The court looked different today.
Maybe it was the way the sun hung lower, casting long shadows across the cracked pavement. Or maybe it was the silence—the rare kind in Rose Heights. No dogs barking. No vendors shouting. Just the low hum of nerves and sneakers squeaking against cement.
Kyle stood at the edge of the court with thirty other boys, all of them in mismatched gear—some with real jerseys, others in school uniforms cut at the sleeves, some barefoot, others in cleats. A few wore expressions like they'd already made the team. Others, like Kyle, wore doubt.
He clenched and unclenched his fists.
This was it.
Tryouts.
"Line up! Line up, now!"
Coach Marlon Barrett had a voice that could cut glass and a face carved out of experience. His arms were thick, his nose crooked from a fight long past, and his eyes? Cold steel.
"Mi name Coach Barrett. If yuh tink yuh can jog 'round mi court like yuh in a fashion show, turn 'round now and go back home."
Silence.
Kyle kept his chin up. Sweat already beading down his spine.
"This ain't no tourist resort. This is ball. Yuh hustle, yuh bleed, yuh earn."
Coach pointed at the rim.
"Only one underclassman making di team this year. One. So if yuh here jus' fi fun—move aside."
Still, nobody moved.
Kyle didn't blink.
They started with suicides.
The first whistle blew, and Kyle ran like the devil was at his heels.
Half-court. Back.
Three-quarter. Back.
Full-court. Back.
His lungs burned by the third set. The humidity felt like it was strangling him. His legs screamed, but he didn't stop. Couldn't. Not while eyes were on him. Not while Coach kept that damn stopwatch running.
The fourth run, someone tripped and puked.
Kyle kept going.
Then came layup drills.
The boys formed lines on both wings of the court.
"Right side!" Coach barked.
Kyle watched. Some boys moved smooth, clean finishes off the glass. Others stumbled.
When his turn came, he dribbled too high, lost control, and missed the board entirely.
Laughter rippled through the line.
"Bwoy tall like pole and still cyan't finish," someone muttered behind him.
Kyle's jaw clenched.
Left side. Same thing. This time he jumped too late, clipped the bottom of the rim, and fell on his back.
More laughter. Someone clicked their tongue. "Waste of height."
Shooting drills came next.
He watched the others first. Some had form. Elbow tucked. Arc clean. Net whispering after every shot.
Kyle's turn.
First shot: brick.
Second: airball.
Third: a weird side-spin that bounced three times before rolling out.
Coach Barrett didn't say a word. He just stared. That was worse than yelling.
Kyle could feel the judgment radiating off everyone.
"Wilson, step forward," Coach finally said.
Kyle froze. "Yes, Coach?"
Coach held up a hand. "What position yuh play?"
Kyle opened his mouth… then closed it.
"I—I don't know yet."
That got another laugh from the back. Coach didn't join in.
"You tall. Strong legs. But right now, yuh playing like a baby deer on ice."
Kyle swallowed. "Yes, Coach."
"You want dis?"
"Yes, Coach."
"You serious 'bout dis?"
"Yes, Coach."
Coach leaned in. His voice dropped. "Den show mi. Next scrimmage, yuh gon' play against di top boys."
The court shifted.
A makeshift five-on-five began. The veterans—the ones already on the team—lined up with smooth confidence. Kyle was tossed onto a squad with two skinny shooters, a short point guard, and a bulky forward who smelled like cornmeal and rage.
The game started fast.
Too fast.
The first possession, Kyle got stuck in no man's land, and his man blew by him for a layup. The second, he reached and got crossed. By the third possession, his teammates were yelling.
"Switch, man!"
"Talk on D!"
"Bruh, yuh can't just stand there!"
Kyle felt it—embarrassment crawling up his neck like heat rash. Every mistake got louder. Every step slower. He grabbed one rebound, only for the ball to slip out his hands on the outlet pass.
Then the guard on the opposing team—sharp, wiry, arrogant—called him out.
"Too tall to be this soft, Wilson. Maybe yuh need to go back to netball."
Laughter again.
Kyle's chest flared. Something in his gut twisted—not shame. Rage.
He stayed quiet, but he burned.
Then it happened.
Loose ball.
Mid-court.
The arrogant guard dove for it. Kyle saw it. Reacted. Legs moved without thought.
He dove, too. Bodies collided. Skin scraped.
But Kyle came up with it.
Fast break. One defender.
He sprinted like all of Rose Heights was chasing him.
This time, he took two steps and jumped.
Higher.
Harder.
His elbow hit the backboard, and he slammed the ball off the glass and into the hoop.
The whole court went quiet.
Even Coach Barrett raised an eyebrow.
Then, on defense, Kyle blocked a jumper. Not just blocked—he sent it flying into the fence like a rocket.
That got noise.
The boys on the sideline started to whisper. Different now.
"He got bounce?"
"Where'd that come from?"
Kyle played the rest of the scrimmage like a man possessed.
He still made mistakes. Missed a few layups. Misread a pass.
But he hustled. Rebounded like a demon. Set screens that rattled bones.
By the final whistle, he was soaked, panting, knees bruised—but standing.
Coach Barrett stared at his clipboard. Then at Kyle.
"Yuh ain't polished. Yuh ain't smart wit' ball yet. But…" he paused.
"Yuh got blood."
Kyle's eyes lifted. "Sir?"
"Basketball blood. Yuh raw. But raw can be molded."
Kyle didn't smile.
He just nodded.
The list came out that Friday.
Papers were taped to the cafeteria wall. Boys crowded around, pushing, shouting.
Kyle stood at the back. Quiet.
Then someone yelled. "Yo, Wilson! Yuh on it!"
He walked forward, slow.
Name #15: Kyle Wilson – Underclassman Spot.
He stared at it like it might disappear.
He didn't jump. Didn't scream. Just closed his eyes and let it settle.
He had a foot in the door.
Now he had to fight to keep it there.
That night, Kyle went back to the court alone.
The stars were out. The rim was barely visible in the dark.
But he shot anyway.
Brick.
Again.
Swish.
Again.
Because this wasn't the end.
This was the real beginning.