"You've got to be competitive. You've got to have that fire in you, that desire to win"

Jonathan Quick points to more than a scoreboard result; he points to a posture toward life. Competitiveness isn’t simply wanting to be better than others, it’s the refusal to accept a lazy version of yourself. The “fire” he mentions is that inner engine that keeps running when no one is watching, when practices blur together, and when the immediate payoff is nowhere in sight. It is not anger or arrogance, but a disciplined intensity, a willingness to do the unglamorous repetitions that make excellence inevitable.

Desire to win becomes a compass. It steers preparation, sleep, nutrition, focus, and attitude. It says no to distractions, yes to boring drills, and yes again tomorrow. It’s the decision to learn from mistakes rather than hide from them, to treat setbacks as data rather than doom. Competitiveness, at its best, is not a license for recklessness; it’s a commitment to standards so high that excuses feel foreign.

There’s a paradox embedded here: the hunger to win is future-facing, but it expresses itself in present details. The film session, the extra rep, the quiet conversation with a teammate, these are how victory is manufactured. The fire is emotional, yet it must be governed; great performers play with heat and think with ice. They let passion fuel effort while allowing composure to guide choices.

This mindset also has a moral dimension. The desire to win should expand your respect for the game and the people in it, not diminish it. It should elevate teammates, sharpen opponents, and honor the craft. It should be sustainable, fed by purpose and growth, not by fear or vanity. When the fire is aligned with preparation and humility, competitiveness becomes more than a trait; it becomes a culture you carry with you, a daily vow to show up at your best and to pull others toward theirs.