The house was quiet that night.
Jalen stood in the bathroom, his tournament jersey draped over the counter, still damp with sweat. His muscles ached in that good way, the kind that made you feel like you'd done something that mattered. Something real.
He looked at his reflection.
Hair messy. Eyes wide. A small bruise on his elbow from that charge in the third quarter.
"This is just the beginning," he whispered.
On the counter beside the sink was a small laminated photo his dad had given him that morning—Kobe Bryant, mid-fadeaway, legs split, form perfect, eyes locked on the hoop. On the back was a quote:
"I have nothing in common with lazy people who blame others for their lack of success."
Jalen had read it at least twenty times already. But now, after the game, it hit different.
He turned toward the mirror again and said, louder this time:
"You don't get better by wishing. You get better by working."
Late-Night Reflection
Downstairs, the living room was dimly lit. Jalen found his dad sitting on the couch, one arm stretched along the backrest, eyes half-closed but alert.
"Can't sleep?" his dad asked.
"Nah," Jalen said, dropping next to him. "Too much going on up here." He tapped his temple.
"You know what Kobe used to do after games?"
"Watch film?"
His dad nodded. "But also—he'd write down what he learned. Even when he dropped fifty, he still took notes."
Jalen raised an eyebrow. "Seriously?"
"Mamba mentality, kid. Never satisfied."
They sat in silence for a few moments, the glow of the lamp soft on their faces. Then his dad pulled a small spiral notebook from the coffee table and handed it over.
The cover was plain. No title. Just a sticker that read:
"GRIND NOTES."
"Yours now," his dad said. "One page after every game. Write what you did right, what you didn't, and what you will do."
Jalen flipped through the first few pages. His dad's handwriting was all over them.
"9th grade game. Didn't box out. Coach benched me. Never again.""Senior year. Airballed game-winner. Practiced that shot 600 times after.""Met your mom after hitting a buzzer-beater. Most important win of my life."
Jalen laughed. "That one's kinda cheesy."
"Cheesy but true," his dad said, grinning.
Backyard Lights
Later that night, Jalen stepped outside into the cool air. The old hoop creaked slightly as the breeze moved it. His dad had installed a spotlight above the garage—just like Kobe's.
He picked up his ball.
Dribble. Crossover. Pull-up jumper.
Airball.
He smiled.
"Alright. Let's work."
For the next hour, he ran drills.
Pump-fake. Jab-step. Left-handed layup.
Again.
Fadeaway. Free throws. Sprint to the fence and back.
Again.
He pretended Kairo was guarding him. He imagined the crowd. He heard Kobe's voice in his mind.
"Rest at the end, not in the middle."
Finally, when his legs felt like noodles and the ball bounced slower each time, he took one last shot.
Swish.
He sat down on the driveway, breathing hard, looking up at the stars. He whispered:
"One game down. A legacy to build."
The Next Morning
At breakfast, he handed the notebook to his dad.
His dad flipped it open and read:
Game 1 – Southside Vipers vs. Westview HawksWhat I did right: Stayed calm. Trusted the last shot. Didn't get scared of Kairo.What I messed up: Too many early turnovers. Got boxed out. Almost gave up in the first.What I'll do next: Train harder. Study Kairo's game. Be ready for anything.
"That's Mamba stuff," his dad said, proud.
Jalen smiled. "Wait till the next one."
Later That Day
Coach Trey texted the team:
"Quarterfinal game tomorrow. 10 AM. Let's go, Vipers."
And one more message:
"Scouts might be watching this one. Bring your A-game."
Jalen's stomach flipped.
But then he looked at the notebook beside him.
He picked up his ball.
And got back to work.