Chapter: First Bell, First Bucket
Fall 2003 – St. Augustine Prep
Age: 14 | Height: 5'10 | Grade: Freshman
7:32 a.m. – First Bell
If you'd told me in my past life that I'd be waking up excited for school, I would've laughed you out of the room.
Back then, school was just… filler. A routine between practices. A bridge to the weekend.
Now?
It felt different.
I wasn't just reliving high school. I was reclaiming it. And this time—I was gonna make it count.
Homeroom – Mr. Langford (History)
Mr. Langford was one of those rare teachers who talked like he was narrating a movie trailer.
"History," he said on day one, "is a war between memory and forgetting. You only win if you remember."
That hit me.
Because that's exactly what I was doing every single day—remembering. The big stuff, the small stuff, the things I'd missed the first time around.
He taught like it mattered. And I listened like it did too.
Second Period – English with Ms. Bennett
Ms. Bennett was sharp, no-nonsense, and wore reading glasses with thick red frames. She called on me even when I didn't raise my hand—and I appreciated it.
When we read Baldwin or Angelou, I saw life differently. Understood pain better. Understood voice better.
It made me think of all the times I was cold or distant in my past life—how I shut people out. How I never said what I really felt.
Not this time.
I started raising my hand more.
Started sharing thoughts in class.
Started talking to the kid next to me just because he looked nervous.
Lunch
I didn't sit alone. Not because I couldn't—but because I finally realized how dumb that was.
I sat with Andre, a junior shooting guard who wore retro Jordans every day and knew every lyric to every Jay-Z track. I sat with Eli, a freshman like me, quiet but quick-witted and deadly from the corner three.
We cracked jokes, talked hoops, compared homework, and debated where Kobe ranked all-time.
I had friends this time.
Real ones.
Last Period – Biology with Coach Whitman
Yeah—you read that right. Our head coach doubled as our Bio teacher.
He walked in with a dry erase marker and a glare that could quiet an earthquake.
"Muscle memory," he said during our unit on human anatomy, "is built by pain and pattern. You want to be great? Get used to repetition and discomfort."
That wasn't in the textbook.
But I wrote it down anyway.
3:46 p.m. – Locker Room
Game day.
The first official high school game of my life.
The gym was already buzzing before warm-ups. Packed bleachers. Parents, students, faculty—all crammed in to see what the freshman hype was about.
My hands were wrapped tight. Shoes double-knotted. Jersey pressed.
Number 3.
It felt like armor.
Andre nudged me. "You good, rook?"
"Better than good," I grinned. "Let's put on a show."
Tip-Off: St. Augustine vs. Ridgewood Prep
First quarter. Nerves? A little.
But the second the ball was in my hands?
Clarity.
I brought it up slow, scanned the defense, called out a set.
"V-cut. Eli, corner. Dre, lift."
Ridgewood came out in a 2-3 zone, probably thinking we'd struggle to penetrate. Bad read.
I split the gap, drew the help, kicked to Eli. Splash.
1st assist.
Next play? Caught them flat-footed. Hesitation dribble, between the legs, right into a floater over their 6'2 center.
2 points.
My bench went nuts.
By halftime?
I had 9 points, 4 assists, 2 steals—and the crowd was chanting my name.
"Ja-cob! Ja-cob!"
But it wasn't just about the stat sheet.
It was how I played.
Talked.
Led.
"Screen left, Dre! Stay low, I got help!"
"Eli—cut backdoor! I see you!"
"Eyes up! Ball movement!"
Coach gave me a nod during a timeout. "You sound like a senior out there."
I smirked. "Got old man instincts."
Fourth Quarter – Close Game
They went on a run. Tied it at 47 with 2 minutes left.
I huddled the guys up.
"Hey. We're not losing this. We earned this moment. Let's finish it right."
They nodded.
Next possession—Andre set a high screen. I rejected it, drove baseline, drew the double, no-look dish to our center for the dunk.
Then a stop.
Then a rebound.
We had the ball, 18 seconds left, up by 1.
Coach didn't call timeout.
He trusted me.
I dribbled up slow. Crowd rising.
Ten seconds.
I motioned Dre left. Cleared space.
Isolation.
Seven seconds.
Hesitation.
Crossover.
Drive.
Spin.
Left-hand finish off the glass.
Whistle.
And-one.
I let out a roar and finally—finally—pounded my chest.
I wasn't hiding anymore.
Free throw. Money.
We won 58–54.
Final stat line: 16 points, 9 assists, 4 rebounds, 3 steals.
But it felt like more.
Postgame – Family
After the game, I found my little brother, Micah, sprinting from the bleachers. He was nine now—same big eyes, same gap-toothed grin I remembered. "You were awesome!" he yelled, jumping into my arms.
I laughed, spun him around.
"Thanks, lil' man. You watching the whole game?"
"Every second," he said proudly. "I'm gonna be better than you one day!"
"You better be," I grinned. "And I'll be there to see it."
Then I saw her.
Standing beside my dad—my new stepmom.
Clara.
Warm smile. Natural curls. Kind eyes.
She walked over and gave me a hug like she'd known me forever.
"You've got the heart of a leader, Jacob," she said. "Don't lose that."
I swallowed the lump in my throat.
"I'll try not to."
Later That Night – My Room
Lights off.
Knees sore.
Mind racing.
I laid in bed staring at the ceiling—replaying the game, the moments, the crowd, my teammates, Micah's hug. I didn't take any of it for granted.
Not this time.
I whispered to myself in the dark:
"Burn this into your memory. All of it. Every bell, every laugh, every possession. Because this is the life you were meant to live."
And I believed it.
End of Chapter