The Target

Chapter: The Target

Summer of 2000 brought more than just heat.

It brought expectations.

By now, I wasn't the mystery kid anymore. I was a known name in the SoCal youth basketball scene. Coaches whispered about me before games. Opposing players pointed at me during warmups. I was no longer the underdog—I was the target.

The new AAU season opened with a bang.

First tournament of the year, we faced a team from Phoenix. Before tip-off, I overheard their coach say, "Shut down number three—that's the kid that runs everything."

That kid was me.

And they did everything they could to smother me. Full-court pressure. Double teams. Screens to wear me out. Every possession I had someone in my face, bumping me, talking trash. It wasn't basketball—it was war.

I struggled that first game.

Forced passes. Rushed shots. I finished with 8 points and 6 turnovers. We lost by 12.

After the game, I sat on the bench, towel over my head. Angry. Embarrassed.

But Coach Darrell patted my back and said, "You asked for this, Jacob. Great players get game-planned. Now what are you gonna do about it?"

That hit me.

I wasn't the hunter anymore.

I was the hunted.

So I adjusted.

Film. Reps. New counters to traps. Learning to move without the ball. Becoming unpredictable. I stopped trying to play perfect and started playing smart. I used the double teams to my advantage, dishing to teammates, picking my spots. The game slowed back down.

And then the interest came.

Midway through the season, I noticed more strangers sitting in the stands. Men with polos. Notebooks. Clipboards. I heard names like "Oak Hill," "Mater Dei," and "Sierra Canyon" floating in conversations around me.

Private schools.

Elite programs.

One afternoon after a game, my dad pulled me aside.

"You've got mail," he said, holding up a folder stuffed with letters.

Handwritten notes from middle school coaches. Invitations to summer camps. Even a couple of high school scouting blurbs with my name under the "Prospects to Track" list.

At just ten years old, I was being watched.

It was a lot.

The pressure to perform, to prove I wasn't just a one-season wonder, weighed on me. Every game felt like an audition. Every mistake felt magnified.

But I held on to my routine.

Woke up early. Trained. Stretched. Watched film. Got shots up. Talked with my dad about everything—what I was feeling, what I wanted, what scared me. He didn't push me. He just listened.

And through it all, my body kept growing.

By the end of the summer, I stood at 5'3"—leaner, more athletic, and finally starting to feel balanced again. My legs weren't aching like before. My coordination was back. My shot felt smooth again.

The growth had stabilized.

And I had too.

I wasn't just a kid with a good handle anymore.

I was becoming a real point guard. A leader. A competitor.

And as the next round of tournaments approached, I didn't feel nervous.

I felt ready.

Because I had finally learned the truth: Pressure doesn't break you—it sharpens you.

And I was ready to prove that, no matter who was game-planning against me…

Jacob Adams wasn't going anywhere.