The clock read 11:42 PM, but Jalen's eyes were wide open, tracing the outline of the ceiling like it was a playbook.
His body was still from exhaustion, but his mind? Racing.
What if I lose? What if I trip? What if everyone's better than me?
The words on the paper above his bed — "JALEN COLE — CHAMPION — JUNE 10" — stared back at him like a challenge.
He sighed, kicked off the blanket, and turned toward the window. Outside, the streets were quiet, bathed in silver moonlight. The world felt paused, like it was holding its breath for tomorrow.
That's when he heard it. A memory—not in sound, but in feeling.
The voice of his dad, low and full of calm:
"Want to hear about my first tournament?"
Jalen smiled in the dark.
He closed his eyes... and slipped into the past.
It was 1999, summer, and a much younger Marquis Cole was tying his sneakers way too tight under the bleachers at Jefferson Middle School's gym. His hands were sweating, and he hadn't eaten much that day—too many nerves.
His mother was in the stands, waving with a camcorder the size of a shoe box. His older brother kept shouting, "Don't freeze up, Q! You miss layups again, we trading you to baseball!"
Marquis laughed nervously, adjusted his headband, and stood tall.
This was his first tournament game. He was twelve, tall for his age but all limbs and no muscle. The court smelled like rubber and popcorn. The lights above flickered just slightly—enough to make it feel epic.
When the whistle blew, he stepped onto the court like a kid entering battle.
And the first few minutes?
Disaster.
He tripped over his own foot, lost the ball on a behind-the-back attempt, and got blocked so hard the ball bounced off his forehead. The crowd oooh'd. He wanted to hide in his jersey.
During the timeout, his coach—a stubby man named Coach Willis—knelt beside him.
"You worried about the crowd, son?"
Marquis nodded.
"Then I'll give you the secret. Don't play for them. Play for you. Play for the love."
Back on the court, something changed.
He stopped looking at the scoreboard. He stopped watching the stands. He just... played. And when he hit his first jumper—clean swish from the elbow—he didn't celebrate. He just smiled, cool and quiet, like he'd been there before.
By the fourth quarter, he had found his rhythm—fast breaks, no-look passes, soft floaters.
His team didn't win, but when the buzzer sounded, Marquis felt like he had won something else: belief.
Back in the present, Jalen opened his eyes.
The memory was so real, so alive, he could almost smell the gym again.
He remembered his dad telling that story on the front porch one summer evening, the two of them sipping lemonades and listening to the radio play old soul tunes.
That same night, his dad leaned in, eyes serious but kind.
"J... tomorrow's your turn. And you'll feel the nerves—I did. That's normal. But remember: don't play for them. Play for you. Play for the love."
"And one more thing…"
Jalen had looked up. "Yeah?"
"Don't think. Just work. You've already done the thinking. Now trust your grind."
Jalen rolled back onto his bed, feeling the words wrap around him like armor.
He pulled the blanket over his chest, exhaled deeply, and looked up at the words taped above:
"JALEN COLE — CHAMPION — JUNE 10"
This time, they didn't feel like a challenge.
They felt like a promise.
He smiled softly.
"I got this, Dad."
And finally, he closed his eyes and drifted off, heart steady, ready to face whatever came next.
To be continued...