How NBA Players Can Make the Final Cut and Secure Their Roster Spot

The gym smelled of sweat and polished hardwood, the way only NBA practice facilities do in late September. I was leaning against the scorer’s table, watching the final scrimmage of training camp. On the court was a young two-way player—let’s call him Jake—fighting for his professional life. You could see the desperation in his movements, a kind of frantic energy that was both impressive and slightly heartbreaking. Every drive to the basket, every close-out on defense, felt like a plea. This is the raw, unfiltered reality of how NBA players can make the final cut and secure their roster spot. It’s not just about talent; it’s about something far less quantifiable. I remember my own first camp, over a decade ago. I wasn’t the most gifted guy in the room, not by a long shot. My vertical was average, my handle was decent, but I had this knot in my stomach that just wouldn’t quit. The coach pulled me aside after a particularly rough session where I’d turned the ball over three times in five minutes. He didn’t yell. He just looked at me and asked, in that calm, assessing way coaches have, "What can you give this team?" It’s the same question that echoes in every gym, for every player on the bubble.

That moment came rushing back to me recently when I read a quote from a veteran Filipino coach talking about a player. He said, "Tinanong nga niya ako kung ano puwedeng ibigay sa team. Sabi ko, basta galing sa puso, kahit ano naman ibigay mo sa team, basta willing ka." In English, that translates to, "He asked me what he could give to the team. I told him, as long as it comes from the heart, whatever you give to the team, as long as you are willing." Man, that hit me. It’s so simple, yet it’s the absolute core of surviving cuts. Jake, out there on the court, was giving effort, but was it coming from the heart? You can tell. There’s a difference between going through the motions and playing with genuine willingness. I’ve seen guys with 40-inch verticals get cut because their effort was transactional, calculated. They were thinking about their stats, their next contract, their highlights. Meanwhile, the guy who sets the meanest screens, who dives for every loose ball, who communicates on defense even when he’s gassed—that’s the guy who often sticks. It’s about heart, not just hustle.

Let’s talk numbers for a second, because they do matter, even if I sometimes think we overvalue them. There are roughly 510 roster spots in the NBA. Every year, about 60 new players come in through the draft, and another 100 or so are fighting for those final spots in training camp. That means the odds are brutally stacked. Jake, for instance, was probably one of about 25 guys in our camp, all vying for maybe one or two open roster spots. His shooting percentage in scrimmages was around 42%, which is okay but not great. His defensive rating, a more telling stat, was a middling 108.5. But here’s the thing—the coaches weren’t just looking at those numbers. They were watching his body language after a mistake. Did he get back on defense? Did he encourage his teammates? That’s the "willing" part the Filipino coach was talking about. It’s intangible, but it’s everything when the margin between a G-League assignment and an NBA contract is razor-thin.

I think back to a guy from my rookie year, a undrafted free agent named Ben. He wasn’t the fastest or the strongest, but he had this relentless positivity. During a preseason game where we were down by 20, he was the only one on the bench cheering, slapping hands, yelling out defensive assignments. The head coach noticed. After the game, he told us, "That’s the kind of energy that changes a culture." Ben made the team. He only played about 8.2 minutes per game that season, but he was a glue guy. He gave what he could from the heart, and it secured his spot. That’s a lesson I’ve carried with me. In today’s NBA, with analytics dominating conversations, it’s easy to forget the human element. But in those final roster decisions, it’s often the human element that tips the scales. Coaches and GMs aren’t just building a spreadsheet of stats; they’re building a locker room, a family for the long grind of an 82-game season.

So, as I watched Jake in that final scrimmage, I saw him shift. After a missed three-pointer, instead of hanging his head, he sprinted back and drew a charge. The bench erupted. It was a small moment, but it was pure heart. That’s the essence of how NBA players can make the final cut and secure their roster spot. It’s not about being the best player on the court every single day; it’s about being the most willing. It’s about answering that question—"What can you give to the team?"—with every fiber of your being. As the Filipino coach wisely said, it doesn’t have to be flashy. It just has to be real. For Jake, and for every player in his shoes, that willingness, that heart, is the ultimate currency in a league that’s always looking for more than just talent. And honestly, I believe that’s what makes the NBA so special—it’s a place where heart can still trump pure athleticism, if you’re brave enough to lay it all on the line.