Chapter: Lock In
Fall 2003
Freshman Year – St. Augustine Prep
Age: 14
Height: 5'10"
I'd made it to high school.
But I wasn't walking in like some kid just happy to be here.
This time—I was chasing something bigger. Not just playing for rankings or headlines, but legacy. And St. Augustine? This place didn't hand you anything. It made you earn it.
The gym smelled like sweat and varnish that first day. You could feel the ghosts of state champions hanging in the rafters. The walls had banners. The floors had battle scars.
And the older players?
They had questions in their eyes.
"That's him?"
"He really that good?"
"Another hyped-up freshman?"
I didn't shy away. I smiled. Nodded at them like I belonged. Because I did.
Not just in body—but in mind, in preparation, in experience.
They were 17, 18.
I had lived through 30.
And I wasn't here to survive.
I was here to lead.
Tryouts were hell.
Coach Whitman didn't believe in water breaks. Just sweat, hardwood, and hard truths.
"Defense wins minutes," he barked.
I took that personally.
Not because I wasn't confident in my offense—but because I knew what a real point guard had to be:
Everything.
A scorer. A passer. A leader. A voice. A wall.
After every practice, when most guys hit the showers, I stayed behind with my boy Leo—a wiry shooting guard from East Oakland who didn't back down from anybody.
We did footwork drills, shadow defense, sprint-closeout reps, and then 1v1 full court.
"I got you this time," Leo would laugh, ball in hand.
"Not if I'm in your jersey," I'd grin."
We pushed each other. Trashed talked. Celebrated small wins. Became brothers.
Off the court, I finally felt lighter. I wasn't hiding behind a wall anymore.
At lunch, I sat with guys from the team—Leo, Chris (our big man with the softest hands in the city), and Myles, a combo guard who loved anime and crossovers equally.
We joked. Debated music. Clowned each other's shoes. Talked about dreams and fear and girls and what came after the final buzzer.
I even opened up to my little brother Jayden more at home. He was 9, wide-eyed, and always curious. "You think I could dunk one day?" he asked, legs swinging off the couch.
"Bro," I smiled, "you keep grinding, and I'll teach you how to fly."
But the games… that's where it all came together.
Our first preseason scrimmage was against East Valley—loaded with seniors, including Marcus Monroe, a 6'1 USC commit who loved barking at freshmen.
Before tip-off, he pointed at me and laughed.
"That your rookie? Ain't no way he guarding me." I walked past him, tapped his shoulder, and said, "Just make sure you remember my name after."
Coach didn't start me.
He wanted to "see how I'd handle the heat."
We went down 10 in the first.
Second quarter, he called me over.
"Jacob—go in. And take Monroe."
I stepped on the court like I'd been waiting my whole life for that moment.
First play down, Monroe tried to iso me on the wing.
I pressed up—low, balanced, breathing through my nose.
He hit a jab, tried to drive.
I slid with him, cut off the angle, bumped him mid-air—ball out of bounds.
Our bench jumped.
Leo yelled, "LET'S GO, J!"
Next possession—I called for the ball off the rebound.
I slowed it down, dribbled between my legs twice, then snapped a bounce pass through two defenders to Chris for the easy finish.
"Eyes up!" I shouted. "Let's move!"
I wasn't just playing point—I was conducting an orchestra.
Fast break?
I led it with pace.
Pulled defenders. Kicked out to Myles in the corner.
Cash.
Half court?
I controlled the tempo.
Snaked off the screen, hit a floater in the lane.
Silky.
Monroe scored a few—but I matched every bucket. And I talked back.
"Gotta do more than jab steps, Marcus."
"You tired? Need a sub?"
"Oh, we still in the first half, big guy."
By the fourth quarter, the gym energy shifted.
People weren't looking at Monroe anymore.
They were locked in on the freshman.
I finished with 14 points, 9 assists, 3 steals—and a bench full of teammates dap'ing me up like I'd just cracked the varsity code. Coach pulled me aside after.
" count the hearts on the left, draw more and right as soon as I can, and then no, but she must Cuatro Cinco no, no no no not allowed You want it bad," he said. "I respect that."
Then he looked me in the eye.
"You lead like this all season… the team'll follow."That night, back home, Jayden ran up to me. "You were on fire!"
I picked him up, spun him around, and laughed. "Had to show 'em what time it is."
Later, I sat on the porch with my dad.
"You seemed… freer," he said. "Happier out there."
"I am," I nodded. "I'm not just chasing the dream this time…"
"I'm living it."
Because the crown wasn't just about talent.
It was about showing up—loud, proud, and ready to lead.
And this season?
I wasn't backing down from anybody.