Behind the Whistle: The Case for Closed Doors and Open Eyes in High School Hoops
Closed Doors, Open Gyms, and the Drama of High School Basketball
by someone who’s seen enough to know better
The gym is quiet. The kind of quiet where you can hear the ball bounce and the breath catch in a kid’s throat before he bricks a free throw. No one’s watching. No one’s filming. No moms in the bleachers. No little brothers spinning in the corner with a juice box. Just ten kids, a coach, and the relentless, ugly pursuit of getting better.
That’s a closed practice.
Now fast-forward to Friday. The gym is buzzing. Parents in lawn chairs they brought from home. A couple of freshmen pretending not to stare at the varsity point guard like he’s an NBA draft pick. Coaches yelling. Players peeking into the crowd, wondering who’s watching. Same gym. Different world.
Welcome to the great debate: closed vs. open practices. The question isn’t just logistical. It’s philosophical. It's about what kind of program you’re building—and what kind of coach you are.
Closed practices are where the sausage gets made. No frills, no filters. Players can screw up without fear, coaches can curse without an apology, and mistakes are welcomed because they’re the point. There’s a brutal honesty to it. You can run your worst drills, chew out your captain, and stop a 3-on-2 break seventeen times until the spacing is finally right. No parent is going to ask why their kid isn’t shooting more, because no parent is there. No booster is going to critique your offensive scheme from behind an iPad.
Privacy breeds clarity. You can talk about effort, about mental lapses, about why certain kids aren’t cutting it—without worrying about optics. You’re not managing a crowd. You’re coaching a team.
But close the doors too long and people start to wonder what’s happening behind them. Parents feel shut out. Players have to go home and describe things they barely understand. “Coach said I was drifting weak side in help, but I wasn’t even guarding the guy with the ball!” And so begins the unraveling.
Transparency matters. Parents aren’t just chauffeurs. They’re stakeholders. And when they can peek behind the curtain—see the sweat, the correction, the process—they start to get it. They stop asking why their kid only played four minutes and start appreciating the fact that he boxed out every time. They witness the struggle, not just the stat sheet.
Open practices create energy. They put the program on display. You’re not just coaching; you’re showcasing. Younger players get inspired. Administrators get excited. And players—well, some of them thrive under that gaze. They sharpen up, move faster, shout louder. Accountability isn’t just internal now—it’s onstage.
But that spotlight burns. It turns practice into performance. Some kids shrink. Some coaches adjust their tone. You think twice before saying what needs to be said, because a mom with a blog might be in the third row. And good luck working on that new trap defense when the JV coach from across town is watching from behind a Gatorade cooler.
It’s not black and white. Closed practices aren’t about secrecy. Open practices aren’t about showboating. They’re tools. And like any tool, they can be misused.
Maybe the right answer is a little of both. Keep the door closed when the team’s fragile, when you’re building something raw and unrefined. Then open it up when you’ve got something to be proud of. Let the parents see a scrimmage. Host a “community night.” Let the school feel involved without giving them keys to the kingdom.
And no matter what you choose—communicate. Don’t let silence do the talking. If you close practice, tell them why. If you open it, set boundaries. A gym with no direction, whether locked or wide open, becomes chaos.
At the end of the day, practice is where the real work happens. Not on game night. Not under the lights. In the quiet. In the sweat. In the missed layups and the second chances.
So close the door. Or don’t. Just make sure that whatever happens inside those lines, it’s real, it’s honest, and it’s yours.
