On April 26, 2023, after the Milwaukee Bucks were unceremoniously bounced from the NBA playoffs by the eighth-seeded Miami Heat, Giannis Antetokounmpo stepped up to the podium for a postgame press conference. When asked by The Athletic’s Eric Nehm if he viewed the Bucks’ season as a failure, Giannis didn’t just deflect—he launched into a two-minute philosophical sermon that’s since been hailed as a moment of wisdom and perspective. “There’s no failure in sports,” he declared. “There’s good days, bad days. Some days you’re able to be successful, some days you’re not. Some days it’s your turn, some days it’s not your turn.” He even threw in a Michael Jordan reference for good measure: “Michael Jordan played 15 years, won six championships. The other nine years was a failure? That’s what you’re telling me?”
The internet erupted. Fans praised his humility, analysts lauded his maturity, and even fellow athletes like Naomi Osaka and Steve Kerr chimed in with admiration. But let’s pump the brakes on the hero worship for a second. While Giannis’s speech might sound profound on the surface, it’s worth digging deeper. In my view, this take isn’t just irrational—it’s disrespectful to the very essence of competitive sports, the fans who invest in it, and the teammates who poured their hearts into a season that ended in undeniable disappointment. Here’s why.
The Irrationality: Failure Is the Backbone of Sports
Giannis’s core argument—that failure doesn’t exist in sports because it’s all just “steps to success”—is a feel-good soundbite that crumbles under scrutiny. Sports are built on the binary of winning and losing. Every game, every season, has a clear objective: to come out on top. When you don’t, you’ve failed to meet that goal. It’s not about good days or bad days—it’s about results. To suggest otherwise is to ignore the fundamental structure of competition.
Take his Michael Jordan example. Giannis asks if Jordan’s nine non-championship seasons were failures. Well, yes, Giannis—they were, at least in the context of the ultimate goal. Jordan himself would tell you that. The man was famously fuelled by every loss, every slight, every season that didn’t end with a ring. He didn’t shrug off those nine years as “steps” in some philosophical journey—he saw them as failures to overcome. That’s why he pushed himself to six titles. Giannis’s attempt to re frame Jordan’s career as a gentle progression dismisses the relentless drive that defined MJ’s legacy. Failure isn’t a dirty word; it’s a motivator.
And let’s talk about the Bucks’ 2022-23 season specifically. This wasn’t just a “bad day.” The Bucks finished with the NBA’s best regular-season record (58-24), secured the No. 1 seed in the East, and entered the playoffs as title favorites. They then proceeded to lose in five games to a Miami Heat team that barely squeaked into the postseason as a No. 8 seed. Giannis himself missed two and a half games with a back injury, and when he returned, he struggled down the stretch—shooting 10-of-23 from the free-throw line in Game 5 and committing costly turnovers. This wasn’t a noble effort derailed by fate; it was a collapse of historic proportions. Calling it anything less than a failure is irrational—it denies the reality of what happened on the court.
Sports aren’t a participation trophy factory. The idea that “there’s no failure” because you tried your best might work in a youth rec league, but in the NBA—where millions of dollars, legacies, and fan expectations are on the line—it’s a cop-out. Failure exists because success is finite. Only one team wins the championship. Everyone else falls short. That’s not a flaw in the system; it’s the whole point.
The Disrespect: Undermining Fans, Teammates, and the Game
Beyond its shaky logic, Giannis’s speech carries a whiff of disrespect that’s hard to ignore. First, let’s consider the Bucks fans. These are people who packed Fiserv Forum all season, shelled out hard-earned money for tickets, and rode the emotional rollercoaster of a team that looked poised to dominate. When that team choked in the first round, those fans had every right to feel let down. Telling them “there’s no failure” doesn’t validate their passion—it dismisses it. It’s as if their investment, their heartbreak, doesn’t matter because, hey, it’s just “not our turn.” That’s not perspective; it’s a refusal to own the moment.
Then there’s the teammates. Khris Middleton dropped 33 points in Game 5, Brook Lopez added 18, and the Bucks still couldn’t close it out. These guys battled through injuries and adversity all year, only to see their season end in a gut-wrenching overtime loss. Giannis’s breezy “good days, bad days” rhetoric glosses over their collective effort—and their collective shortfall. Failure isn’t just personal; it’s a team reality. By denying it, Giannis risks alienating the very people who fought alongside him. Imagine being Grayson Allen, who missed a crucial floater at the buzzer, hearing your superstar say there’s no failure. Does that inspire you, or does it feel like your struggle was just shrugged off?
Finally, the speech disrespects the game itself. Basketball, like all sports, thrives on stakes. The thrill of victory and the agony of defeat are what make it worth watching. When Giannis reduces a playoff exit to a philosophical musing about life’s ups and downs, he strips away the urgency that defines professional athletics. If there’s no failure, why bother competing? Why push through a back injury? Why care at all? His words might sound enlightened, but they undermine the intensity that makes sports compelling in the first place.
The Context: A Defensive Dodge, Not a Deep Truth
Let’s not kid ourselves—Giannis wasn’t delivering some premeditated TED Talk. This was a raw, emotional reaction to a tough question, one he’d heard from Nehm the previous year after another playoff disappointment. His sigh, his “Oh my God,” his jab at the reporter’s own career (“Do you get a promotion every year?”) all scream defensiveness, not revelation. He was hurt, frustrated, and maybe a little embarrassed. That’s human, and it’s relatable. But dressing it up as profound wisdom doesn’t make it true.
Compare this to how other greats handle failure. LeBron James, after the 2011 Finals loss to Dallas, owned it: “I’ve got to get better.” Kobe Bryant, after countless setbacks, turned failure into fuel, famously saying it “doesn’t exist” only in the sense that it’s a mindset to conquer, not ignore. Giannis, by contrast, seems to want failure erased from the conversation entirely. That’s not maturity—it’s avoidance.
The Fallout: A Missed Opportunity
Here’s the real shame: Giannis had a chance to say something meaningful. He could’ve acknowledged the failure, taken accountability, and vowed to come back stronger—words that would’ve resonated with Bucks fans and fired up his team for next season. Instead, he leaned on a platitude that sounds nice but means little in the cutthroat world of the NBA. It’s not about wallowing in defeat; it’s about recognizing it so you can grow from it. By denying failure, Giannis denied himself—and his team—that growth.
Giannis is a likable guy—humble, hardworking, and a phenomenal talent. His journey from selling trinkets on Athens streets to NBA superstardom is inspiring. But that doesn’t make his take immune to critique. Sports aren’t a self-help seminar. They’re a proving ground where failure is real, tangible, and necessary. To pretend otherwise isn’t just irrational—it’s disrespectful to everyone who lives and breathes the game.
So, no, Giannis, there is failure in sports. And that’s okay. It’s what makes the wins worth chasing. The Bucks’ 2022-23 season didn’t end because it “wasn’t their turn”—it ended because they fell short. Call it what it is, learn from it, and move on. That’s the real lesson here, not some sugarcoated denial of the obvious. To make things worse it doesn’t look like Giannis or the Bucks learnt anything at all as they simply repeated the failure the next year and are heading to repeat it again this season. What sort of speech will he put together this time I wonder?
