The Weight of the Crown

Chapter: The Weight of the Crown

Spring 2003

Age: 13

Height: 5'10

I finally hit it.

That number.

The one I never could reach past in my old life. 5-foot-10. The height I used to curse under my breath, blaming it for missed opportunities, for dreams that ended too soon.

But now?

Now I was here two years earlier.

With a stronger frame.

With bounce.

With vision.

And this time—I wasn't chasing hype.

I was wearing it.

⸻

The AAU season tipped off in April, and the shift was immediate. I wasn't some underdog story anymore. I was the headline.

Coaches didn't just glance at my game—they tracked it.

Opponents circled my name in red.

"Face guard him—don't let him breathe."

"Double off every high screen."

"Make someone else beat us."

And everywhere I went, I could feel the eyes.

Some watching with curiosity. Others with doubt. All of them looking for a reason to believe… or a reason to dismiss.

So I gave them neither.

I gave them proof.

⸻

First tournament was in Atlanta.

Loaded bracket. National media. Scouts from Nike, Kansas, Arizona.

Our opener?

A New York powerhouse led by a guard ranked #4 in the country. Dude had the swag, the speed, the followers—and he made sure we all knew it.

As we stretched, he walked past and pointed at me.

"Cali boy? That you? You look smaller on tape."

I smirked. "That tape had me at 5'8. Welcome to the update."

Game on.

From the jump, we were locked in battle. He came at me full speed—shifty cross, hesitation, quick pull-up from the elbow. Splash.

Next play, I called for a high screen.

"Switch it!" I shouted, directing traffic. "Let me get him downhill."

Came off the pick clean, split the hedge, Euro stepped between two defenders, and kissed it off the glass for the and-1.

I stared straight at him.

"Get used to that."

By the end of the first half, I had 11 points, 5 assists, 2 steals—and three "oooh"-worthy dimes, including a left-handed bounce pass through traffic that got our big an open dunk.

Every time I scored or dished, I talked.

"Move with me!"

"Eyes up!"

"Cut, I got you—trust me!"

Not just flash—I was leading now. Loud. Commanding. Present. In the fourth, with the game tied, I ran a two-man game at the top, got the switch I wanted, gave him a jab step, then hit a one-dribble pull-up off glass with the shot clock winding down. Foul. Bucket.

And I flexed. Just once. Small. But it landed.

He didn't talk much after that.

We won by four.

⸻

And after that?

The buzz took off.

Clips of my game were circulating online—early basketball blogs, forums, even some grainy YouTube uploads. Titles like:

"Craftiest Guard on the West Coast?

"Jacob Adams: The Next Floor General?"

"Kid's Court Vision is Scary."

One coach called me an "old soul in sneakers."

I started hearing it everywhere.

"Yo, you're that Adams kid, right?"

"You going D1?"

"You got a mixtape?"

But with the buzz came the target.

Every team gave me their best defender. Every gym got louder when I touched the ball. Some teams pressed us full court just to wear me down. Opposing parents screamed from the bleachers—stuff like:

"Trap him!"

"Force left!"

"Exhaust him!"

Even some teammates started changing. The pressure made things tight. One night after a tough L, one of our wings muttered just loud enough for me to hear:

"Maybe if it wasn't the Jacob Adams show every night…"

I turned, looked him straight in the eye, and said:

"You want the ball? Earn it. 'Til then, get open and I'll find you."Didn't raise my voice. Didn't make a scene.

But I meant it.

Because I knew the weight I carried.

I'd seen this story play out before—rising stars fading when the noise got too loud. Not me. Not this time.

⸻

At home, my dad noticed I wasn't sleeping as much. That I kept watching game film late into the night. That my knees had started aching from the growth spurt.

One night, after a road trip, I crashed on the couch—bag still on my shoulder, shoes still laced. He sat next to me.

"You good, son?"

I nodded. But he didn't buy it.

"You know," he said, "being great isn't just about how much you can carry—it's about knowing when to let people in."

I didn't respond right away.

Then I said, "It's just… this time, I can't fail. I won't."He looked at me, quiet, then said:

"Basketball's what you do. It's not who you are. Don't forget that."

I didn't say much back. But I needed those words more than I realized.

⸻

Nationals. Final Four.

Packed gym. Cameras flashing. Big names in the crowd. I saw a Kansas assistant in the corner. ESPN prep reporter by the scorer's table. The gym buzzed before tip.

And I delivered.

24 points.

11 assists.

6 rebounds.

3 steals.

2 blocks.

And zero turnovers.

I ran the game like a symphony.

Cross-court lasers in transition.

No-look dishes in traffic Pull-up middies in rhythm.Commanded every possession like a vet.At one point, after a dime to my big man, I shouted:

"Keep running—this is our show now!"

After the final buzzer, I could barely stand—legs tight, lungs burning—but I looked up and soaked it all in.

My dad smiling in the crowd.

My coach gripping my shoulder,

Reporters already asking for interviews.

This time… I wasn't just part of the story.

I was the story.

And I whispered to myself as I walked toward the tunnel:

"This is only the beginning. And this time—I'm going all the way."