The Basketball Player Who Gave up His US Passport for a Life in Korea

This as-told-to essay is based on a conversation with Lee Seung-jun, a 47-year-old retired professional basketball player who represented South Korea internationally. His words have been edited for length and clarity.

A mix of my American dad’s height and my Korean mom’s identity took me places — literally.

I was born in the US and grew up as Eric Lee Sandrin, but after moving to Korea and giving up my US passport, I became Lee Seung-jun.

I went on to play professional basketball and on the Korean national team. Both sides of my family shaped me in different ways.

Settling down in Seattle

My dad is 6-foot-7 and played basketball through college, then later for the Army team. He met my mom while stationed in Korea. After completing his service, they moved to Washington state to settle down. My dad loved the mountains, and my mom liked being closer to Korea.

My younger brother and I were raised in the suburbs of Seattle, although we often spent summers in Korea.

Over the years, we started bringing other members of the family to the US, my grandmother, uncles, and aunts. Little by little, almost all of them ended up moving to the Seattle area, opening up small businesses like grocery stores and karaoke bars, similar to other Korean immigrants in the area.

In between cultures

At school, we were usually the only Asian kids in class. At home, everyone looked like us. It created a constant push-pull: Korean at home, American outside.

At school, kids would say, “Are you guys Chinese?” And we’d say, “No, it’s a different country.” And they would say, “Oh, Japanese?”

When we visited my dad’s family in Michigan, our cousins didn’t know what we were; they hadn’t seen people like us in the Midwest.

My mom worried about prejudice, so we didn’t grow up speaking Korean. She wanted us to be American first, even as she struggled to learn English herself.

Court vs. classroom

I started shooting hoops when I was around six. In our early teens, we’d just head to the park and play. It wasn’t until high school, when coaches started sending letters and offering scholarships, that I thought, “Wow, I might actually get to play basketball in school.”

I ended up enrolling at the University of Portland, and later, after a knee injury, transferring to Seattle Pacific University — I played for both of the schools’ teams.

After graduating, I got a teaching certificate and lined up a job teaching at a high school.

Change of plans

Then I chose basketball instead.

My mom thought I was throwing it all away. My brother was planning to be a lawyer, and she had dreams of bragging about us to her coffee group.

But by then, basketball had become my life, my brother’s too.

When I didn’t make it to the NBA, I started building an international career, including a brief stint with the Harlem Globetrotters. I was still chasing the NBA dream when a Korean agent suggested I try out for teams in Korea.

I suggested that my brother go first. He loved it and told me, “You have to come.” So I did.

To play for the South Korean team, I had to give up my US citizenship. My dad, a military vet, wasn’t happy. He reminded me that family members had died fighting for the US. He thought it was rash.

But after we talked it through, he understood. For me, it was about finding a better opportunity, just like his grandparents had done when they came from Italy.

Restarting in Korea

When I arrived in Seoul, I had just turned 30. At first, Korea felt familiar. The faces and food reminded me of my mom. But once I got deeper into the culture, I realized how different I was. I didn’t speak the language and hadn’t done military service.

Basketball practice in Korea felt like military training. We practiced four times a day: 6 a.m., 10 a.m., 4 p.m., and 8 p.m.

That’s also when I started realizing just how many unspoken rules there are in the Korean language and culture.

I remember one of my first practices, I walked in, sat down, and started lacing up my shoes. I was sitting in the head coach’s chair, but I had no idea that was a big faux pas.

So I was sitting there when the coach walked in. I went, “Oh, what’s up?” I didn’t even greet him properly. I didn’t know any of this stuff. The whole team was like: “How can he be so rude? How does he not know this?”

That moment really pushed me to start learning the unspoken rules and study the language.

I eventually changed my name to Seung-jun, a name crafted with my mom’s help. It means “beautiful victory,” and links to my brother’s name Dong‑jun — he grew up as Daniel.

When I was growing up in the States, my grandma used to talk to us for hours, but we could hardly understand her.

After learning to speak Korean, it was like meeting my grandma for the first time. I could actually talk to her and understand what she was saying.

Off the court, still in the game

In 2017, I retired, although I knew I wanted to stay in Korea. It felt like home.

The healthcare system is amazing. My wife, who’s half-Korean, half-Romanian, is also a basketball player and is still playing.

A year after retiring from basketball, before my brother eventually got a green card and moved back to the States, we started Prism Hoops Academy. The youth sports company is focused on making sports fun for kids. In Korea, education is intense and regimented. Our goal was to create a space where kids could just play.

I’m now running the school with Im Won‑jun, another Korean American who, funnily enough, also grew up in Seattle.

We offer basketball, soccer, and chess. It’s not about drills or perfection; our goal is just helping kids build positive memories.

Coaching young kids has become a real passion of mine, and my plan is to go back to school for a higher degree in education or administration.

So it looks like my mom will get her teacher after all.

Got a personal essay about moving abroad that you want to share? Get in touch with the reporter: akarplus@businessinsider.com.