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I saw myself putting in countless hours to get better, and to hopefully get a small amount of playing time by my senior year. In my heart I knew that if I did make that team, it would reignite my lifelong dream to one day reach the League. The mountain I saw before me that day stretched much higher than being a D1 walk-on. What I lacked in fundamentals (which was a lot), I made up for in creativity, finesse, and will power. It was proof to myself that I could climb mountains. This accomplishment might seem insignificant to most, but for me it may have been the key that unlocked the rest of my life. I spent another summer putting in work, and was a starter by my Senior season. I would go on to make the Varsity team my Junior year, getting very little clock. I took that wake-up call and began to put in real work on my game for the first time in my life. This some bullshit.” When I got cut the very next year, it was the sobering reality check I needed, telling me that, clearly, I wasn’t as good as I thought I was. The first time it happened, my 14-year-old ego said, “I know I’m better than a few of them white boys that made it. As a teenager with vivid dreams of one day playing in the NBA, I got cut from the JV team both my freshman and sophomore years. My mother has pointed to this next story as the first and clearest example of that. When I really want to achieve something, I dig deep and find the work ethic, the foresight, and the patience needed to make it happen. I’ve learned that a fundamental part of my anatomy is this: I have a relentless drive. If I did in fact make the roster, I had no intentions of staying at the bottom of that pole. On top of countless jokes and classic memories, playing on a team provides you with strong bonds and a sense of identity, even if your position on that team was at the bottom of the totem pole. There was a feeling of family and belonging that I missed from high school. Also there was something very special to me about being a part of a team again. Throughout the day, I imagined throwing on that red jersey and playing in Madison Square Garden (and by playing, I mean participating in the layup line and clapping real loud at the end of the bench). Without a doubt, I felt a child-like joy at the possibility of walking onto the team. When my name was called as a part of the 10 players invited back the next day, things got real for me. You about to fuck around and make this team,” I thought. As we played game after game and ran through drill after drill, the initial nerves I felt at the start of the day were replaced by a confident realization that I might have been the best player on the floor. On the court that day, to put it simply, I was on my shit. That potential was on display on the first day of tryouts, with me and about 50 other kids essentially battling for a chance to permanently ride the bench of a major Big East program. If there was one word to describe my game at the age of 19 it was, potential. I was 6’3″, athletic with a high motor, and highly competitive. I played in high school, but had only started to find real confidence after my senior year was over.

For what it’s worth, in this small basketball community of non student-athletes, I was one of the top players. There were a lot of dudes on campus that played high school ball and some could have easily played for a low level division I team. I spent that entire school year playing five days a week on campus against some quality competition from across the country. I promised myself I wouldn’t make the same mistake again. A year earlier I had failed to do the proper paperwork and missed my opportunity to try out as a freshman.

On paper, the thought of potentially making a college basketball team roster should have been exciting, but for the past 24 hours I was going through it.

I stared at the ceiling while lying in bed, contemplating my final decision. I was one of the 10 hopefuls that got a call back from day one. John’s University, where the second and final round of tryouts were to be held this morning at 6:30. It was about a 10-minute walk across campus to Taffner Field House, the newly-built practice facility for the Men’s basketball team at St. “If you’re gonna go, you need to leave by 6:15,” I said to myself. The noisy digital clock had a wooden surface and a black screen with glowing red numbers on it that read “6:00.” I opened my eyes and quickly rolled over to stop the alarm, mindful of my two roommates who shared the tiny dorm with me.

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