What Are Retired NBA Players Doing Now in Their Post-Basketball Lives?

I still remember watching that viral video of John Nocum talking about his college days with Mapua University, his voice filled with that particular mix of nostalgia and pride that seems to characterize so many athletes looking back. "Inabutan ko pa siya sa Mapua. Dalawang taon ako nag-team B. 2017 yun, nandun pa siya (Co) nun," he recalled. That snippet, spoken in Tagalog, translates to a simple yet powerful truth: "I caught up with him at Mapua. I was on Team B for two years. That was 2017, he was still there (Coach Co) then." It’s a memory anchored in a specific time and place, a fleeting moment in a much larger journey. Hearing that made me reflect on the thousands of professional basketball players whose careers are often defined by their time in the NBA, but whose lives, much like Nocum's, extend far beyond the court. What happens after the final buzzer sounds? The transition from NBA stardom to post-basketball life is one of the most fascinating, and frankly, challenging transformations in professional sports.

Let's be real, the image we often have is skewed. We see the Michael Jordans of the world, owning an NBA team, or the Shaquille O'Neals, becoming ubiquitous media personalities. But they are the spectacular outliers. For the vast majority of the estimated 4,500 players who have ever suited up in an NBA game, the path is less glamorous and far more personal. The average NBA career lasts just 4.5 years. That’s it. A player is often retired before they turn 30, with decades of life ahead of them. The psychological whiplash is immense. One day, your entire identity is wrapped up in being an athlete—the routines, the adulation, the clear objectives. The next, you're just... a civilian. I've spoken to a few former players through my work, and the consistent theme is a profound sense of loss. It's not just about missing the game; it's about missing the structure and the tribe. The transition is a second career in itself, and it requires a complete rewiring of one's purpose.

Many, like Nocum who pursued his passion after his playing days, dive headfirst into business and entrepreneurship. It’s a natural fit, leveraging their name recognition and competitive spirit. I'm particularly impressed by players who go beyond the obvious. Sure, opening a car dealership or a chain of restaurants is common, but look at Channing Frye and Richard Jefferson with their "Road Trippin'" podcast, which they built into a multimedia brand. Or Kevin Love, who is doing incredible work destigmatizing mental health discussions. Then there's the venture capital route. I have a soft spot for this because it combines analytical thinking with high-risk, high-reward strategy. Andre Iguodala is a maestro in this space, focusing on tech investments and empowering Black entrepreneurs. His success isn't a fluke; he treated his post-playing career with the same discipline as his defensive assignments. Data from the National Bureau of Economic Research suggests that nearly 60% of former NBA players have some form of business investment within five years of retirement, though the success rate is a different story. It’s a high-stakes game without a guaranteed scoreboard.

Of course, you can't talk about life after basketball without mentioning broadcasting and coaching. This is the most visible path, the one that keeps them closest to the game they love. I have to admit, I'm a huge fan of JJ Redick's analytical approach on ESPN. He transitioned from a sharpshooter to a sharp analyst seamlessly, and his podcast is a masterclass in breaking down the X's and O's. It’s a path that requires a new skill set: communication, quick thinking, and the ability to be critical of former peers. Coaching is another beast entirely. It’s a grind, often starting in the G-League or as a player development assistant. Steve Nash’s recent stint, despite its challenges, shows how the cerebral players often gravitate here. The pull of the gym, the smell of the hardwood, the process of building a team—it’s a different kind of fulfillment, but for many, it’s the only thing that comes close to replicating the feeling of being part of a squad.

But what truly resonates with me, and what I find most compelling, are the stories of players who completely reinvent themselves. They step away from the spotlight and build something entirely new. Nocum’s reflection on his college coach isn't just a memory; it's a touchstone for a life that was being built parallel to his athletic one. We see this with players like Tim Duncan, who is deeply involved in his custom car shop, or David Robinson, whose philanthropic work in San Antonio is legendary. My absolute favorite example is Spencer Haywood. His fight for free agency in the 1970s fundamentally changed the league, and his post-playing life has been a mix of advocacy, art collecting, and simply enjoying his family. These journeys aren't about capitalizing on fame; they're about discovering a new self. The financial reality, however, can't be ignored. A 2009 Sports Illustrated report claimed that a shocking 60% of former NBA players go bankrupt within five years of retirement. While that number is debated—some more recent analyses place it closer to 15-20%—it underscores a critical point: financial literacy is as important as a jump shot.

So, when I hear a story like John Nocum's, it reminds me that the narrative of the "washed-up athlete" is a tired, outdated trope. The post-basketball life is not an epilogue; for many, it's where their most meaningful work begins. It's a messy, unpredictable, and deeply human journey of figuring out who you are when the uniform comes off for the last time. They become entrepreneurs, broadcasters, coaches, philanthropists, and most importantly, students of life, learning new rules for a game that never really ends. The arena just gets a lot bigger.