The year was 1993. The moment—a thirty-second Nike commercial directed by Spike Lee—featuring NBA superstar Charles Barkley. Barkley was the reigning league MVP, dominating not just on the court but also the evening news, thanks to a string of embarrassing off-court incidents. A little humility and a promise to do better might have quieted his critics. But not the Chuckster. Instead, he double-dribbled down.

On camera, Barkley declared, “I’m not a role model. I’m not paid to be a role model. I’m paid to wreak havoc on the basketball court. Parents should be role models. Just because I dunk a basketball doesn’t mean I should raise your kids.”

Red herring aside—no sane person was asking Charles Barkley to raise their children—the commercial ignited a cultural firestorm, sparking a debate that still lingers to this day. What responsibilities do athletes bear in society, what is reasonable to expect of our public figures, and most importantly, precisely what does it mean to be a role model?

As with most things, it depends on who you ask. Ask a starry-eyed young boy, and you’ll get one answer. It’s the dunks, the home runs, the tweener, and the rocket forehand. Kids aren’t dissecting ethics quite yet—they want to emulate what dazzles them. They see greatness, and they want to channel it. Jerseys are bought, posters are hung, autographs are sought and coveted, and the rare selfie with your favorite player the penultimate coup. The connection between the athlete and the fan, between the doer and the dreamer, becomes civic, emotional, almost sacred.

Role models aren’t strictly for kids; we never age out of wanting to be better. Ask an adult and you’ll get a far different answer. Adults model more age-appropriate behaviors. Punctuality, reliability, honesty, humility, empathy, calm, understanding, discipline, dignity, confidence, traits they’ve seen in the most successful people in their lives, traits that, when expressed in their own way, elicit feelings of security and maturity, all the traits they hope to embody themselves. Good for the goose, good for the gander. Not possessing such qualities is disqualifying on many levels.

So, as much as Barkley wanted to absolve his worst transgressions by saying he wasn’t a role model, life doesn’t make it so. Declaring “I’m not a role model” doesn’t exempt you from influence—it simply means you’re a shitty one. Because, like it or not, once any athlete steps onto the stage—any stage—you’re playing before Team Humanity, where the same rules apply to everyone.

Barkley’s record off-court was hard to overlook: spitting on fans, DUI arrests, gambling losses, fights in bars, and throwing a man half his size through a plate-glass window. His plea not to be seen as a role model came off as avoidance and entirely out of touch. The truth is, as Shakespeare wrote and Rush sang… “All the world’s a stage, and we are all the players. None of us can opt out of our influence on others.

Barkley wasn’t the first athlete with off-court issues, but he might have been the loudest; his bombastic, brash, unapologetic, and impossible-to-ignore manner complicated his predicament. Yet, his statements about not wanting to be a role model started an enduring conversation about the roles of athletes in society and what responsibilities they should uphold.

If you’re in the arena of life—and we all are, especially those of us who compete in the sport of Tennis—you’re automatically a role model. The only choice we get is what kind of role model we will be. How do we want to be seen? How do we want to be thought of? What will our legacy be after we’ve hit our last ball?

Parents, siblings, coaches, teachers, teammates, partners, public figures, and yes, professional athletes—we are all an influence on those around us, and with that comes responsibility.

As the scripture says, “To whom much is given, much is expected.” (Luke 12:48)

For if we are all role models in one way or another, the question before us should be, how can I become the best role model I can be to the greatest number?