Breakout

Chapter: Breakout

The season moved fast after that first tournament.

Weekends blurred into hotel rooms and out-of-town gyms, early-morning drives with my dad, fast food between games, and film study late at night. I wasn't just playing basketball—I was living it.

And it was starting to show.

By our fifth tournament, I wasn't just coming off the bench anymore—I was starting.

Coach Darrell had me running point, managing the floor, calling plays like a mini floor general. I could feel the trust building. My teammates passed to me more. They listened when I called out screens. Even Jaylen, who once iced me out, now nodded at me before tip-off.

But with that new role came a new kind of pressure.

I was still only nine.

And my body? It was changing faster than I could keep up with.

I started going through a rapid growth spurt—my bones ached, my knees felt like they were constantly bruised from the inside out, and I'd wake up some mornings with soreness in my back and legs like I'd just played four games straight. I stretched more, rested more, but nothing stopped the pain entirely.

One night after practice, I sat on the steps of the gym, holding my knees and gritting my teeth.

"You alright?" my dad asked, handing me a bottle of water.

"It's not even injuries," I said. "It's just… pain."

He nodded slowly, like he'd seen this before. "It's growing pains, Jacob. Literally. Your body's stretching fast—it's part of the process. You're getting taller, and your muscles and joints are just trying to keep up."

I looked at him, frustrated. "It's slowing me down."

"It'll pass. But listen—most kids your age don't grow this fast. You're not behind. You're ahead. Just be smart, and we'll adjust the training."

I didn't want to slow down, but I knew he was right.

Still—none of that could stop what was coming.

The Breakout Game.

It was late April 1999. We were playing in a showcase tournament in Long Beach. The gym was packed with coaches, scouts, and a few reporters from local youth sports outlets. I didn't think much of it—I just locked in, like always.

We were up against the NorCal Heat, a team known for their full-court press and high-scoring guards. First quarter? Ugly. We couldn't get the ball past half. Turnovers. Panic. Down 14 early.

Coach Darrell called timeout.

"Jacob," he said. "You want this team?"

As I nodded. "Give me the ball."

The next three quarters were mine.

I broke the press single-handedly—changing pace, splitting traps, throwing lasers to open teammates. I scored 22 points that game, had 11 assists, and picked up 5 steals. But it wasn't the stats that caught attention—it was the way I played.

Poise.

Vision.

Leadership.

There was a buzz after the game. A few older players came up and gave me dap. Coach Darrell smiled and handed me the game ball. And then the real moment came when a man with a notepad and a camera approached my dad.

"Is that your son?" he asked.

My dad looked cautious. "Yeah. Why?"

"Name's Calvin. I write for SoCal Youth Hoops Weekly. Been covering this tournament five years. That kid's something different. Doesn't just play like a star—plays like a vet. How old is he again?"

"Nine," my dad said.

The man raised his eyebrows. "Huh. He moves like he's fifteen."

A week later, my name showed up in a small feature blurb:

"Keep an eye on Jacob Adams, a nine-year-old point guard from SoCal Warriors 10U who plays with rare patience and IQ. A natural floor leader with serious upside."

It was short—but it meant the world to me.

The first sign that maybe, just maybe, this path I was on… it was working.

I didn't tell anyone at school. Didn't brag. But at home, I clipped the page and pinned it on my wall above the mini hoop in my room.

My dad noticed it one night and said, "You're proud?"

I looked at him. "Yeah. But I'm not satisfied."

He grinned. "Good. Keep that fire."

Because even though I was just nine years old, and even though the spotlight was starting to warm up—

I knew the grind was only getting started.