The Grind and the Growth

Chapter: The Grind and the Growth

The tournament was over. The trophies were handed out. The excitement faded.

But for me, the real season had just begun.

While other kids celebrated the end of basketball, I was already thinking about what came next. I couldn't afford to relax. I had too much to prove. Too much I remembered. I'd already failed once—in another life. I wasn't going to let it happen again.

So the day after the championship, I sat down at the kitchen table, legs swinging off the chair, and looked at my dad with the most serious face a 7-year-old could make.

"Dad," I said, "I want to train. For real."

He blinked at me. "Didn't we just finish a whole season?"

"I want to get better," I said. "Not just playing in the backyard. I want drills. Cones. Timers. Sprints. Everything."

He raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised by how specific I was. "Where are you getting all this from?"

I shrugged. "It just makes sense."

He looked at me for a long second, then finally smiled. "Alright, Jacob. Let's do it."

That summer became the beginning of everything.

We trained early—before the sun got too hot. Just me, my dad, and a small black notebook he started keeping track of workouts in. We worked on footwork, balance, stamina, and shot form. We bought a youth-sized hoop and adjusted it as I grew, my dad making sure it always stayed just a little out of reach so I had to stretch for it.

We watched old NBA games together on VHS tapes. Jordan. Barkley. Hakeem. He showed me how to study the game, how to recognize a defense, how to think on the court.

And when I wasn't training with my dad, I was working on my own. At the park, in the driveway, even in my room with a mini ball. If I had ten seconds alone, I was dribbling something.

Two years passed in a blur of sweat and dedication.

By 1998, I was nine years old and standing at 4'9½". My dad kept track of my height every few months, measuring me against the wall with a pencil. I was growing steady—not huge, but enough to give me a little presence on the court.

More importantly, everything about my game had leveled up.

I could dribble both hands full speed, change pace on a dime, run plays by instinct, and my shot? Clean. Consistent. Deep for my age. I started doing things kids my age had no business doing—floaters off the glass, weak-side help defense, skip passes.

People started noticing.

Other dads at the park would ask where I trained. Coaches approached my dad after open runs and asked if I was playing travel ball. A few even suggested AAU.

But my dad—he kept things grounded.

"We'll take it one step at a time," he always said. "Jacob's still a kid."

But I wasn't just a kid. Not anymore. I was a kid with memories of high school heartbreak and dreams of something greater.

And my brothers? They started respecting it too.

My older brother Marcus—now 11—started running drills with me. He wasn't as serious, but he pushed me physically. My oldest brother Devin, now 14, played pickup with high schoolers, and sometimes brought me along to watch. He'd say stuff like, "My little bro's gonna be a problem one day," half-joking—but I could tell he meant it.

At home, our bond grew stronger. They weren't just siblings anymore—they were motivation.

By the end of that second year, I stood in front of the same mirror I used to practice form shooting in and looked at myself differently. I didn't see the little kid anymore. I saw a grinder. A future. A blueprint in progress.

But I knew this was still just the beginning.

Bigger stages were coming.

And I'd be ready.