LOS ANGELES -- “My biggest fear in life is letting someone who trusts me down,” says Drew Hanlen, sitting on the bleachers of a quiet private school gym in Los Angeles. It’s a Wednesday afternoon, and he’s just wrapped up a session with one of his 12 NBA clients—several of whom are among the game’s elite.
“This is home,” he adds. Every summer, his clients fly in to meet him here, away from the spotlight, to refine their game in the offseason.
That trust—forged in quiet hours behind closed gym doors—is what Hanlen has staked his entire career on. But if you ask him how it all started, the answer is anything but glamorous.
“I never started basketball training because of a purpose,” he says. “It was mainly just because I wanted a new car.”
At 16, Hanlen was just looking for a way out of his $300 clunker—a beat-up car his dad got him for his birthday through a mix of cash and trade. He applied for a referee gig that paid $18 an hour, but when he showed up without credentials, he didn’t qualify. Instead, the man offered him the same pay to coach his son’s youth team—and that’s where it all began.
Shortly after, a parent at a local gym approached Hanlen after watching him working on his own game.
“I’ve never seen anyone work as hard as you just did. Can I give you $20 to put my son through that exact same workout so he can experience what it takes to make it?” At the time, Hanlen already had Division I offers and was one of the top players in St. Louis.
“I trained that kid for $20 when I was 16 years old, and that started my training career.”
Soon, Hanlen was running his own basketball academy. At 17, he had nearly 100 kids paying $200 a month to train with him twice a week—including a young Bradley Beal. Following that summer of training, Beal exploded from averaging 8 points as a freshman to 25 as a sophomore.
“Second game of his sophomore year he had 52 points,” Hanlen recalls. “That really set my career on fire.”
Back then, everything in Hanlen’s life revolved around one goal: playing college basketball. And it wasn’t just a solo mission—it was a unified family effort.
“My dad would wake up before school and lift weights with me,” Hanlen says. “I used to wake up at 4:59 a.m. to shoot 1,000 shots in the morning, and my mom would get up at the same time to cook breakfast for me.”
They didn’t have much. “But they were willing to do anything and everything to help me,” he says.
To stay on track, Hanlen followed a personal rule he still leans on today: “Will [this action] help me [reach this goal]?” “Will waking up at 4:59 a.m. help me get college scholarships? Yes. So I did it. Will drinking alcohol help me get college scholarships? No. So I didn’t.”
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Sam Limon
Drew Hanlen, Jayson Tatum and Joel Embiid after a summer workout.
Now 35, Hanlen still hasn’t had a sip of alcohol. That same clarity—of action tied to purpose—is something he tries to instill in every player he trains.
“I love helping people. I love the game of basketball. And I realized I could do both at the same time—which helps me in my career and helps them too.”
Today, he trains some of the biggest names in the game—Joel Embiid, Giannis Antetokounmpo, Jayson Tatum, Tyrese Maxey, Bradley Beal, and more. But beneath all that success is a quiet truth: Hanlen didn’t believe in himself when it mattered most.
“I always believed I was going to play college basketball and was willing to do anything to make that happen,” he says. “But I didn’t believe I was capable of playing in the NBA. Because of that disbelief…I didn’t even give myself a chance.”
It’s a mindset he’s spent nearly two decades trying to reverse in others.
“Sometimes we put these unnecessary boxes around us or ceilings above us,” he says.
“The NBA was never my north star because I didn’t think it was possible. And so many people fall into that—there are things within reach, but they don’t believe they are. My actions were actually good enough to achieve better things than I did…but my belief wasn’t there. That was my Achilles’ heel.”
“I always say if I would’ve been my trainer when I was younger, I would have made the NBA. I’m saying that as an undersized, average athlete—but I really believe that once you think something is possible, it gives you a chance. And if you’re willing to put in the work, it only improves your odds.”
Or, as 76ers superstar Tyrese Maxey once put it:
“If you spend enough time around Drew, he’s going to brainwash you into believing that you are capable of more than you ever thought was possible.”
Hanlen smiles at the quote. For him, that belief is everything.
“Trainers—we’re like the GPS in a car,” he says. “The athlete is the one driving. Our job is to ask: Where are you now? Where do you want to get to? And then build the roadmap to get you there.”
And on that map, the most important turn is often the one toward self-belief.
“I’m a therapist, I’m a life coach, I’m a best friend, I’m a motivator, I’m a trainer, I’m a coach,” he says—and now, he’s an author too. His first book, Stop Bullshitting Yourself, came out of countless conversations with friends and clients who leaned on him during moments of doubt or burnout.
“I found myself giving the same advice over and over,” he says. “The same process, the same system I use with myself and my players.” The book is built around that system—each section features a lesson, a story, and a practical application. He’s already started working on a second book, rooted in the acronym “G.O.A.T.”
Drew Hanlen has helped players win MVPs, scoring titles, and gold medals. He’s trained No. 1 picks and guided careers worth over $5 billion in contracts. Just today, he notes, Chet Holmgren signed a $250 million deal. But that’s not what he talks about most proudly.
“My biggest win?” he says, pausing. “It’s helping guys out of depression. Helping them find peace again. Find happiness again.”
In a business built on numbers—points, contracts, accolades—Hanlen’s proudest victories don’t show up on a stat sheet. They live in quieter places. A text from a player saying he’s good. A conversation where the game takes a back seat to life. A moment when belief, finally, breaks through.
Because in the end, this game isn’t just about baskets and buzz. It’s about helping someone believe they matter—even after the lights dim, even after the gym goes dark.
