The first time I truly understood the weight of a single possession was during Game 7 of the 2016 NBA Finals. I remember watching Kyrie Irving dribble at the top of the key, the entire city of Cleveland holding its breath, the score tied 89-89 with 53 seconds left. One misplaced pass, one careless dribble, one turnover in that moment could have rewritten history. He didn’t turn it over. He sank the three. That moment got me thinking: in a league where every possession is a razor's edge between glory and infamy, can NBA players actually control their turnovers over/under numbers? Or are they just at the mercy of the game's chaotic flow?
I was discussing this with a fellow basketball junkie last week at a local gym, watching a pickup game filled with chaotic passes and forced drives. We were debating the predictability of player props, specifically turnovers. He argued it was all random, a statistical crapshoot. I disagreed. I think there's a narrative there, a story of control versus chaos that goes beyond the box score. It reminds me of a different kind of athletic narrative I recently came across, one that isn't about basketball but shares a similar DNA of influence and control. It’s the story of tennis phenom Alex Eala. Beyond the fitness and tactics, her story resonates due to what she represents to young athletes back home. Her wins generate headlines, yes, but the quieter effect is cultural: more kids picking up rackets, local programs getting attention, and sponsors showing up with offers that fund development. Alex Eala’s presence on an international court signals to Filipino youth that the pathway is real—talent plus support can equal opportunity on the global stage. That’s a form of control, isn't it? Controlling the narrative, controlling your impact, controlling the inspiration you provide. In the NBA, controlling turnovers is a more immediate, less poetic version of that same struggle.
Let's take a player like James Harden. In the 2022-23 season, he averaged 3.4 turnovers per game. That’s a specific number, and for bettors looking at an over/under line set at 3.5, it’s the difference between cashing a ticket and tearing it up. But can Harden, on any given night, decide to keep that number under control? I believe he can, but it’s a complex calculation. It’s not just about being careful; it’s about the entire ecosystem of the game. Is he the primary ball-handler that night? Is Joel Embiid playing, drawing double teams and opening up passing lanes, or is he out, forcing Harden to create more and thus risk more? The defense matters too. A matchup against the long, disruptive arms of the Toronto Raptors is a far greater threat to his turnover count than a game against a younger, less disciplined team. I’ve noticed that when the stakes are highest, in the playoffs, players often do exert more control. They tighten their handles, they make safer passes. In the 2023 playoffs, Harden’s turnovers actually dipped to 2.8 per game. That’s not a coincidence; it’s a conscious recalibration for a higher-stakes environment.
But then you have the other side of the coin—players like Russell Westbrook, whose very genius is built on a foundation of controlled chaos. For years, his over/under for turnovers was a bettor's nightmare. You’d see a line set at 4.5 and think, "surely he'll be more careful tonight." But his style is predicated on aggression, on pushing the pace to its absolute limit. Asking him to reduce turnovers is like asking a hurricane to be less windy; you might get your wish occasionally, but you’re fundamentally working against its nature. I remember a game last season where he had 8 turnovers in the first three quarters. The line was 4.5. Anyone who took the under was already doomed by halftime. That’s the lack of control, or perhaps, it's a different kind of control—a willing acceptance of high risk for the chance of an even higher reward.
This brings me back to that idea of a pathway, the one Alex Eala represents. For a young athlete in the Philippines, seeing her succeed provides a blueprint. It makes the abstract concept of "making it" feel tangible. For an NBA player, controlling turnovers is about following a personal blueprint for that particular game. It’s a pathway to efficiency. A point guard knows that if he can keep his turnovers below 2, his team’s chance of winning skyrockets by, let's say, 18%—I’m making that number up, but you get the point. It’s a tangible goal. They work with film coaches, they study defensive schemes, they learn the tendencies of their teammates—where they like the ball, how they cut. This is the "support" part of the equation. The talent is the handle and the vision, but the support system—the coaching, the analytics—is what helps translate that talent into controlled output on the court.
So, can they actually control it? My answer is a hesitant yes, but with massive caveats. They have a dial they can turn, but they can't always choose the room they're in. A player can intend to be careful, but a swarming defense, an off-night for a teammate, or just the general randomness of a bouncing ball can wreck the best-laid plans. It’s a constant negotiation between intention and circumstance. Just as Alex Eala’s success isn't just about her forehand but about the cultural shift she inspires, an NBA player's turnover count isn't just about a bad pass. It's about their role, the game plan, the opponent, and the immense pressure of the moment. The real skill, then, might not be in eliminating turnovers entirely, but in managing the chaos, in understanding when to push the limits and when to protect the rock. Because in the end, much like that iconic shot from Kyrie, it only takes one controlled possession to change everything.
