A couple of years have passed. I'm five years old now.
I found out I have two older brothers—one is two years older than me, and the other is five years older. That makes me the youngest of the three. The baby of the family.
It's kind of weird knowing that, even though I have all this knowledge from my past life, I'm still seen as the little one. But that's okay. I've got time.
I started doing something pretty early on—just bouncing little balls in both hands. It might not sound like much, but I knew it was going to matter one day. I remembered hearing this story about Kyrie—how when he was a kid, he used to bounce tiny rubber balls around the house to build his control. So I did the same. It just felt right.
Back then, I was barely two years old. My coordination wasn't great—I mean, I was still learning how to walk without falling over every ten steps—but bouncing those little balls helped. It made me feel like I had some kind of control again, even if my body wasn't caught up to my brain yet.
So for those early years—between ages two and five—I spent as much time as I could practicing my dribbling. I didn't have a hoop, I wasn't on a team, and I didn't need any of that yet. All I needed was the ball and space to move.
Now that I'm five, I still don't speak perfectly, and I'm still learning how to fully use my body again. I stumble over some words. My grammar isn't great. But none of that really bothers me.
What matters is… I've started talking to my dad about basketball.
I asked him if I could join a kids' basketball league. His response was gentle but firm:
"I'm sorry, Jacob. Maybe after your seventh birthday, okay?"
I was a little disappointed, sure, but I understood. I'm still small—I get it. He's just looking out for me.
My dad takes me and my brothers to the park sometimes. They usually play around, while I stay off to the side with my ball, practicing moves, working on my handle. But something felt like it was missing. I didn't just want to dribble anymore—I wanted to shoot. I wanted to put the ball in the hoop.
That's when I started thinking: I need my own hoop. My size. Something I can actually grow with.
So now I'm planning to ask my dad for a smaller hoop and a ball that fits my hands. I mean, I just got measured at the clinic, and I'm only 3'8". That's not tall at all. I'm gonna need the right tools if I want to get ahead.
Oh—and I should probably introduce myself properly.
Drumroll, please…
My name is Jacob Adams.
I've got blondish-brown Afro-styled hair, light skin, and this big, curious smile. My brothers look kind of like me, but you can tell the difference. The oldest is darker-skinned and taller. The middle one is lighter and lankier. We all look related, but I've got my own thing going on.
Anyway, back to the story.
It was summer, and we had just come back from the park. I was still holding my ball when my dad called me over. We sat down together on the grass in our backyard, the sun warming our faces.
He looked at me and said, "Jacob, you're five now. You're getting enrolled in kindergarten."
I just stood there, stunned. I had completely forgotten I had to go back to school first.
Basketball might be my dream—but life was reminding me I still had to take the regular steps first.