Welcome to AAU

Chapter: Welcome to AAU

1998 was the year things got real.

My dad finally gave in after months of me asking, and signed me up for tryouts with one of the top AAU teams in our area—the SoCal Warriors 10U squad. It wasn't just some weekend rec league anymore. This was travel ball.

These kids played year-round.

These kids wore matching warm-ups and got flown out to tournaments.

These kids were killers.

Tryouts were held at a private gym with bleachers packed with parents and clipboards everywhere. The moment I stepped in, I felt it—the intensity, the pressure, the eyes. Everyone was watching. Evaluating. Measuring.

Some of the kids were already taller than me, built like they were 12 instead of 10. I stood there at 4'9½", lean, quick, and confident—but I knew I'd have to prove I wasn't just some playground prodigy. This wasn't the park or the city league anymore.

These kids could go.

The drills were fast-paced—full-court layups, cone zig-zags, shooting stations, 3-on-3 half-court breakdowns. Coaches didn't give second chances. You missed a layup? Next line. Fumbled a pass? You're forgotten.

Still, I held my own.

What I lacked in size or strength, I made up for with control. My handle was tight. My decision-making was sharp. And my mid-range pull-up was something the coaches kept glancing at after every swish.

After two hours of sweat and silent judgment, the head coach, Coach Darrell, read off the names of the final roster.

When he said "Jacob Adams," I didn't smile. I didn't cheer. I just nodded to myself.

I expected this.

But what came next—I didn't expect.

The practices were brutal. Nothing like what I was used to. Every drill was timed. Mistakes weren't corrected softly—they were called out. Loudly. In front of everyone.

The competition? Next level.

One kid—Jaylen—was the starting point guard and a coach's favorite. Fast, aggressive, and loud. He didn't like me from the jump. During one of our first scrimmages, I took him off the dribble and hit a floater over his outstretched hand.

He shoved me the next play. "Lucky," he muttered.

I smiled. "Get used to it."

He didn't.

That kind of tension never really went away. And I got it. I was the new kid. I didn't come up through the usual camps. I didn't have a name people whispered about—yet. I wasn't ranked. I didn't have some older brother playing varsity.

All I had was game.

My dad noticed how quiet I got after those first few practices.

"You good?" he asked one night while driving me home.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? This is the first time I've seen you not want to dribble the ball in the car."

I looked out the window. "I just thought I'd be… ahead of more people. That all the work we did would show right away."

He didn't answer right away.

Then he said, "You know what kind of people show up to things like this? People who work hard and think they're the best. That doesn't mean you're behind—it means you're in the right place. This is where you belong, Jacob."

I nodded slowly. He was right.

I just had to make them see it too.

At our first tournament in San Diego, I came off the bench. First game, I barely played five minutes. Coach Darrell was riding with his vets.

Second game? One of the starters got into foul trouble early. I got the nod.

I went in and made the most of every second. Quick steal. Fast break. Kick out for a corner three. Then I hit a pull-up jumper off a screen.

Just like that, momentum shifted.

The crowd leaned forward. My teammates started clapping louder. Even Jaylen gave me a half-hearted fist bump during the timeout.

By the end of the weekend, Coach Darrell pulled me aside.

"You're raw," he said. "But I like the way you think the game. That's rare in a kid your age."

I nodded again. No smile. No celebration.

Because I wasn't just trying to make a team.

I was trying to build a legacy.

And this?

This was only the beginning.

Chapter: Welcome to AAU

1998 was the year things got real.

My dad finally gave in after months of me asking, and signed me up for tryouts with one of the top AAU teams in our area—the SoCal Warriors 10U squad. It wasn't just some weekend rec league anymore. This was travel ball.

These kids played year-round.

These kids wore matching warm-ups and got flown out to tournaments.

These kids were killers.

Tryouts were held at a private gym with bleachers packed with parents and clipboards everywhere. The moment I stepped in, I felt it—the intensity, the pressure, the eyes. Everyone was watching. Evaluating. Measuring.

Some of the kids were already taller than me, built like they were 12 instead of 10. I stood there at 4'9½", lean, quick, and confident—but I knew I'd have to prove I wasn't just some playground prodigy. This wasn't the park or the city league anymore.

These kids could go.

The drills were fast-paced—full-court layups, cone zig-zags, shooting stations, 3-on-3 half-court breakdowns. Coaches didn't give second chances. You missed a layup? Next line. Fumbled a pass? You're forgotten.

Still, I held my own.

What I lacked in size or strength, I made up for with control. My handle was tight. My decision-making was sharp. And my mid-range pull-up was something the coaches kept glancing at after every swish.

After two hours of sweat and silent judgment, the head coach, Coach Darrell, read off the names of the final roster.

When he said "Jacob Adams," I didn't smile. I didn't cheer. I just nodded to myself.

I expected this.

But what came next—I didn't expect.

The practices were brutal. Nothing like what I was used to. Every drill was timed. Mistakes weren't corrected softly—they were called out. Loudly. In front of everyone.

The competition? Next level.

One kid—Jaylen—was the starting point guard and a coach's favorite. Fast, aggressive, and loud. He didn't like me from the jump. During one of our first scrimmages, I took him off the dribble and hit a floater over his outstretched hand.

He shoved me the next play. "Lucky," he muttered.

I smiled. "Get used to it."

He didn't.

That kind of tension never really went away. And I got it. I was the new kid. I didn't come up through the usual camps. I didn't have a name people whispered about—yet. I wasn't ranked. I didn't have some older brother playing varsity.

All I had was game.

My dad noticed how quiet I got after those first few practices.

"You good?" he asked one night while driving me home.

"I'm fine."

"You sure? This is the first time I've seen you not want to dribble the ball in the car."

I looked out the window. "I just thought I'd be… ahead of more people. That all the work we did would show right away."

He didn't answer right away.

Then he said, "You know what kind of people show up to things like this? People who work hard and think they're the best. That doesn't mean you're behind—it means you're in the right place. This is where you belong, Jacob."

I nodded slowly. He was right.

I just had to make them see it too.

At our first tournament in San Diego, I came off the bench. First game, I barely played five minutes. Coach Darrell was riding with his vets.

Second game? One of the starters got into foul trouble early. I got the nod.

I went in and made the most of every second. Quick steal. Fast break. Kick out for a corner three. Then I hit a pull-up jumper off a screen.

Just like that, momentum shifted.

The crowd leaned forward. My teammates started clapping louder. Even Jaylen gave me a half-hearted fist bump during the timeout.

By the end of the weekend, Coach Darrell pulled me aside.

"You're raw," he said. "But I like the way you think the game. That's rare in a kid your age."

I nodded again. No smile. No celebration.

Because I wasn't just trying to make a team.

I was trying to build a legacy.

And this?

This was only the beginning.