The Tournament Test

Chapter: The Tournament Test (Revised)

The end-of-season tournament arrived like a storm.

Flyers were passed out in the rec center, bleachers were packed tighter than usual, and for the first time, a buzz filled the gym that made it feel like something real. Even the lighting seemed more dramatic—brighter court, darker crowd. It was still just 1996 youth league basketball, but for me, it felt like a moment.

We were seeded second. Not bad. But I knew we weren't the best team. That title went to the Spartans—undefeated, cocky, and led by a kid named Cam Taylor.

Cam was my height—4'1"—but built like a tank. Strong, confident, mean. He talked trash before tip-off, shoved during plays, and had the kind of attitude you couldn't teach. People called him "the bully of the league." And he was waiting for me.

"He's all handles," Cam said loud enough for me to hear. "He ain't built for real competition."

I'd heard that tone before—in another life. It lit something inside me.

But I had bigger problems.

My team wasn't right. Daniel had been cold to me for weeks, and the others were starting to follow his lead. I was getting side-eyed in huddles, ignored in drills. They thought I was showing off. Thought I was trying to be the star.

They weren't totally wrong—but I wasn't doing it for me. I was doing it because I knew how much the game meant. Because this second chance wasn't just a gift—it was a mission.

We won our first two games, barely. The chemistry was falling apart, and I was dragging the team through games they should've helped carry. Coach Tony saw it, but he let us work through it on the court.

Then came the final: Raptors vs. Spartans. Me vs. Cam.

Tip-off.

Cam was on me the whole game—tight defense, bumping me on drives, yelling in my face. I could handle it, but it was draining. My teammates? They weren't helping much. Daniel kept the ball to himself, even on wide-open breaks. When I passed, guys hesitated before shooting.

By halftime, we were down twelve.

During the timeout, Coach Tony didn't even give us a play. He just sighed and said, "You want it or not? 'Cause right now, you're playing like you don't."

I sat on the bench, sweat dripping, mind racing.

Then my dad waved me over from the stands. He crouched beside me, looking me dead in the eyes.

"Jacob," he said quietly. "I need to ask you something. How are you doing this? The way you play… it's not just some regular seven-year-old thing. You move like you've done this a hundred times."

I froze for a second.

For a moment, I wanted to tell him the truth. To say I had memories of another life, of another game. Of failure and heartbreak. That I'd come back to rewrite the story. But I didn't. I wasn't ready.

So I looked him in the eye and said, "I don't know, Dad. I think it just clicks for me. I guess I was born for this."

He studied my face like he knew there was more. But then he nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "Then don't waste it."

I stepped back onto the court for the second half.

Everything changed.

I played smarter. Slower. I stopped forcing it and started creating for my teammates. I found Daniel on a fast break, and to my surprise—he passed it back. We started clicking. One pass, two cuts, open shots.

Then I stripped Cam clean at the top of the key and took it coast-to-coast for a smooth left-hand layup. The crowd erupted. I didn't look at Cam. I didn't need to.

Fourth quarter. We were down two with 15 seconds left.

Coach Tony drew up a play for me. But when we ran it, Cam cheated the screen.

So I dished it.

Daniel caught the ball at the elbow, pulled up, and drained it.

Tie game.

We forced overtime. In those final three minutes, we dominated. I scored six, Daniel added four, and we won by eight. Everyone contributed. Everyone passed. Everyone celebrated.

We weren't just a group of kids anymore—we were a team.

After the buzzer, as the gym roared and the parents cheered, I looked over at my dad. He was clapping slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

He might not know the whole truth.

But he believed in me.

And for now… that was enough.

Chapter: The Tournament Test (Revised)

The end-of-season tournament arrived like a storm.

Flyers were passed out in the rec center, bleachers were packed tighter than usual, and for the first time, a buzz filled the gym that made it feel like something real. Even the lighting seemed more dramatic—brighter court, darker crowd. It was still just 1996 youth league basketball, but for me, it felt like a moment.

We were seeded second. Not bad. But I knew we weren't the best team. That title went to the Spartans—undefeated, cocky, and led by a kid named Cam Taylor.

Cam was my height—4'1"—but built like a tank. Strong, confident, mean. He talked trash before tip-off, shoved during plays, and had the kind of attitude you couldn't teach. People called him "the bully of the league." And he was waiting for me.

"He's all handles," Cam said loud enough for me to hear. "He ain't built for real competition."

I'd heard that tone before—in another life. It lit something inside me.

But I had bigger problems.

My team wasn't right. Daniel had been cold to me for weeks, and the others were starting to follow his lead. I was getting side-eyed in huddles, ignored in drills. They thought I was showing off. Thought I was trying to be the star.

They weren't totally wrong—but I wasn't doing it for me. I was doing it because I knew how much the game meant. Because this second chance wasn't just a gift—it was a mission.

We won our first two games, barely. The chemistry was falling apart, and I was dragging the team through games they should've helped carry. Coach Tony saw it, but he let us work through it on the court.

Then came the final: Raptors vs. Spartans. Me vs. Cam.

Tip-off.

Cam was on me the whole game—tight defense, bumping me on drives, yelling in my face. I could handle it, but it was draining. My teammates? They weren't helping much. Daniel kept the ball to himself, even on wide-open breaks. When I passed, guys hesitated before shooting.

By halftime, we were down twelve.

During the timeout, Coach Tony didn't even give us a play. He just sighed and said, "You want it or not? 'Cause right now, you're playing like you don't."

I sat on the bench, sweat dripping, mind racing.

Then my dad waved me over from the stands. He crouched beside me, looking me dead in the eyes.

"Jacob," he said quietly. "I need to ask you something. How are you doing this? The way you play… it's not just some regular seven-year-old thing. You move like you've done this a hundred times."

I froze for a second.

For a moment, I wanted to tell him the truth. To say I had memories of another life, of another game. Of failure and heartbreak. That I'd come back to rewrite the story. But I didn't. I wasn't ready.

So I looked him in the eye and said, "I don't know, Dad. I think it just clicks for me. I guess I was born for this."

He studied my face like he knew there was more. But then he nodded slowly. "Alright," he said. "Then don't waste it."

I stepped back onto the court for the second half.

Everything changed.

I played smarter. Slower. I stopped forcing it and started creating for my teammates. I found Daniel on a fast break, and to my surprise—he passed it back. We started clicking. One pass, two cuts, open shots.

Then I stripped Cam clean at the top of the key and took it coast-to-coast for a smooth left-hand layup. The crowd erupted. I didn't look at Cam. I didn't need to.

Fourth quarter. We were down two with 15 seconds left.

Coach Tony drew up a play for me. But when we ran it, Cam cheated the screen.

So I dished it.

Daniel caught the ball at the elbow, pulled up, and drained it.

Tie game.

We forced overtime. In those final three minutes, we dominated. I scored six, Daniel added four, and we won by eight. Everyone contributed. Everyone passed. Everyone celebrated.

We weren't just a group of kids anymore—we were a team.

After the buzzer, as the gym roared and the parents cheered, I looked over at my dad. He was clapping slowly, eyes never leaving mine.

He might not know the whole truth.

But he believed in me.

And for now… that was enough.