Fall of 1996. I was finally seven.
In the world's eyes, I was just a little kid about to play in his first basketball league. But for me, this was something way bigger. This was the start of the journey I'd been dreaming about since I woke up in this new life. Since I took my first breath again.
The league was nothing fancy—just a community youth league run through the local rec center. Games were held in an old gym with wooden bleachers and squeaky floors that smelled like dust and sweat. My dad signed me up early, and I got placed on a team called the Raptors. Seemed fitting.
Practice was once a week, and it was… chaotic.
Seven-year-olds don't run plays. They run wild. Half of them couldn't dribble without looking at the floor, and the other half were just there because their parents made them come. The coach—a stocky guy named Coach Tony—was patient but tough. He wore New Balance sneakers, baggy sweatpants, and always carried a whistle that he never really blew.
I kept my head down and just worked. Did every drill right. Showed up early. Stayed late when I could. Coach Tony noticed.
"You got some quick hands, Jacob," he said one evening. "You been playing before?"
I just nodded. "A little."
Game day finally came on a chilly Saturday morning. October air made the gym feel colder than it was. My team sat on the bench in our loose-fitting maroon jerseys that looked like they were passed down from the '80s. I had number 1, of course.
My stomach was in knots.
I'd been dreaming of this—my return to organized basketball—but suddenly, I felt pressure. What if I didn't live up to my own hype? What if my body couldn't do what my mind knew? I'd trained for this moment, but that didn't mean I wasn't nervous.
We were playing the Hornets, a team with kids who looked a little bigger, a little louder. Their best player, a kid named Devin, was already talking trash before the tip-off.
"You guys don't stand a chance," he said, pointing at our side of the court.
I didn't say anything back. I just tightened my laces.
The first few minutes were rough.
I fumbled my first pass. My first shot was an awkward floater that hit nothing but air. My legs felt stiff, my timing off. Coach Tony pulled me aside and said, "Relax. Play your game, kid."
So I took a breath.
Second quarter came, and I started to settle in. I stripped Devin clean on a lazy crossover and went coast-to-coast for a smooth left-handed layup. My team went wild. Parents in the stands clapped. Coach Tony raised an eyebrow.
Next possession, I hit a pull-up jumper near the baseline—just inside the three-point line. It felt like muscle memory. Like home.
By the second half, I was in rhythm.
No one could stay in front of me. I wasn't just dribbling past them—I was reading them. Reacting. Manipulating space like I'd done in my past life a thousand times. The other kids couldn't figure me out. I wasn't the fastest or tallest, but I moved with purpose. I played like someone older. Someone… seasoned.
We won that game by eight points. I had 14 of our 26 points.
Coach Tony called me over after everyone else was packing up.
"Hey," he said, looking me over like I was a puzzle he was still trying to figure out. "You ever think about joining a travel team?"
I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "Maybe."
He nodded. "Keep playing like that, and some folks are gonna start watching."
As we left the gym, my dad gave me a look I hadn't seen from him before. It wasn't just pride—it was realization. Like he was starting to see what I saw all along.
That night, I laid in bed, staring at the ceiling, heart still racing. It wasn't the NBA. It wasn't a packed arena. But it was a start. A real start.
I was back.