the voices that matters. I want it to be like the conversations that helped me harness my talent, that helped me come to peace with the early end to my career. I want it to be like the conversations that happen between coaches and kids in locker rooms and in gyms, on buses to road games, and on the bench in the fourth quarter. The great coach John Wooden once said, “What you are as a person is far more important than what you are as a basketball player.” And I’ve been fortunate to have been surrounded by countless coaches, mentors, and teammates who lived by those words.

You’ll notice this book is called Letters to a Young Athlete. I’m writing it to you as a kind of letter. It’s modeled on some of my favorite books, like Letters to a Young Poet and Letters to a Young Jazz Musician. Those might seem like strange books for a basketball player to be reading, but I love learning—from anyone who can teach me. I hope I can share some of that love with you. I also hope I can pass along some of the timeless wisdom I’ve picked up along the way. One of the things the poet Rilke taught me is that part of being wise is accepting you don’t have all of the answers right now—and that’s OK. It’s OK to be full of questions. “Try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language,” he wrote in Letters to a Young Poet. “Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

You don’t have to know right now what you are going to do with the talent you’ve been given. You don’t need to know where you’re going to end up, or where you’re going to find the strength you need along the way. Live, keep your love of the game close to you, and you can live yourself into the answers.

There isn’t a roadmap to get you there, but Rilke’s advice, which I’ve tried to take to heart, is that you have to live everything. What that means to me, as an athlete, is that your game—whatever it is—has to be more than a means to an end. Sure, you run the drills in practice because you want to win the games. You want to win the games because you want all of the good things that come with winning—trophies, pride, money, whatever. But if you don’t stop to live what you’re doing—if you don’t make space to experience the joy of the game—you’re missing something. You’re missing the biggest thing.

And here’s what’s really special: You don’t have to be a pro to experience those moments. There are plenty of pros who play the game mechanically and joylessly, and right now there’s some kid shooting hoops at the local Y who could teach us all something about what it means to find joy in the game. Whatever our game of choice, whatever kind of talent we’re blessed with, wherever we’re hoping the game will take us, we’re all the same when it comes to this: We all have that capacity to stop and experience the joy of what we’re doing. As you’ll see in these letters, that’s gotten me through a lot of hard times. My wish for you is that when you look back on your playing days, you’ll be able to say the same.
“I highly recommend [Letters to a Young Athlete] if you have a kid interested in basketball or if you yourself want to know a little bit more about what it takes to become a champion in any aspect of your life.” —Rachel Nichols, ESPN
 
“Chris Bosh, one of the smartest pro athletes of my life . . . goes deep on so many topics. . . . [Letters to a Young Athlete] is so smart, so thoughtful.” —Colin Cowherd

“On the court, Chris Bosh was a rare superstar who put his team above himself. His book is a wise, candid look behind the scenes at what made him great and how he made others even greater. It should be required reading for up-and-coming athletes—and their parents, teachers, and coaches too.” —Adam Grant, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Think Again and host of the TED podcast WorkLife

“CB was the ultimate teammate and competitor. As his coach, I learned so much about leadership, sacrifice, and persevering through great challenges and adversity. His basketball experiences are deep and loaded with life lessons. Whether you want to improve as an athlete or just gain more thoughtful perspective on this game of life, you will be inspired by this book!” —Coach Erik Spoelstra

Letters to a Young Athlete is a thoughtful, helpful manual for aspiring athletes to follow. The strength of the individual is the team and the strength of the team is the individual. Chris Bosh says all that and more to young athletes.” —Phil Jackson

“Chris Bosh understands the complex reality of becoming a champion, and his book will show you how to navigate those challenges and win.” —Tim S. Grover

About

A legendary NBA player and beloved teammate shares his hard-earned wisdom about finding your true purpose and mastering your inner game, whatever that game might be.

Chris Bosh is on any list of the Top 100 NBA players of all time--an eleven-time All Star, two-time Finals winner, Olympic gold medalist, and currently the league's Global Ambassador. Always an uncommonly philosophical NBA star, he found himself needing all the mindfulness he could muster in 2017, when his career was cut short at its prime by a freak medical condition. Suddenly, he was thrown out of the work that had given so much more than just a livelihood, and had to think deeply about his  identity in the world. This game had taught him so much; what could he make of it all?

Out of that place of deep reflection has emerged an uncommon book for a retired superstar to write. While it has the best elements of a memoir--the portraits of the great players and coaches, from LeBron and Kobe to Pat Riley and Coach K, and the accounts of extraordinary competitive moments--it is really a wisdom book, a blend of The Inner Game of Tennis, Wynton Marsalis's To a Young Jazz Musician, and Rilke's Letters to a Young Poet. It is rich with insight about basketball, but even richer with insight about life. It's a book about finding a purpose that is deep and real, not shallow and external, and about navigating success and failure as the twin mirages they are--pushing past fear, past ego, past fatigue to the pure flow of sustained accomplishment in a mesh with teammates who have given themselves to the same thing. Chris Bosh found that flow, and sustained it at the highest level. He misses basketball keenly still, but he has no regrets. Deep, honest, unflinching, this book is his friend's hand up to those coming up behind, whatever their pursuit might be.

Author

© Photo by Moyo Oyelola
Chris Bosh fell in love with basketball at an early age and earned the prestigious “Mr. Basketball” title while still at Lincoln High School in Dallas, Texas. A McDonald’s All-American, Bosh was selected fourth overall by the Toronto Raptors after one year attending Georgia Tech. In March 2019, Bosh's #1 jersey was officially retired for the Miami Heat. In addition to his basketball career, in 2010 he founded Team Tomorrow as a community-uplift organization. Bosh regularly speaks to youths about the benefits of reading, coding and leadership. Bosh, his wife Adrienne, and their five children reside in Austin, Texas. View titles by Chris Bosh

Excerpt

Introduction


The last thing you probably want is another voice in your head.

I get it.

There’s a lot coming at you these days. Whether you’re a once-in-a-lifetime talent just arriving in the pros, or an ordinary kid in an after-school league; whether you’re playing basketball or lacrosse, throwing a shotput or suiting up as a tight end—or whether you’re trying to excel in the classroom or start a career—you’ve got a lot of people coming at you.

Coaches.

Crushes.

Teammates.

Teachers.

Parents.

Peers.

The crowd.

There can also be recruiters, reporters, haters, and on and on. And then there’s the toughest voice of all: the voice inside your own head. Nothing can intimidate you like that voice. Nothing can mislead you, shame you, puff you up, lead you astray, or keep you down quite like the running monologue between your own two ears.

But wherever they come from, all of those voices have some-thing in common. Everybody thinks they know. They all want to tell you something—want to cop a few seconds to get in your ear. Or maybe they’re firmer than that: Sit your ass down, kid. You better listen to me. 

So here I am, another voice in your ear. What makes me any different?

Because I know. I don’t just think I know. I’ve been there.

And where is “there”? It’s where you are right now—high school, college, rookie—and where you want to go. I’ve been the kid in the driveway practicing buzzer-beaters and the guy in front of sold-out crowds hitting them, and neither all that long ago.

I remember what it was like to love the game. To break some kid’s ankles on a crossover or drain a deep shot and realize, Maybe I’m not like them. Maybe I’ve been given something special. I remember what it was like to see that talent reflected back in the eyes of coaches and teammates, to realize that I had a future in basketball. I remember that hunger to make it, to get out of my hometown and make it. I remember being barraged by all the same people barraging you—about homework, about planning for the future, about sportsmanship, about being a team leader, about not hanging out with the wrong crowd, about trying hard, about the way you dress or the music you listen to, about everything that young athletes have always been hassled about.

I started playing baseball and basketball early. I was always tall. From maybe fourth grade on, basketball was more or less my life. I was Texas high school player of the year and an All-American before I was recruited by multiple colleges.

I’ve been there. I’ve been somewhere I imagine you want to go, even if it’s the most unlikely of fantasies. I’ve heard thousands of people scream my name at once. I’ve been mobbed in the streets of foreign countries. I’ve run out of the tunnel onto an NBA court for a Game 7. I’ve won Game 7s. I’ve seen the confetti fall from the rafters. I played long enough to see my own jersey get raised up there, where it will hang forever.

I also avoided the trouble that a lot of athletes get into. I learned a lot about the game and about life. I know about heart-break and pain, too. I made it to the pros and climbed to the very top of the profession I had worked my entire life to be a part of . . . only to suddenly lose it all when the thing that got me there—my body—betrayed me. A surprise blood clot in 2016 meant I would never again lace up my sneakers and play basket-ball in the NBA.

I was Bo Jackson, undone by a hip injury. I was Dajuan Wagner, forced to retire early because of Crohn’s disease. I was Jay Williams, severely injured in a motorcycle crash before his rookie year in the NBA. I was a million athletes you never heard of, because they were cut down before their prime. I was one of those athletes whose career didn’t end soaked in champagne, celebrating a championship, or even in tears on the court. Instead, mine ended in a doctor’s office in the middle of the afternoon. My playing days ended with a whimper, the slow drip of test results, doctors, and lawyers arguing over clauses in contracts over email.

As I write this, a part of me wishes I was still out there in the mix, chasing rings, but my dad always told me that when God closes a door, He opens a window. Our conversation here is a window for me. A window to explore the game from another angle and to give something back to the game that has given so much to me.

Believe me, I get that you probably don’t want to listen to another person right now, but if you can make room for one more voice—for my voice—I think I can help you get where you want to go.

I’ve had lots of coaches. I’ve been lucky to play for some of the best—Erik Spoelstra, Coach K, Pat Riley, Mike D’Antoni. I’ve had coaches pull me aside and whisper exactly what I needed to hear at pivotal moments in a game, and in my life. I’ve had some pretty awful coaches in my life, too—the ones who don’t have any motivational techniques beyond “yell louder” and “get more in their face.” I’ve been screamed at by a lot of people. I tried to think about it the other day—the average attendance for an NBA game is about 18,000, and I played in 982 games in my NBA career. Add it all up, and that means I’ve had something like 17 million fans screaming at me in person—not to mention the millions more screaming at me through their TV.

The point is, I know about noise, and that’s not what I’m going to throw at you.

There’s too much at stake.

You see, you’re at a crossroads in your life. You have two paths ahead of you, and you can only take one. I want to make sure you take the right one, the one that helps you get the most out of yourself, out of your potential, out of this game—whatever that game is for you. Whether you’re staying at the gym hours after practice to work on your shot or cramming for an AP exam, I can help you get the most out of that.

Looking back, what really gives me vertigo is to think of those moments when I easily could have listened to the wrong voice. Where at fifteen, sixteen, seventeen, even twenty-seven, I could’ve messed things up forever with one wrong step. One moment of indulging the devil on my shoulder, and my life, my career, could have gone in a very different direction. My entire future—years in the pros, an Olympic gold medal, two championship rings—suddenly erased. And worse, like so many talented kids out there, I might never have even known what I had unwritten. Would I have my kids? Have my creativity? Would I even be here, alive? I was lucky in that way. I want you to be lucky, too.

One of the lucky moments for me was a conversation I still remember like yesterday. I was in high school, at the gym—I was always at the gym, I loved it—and my coach Thomas Hill asked me the kind of question most young kids never get, but almost always need.

Coach had been walking me through a drill. Maybe it was a low-post drill designed to teach the footwork for the jump hook, one of the most simple and devastating back-to-the-basket moves in all of basketball. They say you play like you practice, and for a low-post move like the jump hook to work, you’ve really got to commit, you’ve got to establish your position, get your footwork down, and get maximum arm extension to hopefully get you an easy two. Or maybe we were working on inbounding the ball and he was right up in my face, trying to flood me with pressure. Anyway, I must have been having a good workout because sud-denly Coach Hill stopped everything, looked me in the eyes, and said, “What do you want to do with this, Chris?”

What do I want to do with this? Man, I thought, I am doing this. Don’t you see me playing?

I stammered and stumbled a bit, thinking he wanted to hear about my goals for that very drill or maybe my goals for basketball. I explained I was maybe hoping to win a state championship or get a college scholarship, thinking that, of course, that’s what every coach wants to hear. But he was thinking much bigger. He was thinking beyond the game. Nah, he said, I’m talking more than that. He wanted me to think bigger, too. What did I want to do with my life? Who did I want to be? How could basketball help me get there? Where could my talents take me and where could I go if I really sold that first step and put everything I had into driving toward my goals?

No matter what kind of talent you’ve been blessed with, you still have to answer the same question: What do you want to do with this? Where are you going, and how can you use what you’ve been given to get there?

That conversation changed my life, and a big reason I’m writing this book is that I want to ask the same question of you. However you answer it, answer it honestly—and I’ll try to give you some honest advice about how I think you can get there. I don’t want this to be just another noise in your ear—I want it to be one of the voices that matters. I want it to be like the conversations that helped me harness my talent, that helped me come to peace with the early end to my career. I want it to be like the conversations that happen between coaches and kids in locker rooms and in gyms, on buses to road games, and on the bench in the fourth quarter. The great coach John Wooden once said, “What you are as a person is far more important than what you are as a basketball player.” And I’ve been fortunate to have been surrounded by countless coaches, mentors, and teammates who lived by those words.

You’ll notice this book is called Letters to a Young Athlete. I’m writing it to you as a kind of letter. It’s modeled on some of my favorite books, like Letters to a Young Poet and Letters to a Young Jazz Musician. Those might seem like strange books for a basketball player to be reading, but I love learning—from anyone who can teach me. I hope I can share some of that love with you. I also hope I can pass along some of the timeless wisdom I’ve picked up along the way. One of the things the poet Rilke taught me is that part of being wise is accepting you don’t have all of the answers right now—and that’s OK. It’s OK to be full of questions. “Try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language,” he wrote in Letters to a Young Poet. “Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is, to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

You don’t have to know right now what you are going to do with the talent you’ve been given. You don’t need to know where you’re going to end up, or where you’re going to find the strength you need along the way. Live, keep your love of the game close to you, and you can live yourself into the answers.

There isn’t a roadmap to get you there, but Rilke’s advice, which I’ve tried to take to heart, is that you have to live everything. What that means to me, as an athlete, is that your game—whatever it is—has to be more than a means to an end. Sure, you run the drills in practice because you want to win the games. You want to win the games because you want all of the good things that come with winning—trophies, pride, money, whatever. But if you don’t stop to live what you’re doing—if you don’t make space to experience the joy of the game—you’re missing something. You’re missing the biggest thing.

And here’s what’s really special: You don’t have to be a pro to experience those moments. There are plenty of pros who play the game mechanically and joylessly, and right now there’s some kid shooting hoops at the local Y who could teach us all something about what it means to find joy in the game. Whatever our game of choice, whatever kind of talent we’re blessed with, wherever we’re hoping the game will take us, we’re all the same when it comes to this: We all have that capacity to stop and experience the joy of what we’re doing. As you’ll see in these letters, that’s gotten me through a lot of hard times. My wish for you is that when you look back on your playing days, you’ll be able to say the same.

Praise

“I highly recommend [Letters to a Young Athlete] if you have a kid interested in basketball or if you yourself want to know a little bit more about what it takes to become a champion in any aspect of your life.” —Rachel Nichols, ESPN
 
“Chris Bosh, one of the smartest pro athletes of my life . . . goes deep on so many topics. . . . [Letters to a Young Athlete] is so smart, so thoughtful.” —Colin Cowherd

“On the court, Chris Bosh was a rare superstar who put his team above himself. His book is a wise, candid look behind the scenes at what made him great and how he made others even greater. It should be required reading for up-and-coming athletes—and their parents, teachers, and coaches too.” —Adam Grant, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Think Again and host of the TED podcast WorkLife

“CB was the ultimate teammate and competitor. As his coach, I learned so much about leadership, sacrifice, and persevering through great challenges and adversity. His basketball experiences are deep and loaded with life lessons. Whether you want to improve as an athlete or just gain more thoughtful perspective on this game of life, you will be inspired by this book!” —Coach Erik Spoelstra

Letters to a Young Athlete is a thoughtful, helpful manual for aspiring athletes to follow. The strength of the individual is the team and the strength of the team is the individual. Chris Bosh says all that and more to young athletes.” —Phil Jackson

“Chris Bosh understands the complex reality of becoming a champion, and his book will show you how to navigate those challenges and win.” —Tim S. Grover

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PRH Education High School Collections

All reading communities should contain protected time for the sake of reading. Independent reading practices emphasize the process of making meaning through reading, not an end product. The school culture (teachers, administration, etc.) should affirm this daily practice time as inherently important instructional time for all readers. (NCTE, 2019)   The Penguin Random House High

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PRH Education Translanguaging Collections

Translanguaging is a communicative practice of bilinguals and multilinguals, that is, it is a practice whereby bilinguals and multilinguals use their entire linguistic repertoire to communicate and make meaning (García, 2009; García, Ibarra Johnson, & Seltzer, 2017)   It is through that lens that we have partnered with teacher educators and bilingual education experts, Drs.

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PRH Education Classroom Libraries

“Books are a students’ passport to entering and actively participating in a global society with the empathy, compassion, and knowledge it takes to become the problem solvers the world needs.” –Laura Robb   Research shows that reading and literacy directly impacts students’ academic success and personal growth. To help promote the importance of daily independent

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