Chapter: Summer Heat
By mid-summer of 2002, I wasn't just training to survive among the elite anymore—
I was fighting to outgrow them.
The stakes were rising.
The names were getting bigger.
And the gyms?
They were packed wall-to-wall with legends in the making—
Top-10 guards with national buzz, mixtape phenoms dunking at 13, man-child forwards with full beards and Division I offers.
If I wanted to stay in the conversation—
I had to evolve.
And I knew exactly where to start:
My vertical.
My finishing.
My speed.
—
It didn't begin in a fancy gym.
It began where it always did—
The backyard.
No trainers. No high-tech equipment.
Just me, a rusted jump rope, a homemade box, cones scattered across the grass, and my dad standing with a stopwatch.
"Five sets," he barked.
"Ten box jumps. Twenty jump rope hops. Ten frog leaps. High knees. Faster. Again."
And I would—
Until my legs screamed and my lungs caught fire.
Then we layered more:
Ankle weights for resistance.
Plyometric drills—depth jumps, broad jumps, explosive lateral bounds.
Speed work—40-yard sprints, shuttle runs, cone drills focused on cutting and acceleration.
Core circuits—planks, V-ups, Russian twists, medicine ball throws.
It wasn't about dunking yet.
It was about explosiveness.
The pop to launch through contact, to stay airborne longer than defenders, to finish through fouls.
Every day I attacked:
Off-hand layups
Floaters
Reverse finishes
Euro steps
Contact layups off the glass
I studied Steve Francis' fearless drives, a young D-Wade's hangtime, Iverson's impossible contortion finishes through triple-teams.
Then it was right back to the courts.
Hour after hour.
Jump after jump.
Mistake after adjustment.
Work. Sweat. Film. Repeat.
—
By July, my calendar was insanity.
Arizona. Chicago. Georgia.
Three different national circuits.
No off days.
No excuses.
Everywhere I went—scouts hovered on the baselines.
Kids with Adidas and Nike deals were already treating me like another obstacle to posterize.
The attention was growing.
So was the target on my back.
—
The first battlefield?
The All-American Rising Stars Showcase in Chicago.
I knew my opponent before the plane wheels even touched down:
Jamal Hayes.
Ranked #6 nationally.
Built like a linebacker.
Jumped like a track star.
From the opening tip, he came at me—hard.
First possession? He lowered his shoulder, barreled into me, finished through contact, and flexed at half-court.
The gym erupted.
And I didn't blink.
Because now—
I wasn't the same kid from last season.
I had weapons.
Late in the second quarter, I jab-stepped right, exploded left with a blur of new quickness, hung midair while two defenders collapsed—and flipped a hanging reverse layup off the glass.
The gym gasped.
Next trip down?
I froze Jamal with a hesitation at the arc, shifted gears in a blink, and floated a teardrop over his desperate reach.
The gym exploded.
Suddenly, they weren't looking at him anymore.
They were locked in on me.
I finished with 19 points, 7 assists, and 3 finishes through heavy contact.
But it wasn't the stat line.
It was how I moved.
Stronger.
Faster.
More explosive.
The whispers started before the final buzzer even sounded:
"Yo, that first step? League-ready."
"He's better than 27th. Way better."
"Who missed on this kid?"
That night, my phone lit up like a Christmas tree:
Two prep school offers.
Three more scouts asking for game tape.
A D1 coach offering a private visit.
The spotlight was swelling.
And so were the expectations.
—
But when the crowds faded—
When the gym doors locked and I sat alone with ice packs strapped to my knees and ankles—
Something crept in.
A small, sharp whisper:
"Is this still fun?"
Not sadness.
Not fear.
Something deeper.
Because the game wasn't just about making plays anymore—
It was about carrying weight:
The schedule.
The rankings.
The critics.
The pressure to not just perform—but to outperform every time I laced up.
And yet…
When I closed my eyes, when I replayed those moments in the air—floating, shifting, finishing—I felt it:
Love.
Raw.
Unbreakable.
Older than fear.
Deeper than any doubt or exhaustion.
And that love?
It kept me moving.
One sprint.
One jump.
One rep higher than the day before.