Kyle had never been on a plane.
He'd never left the island. Never seen snow. Never heard a toilet flush in the opposite direction.
But now he was 36,000 feet above the Atlantic, somewhere between Montego Bay and New York, knees tight, hands gripping the seat handles every time the turbulence made the plane lurch like a boat on rough seas.
He sat by the window, headphones in, trying to drown out the loud American family behind him talking about "Jamaican beef tacos." The scout from BayPoint Prep sat two rows up, reading The New York Times, ignoring him.
Kyle watched the clouds below like they were water, endless and soft. He wasn't afraid of flying.
He was afraid of falling short.
JFK Airport – Winter
The cold punched him in the face before he even stepped fully outside.
It wasn't just "cool breeze" like the mountains in Mobay. This was knife-to-skin cold. Air that sliced through his hoodie like he was naked.
He hugged himself and pulled the school-provided jacket tighter around his long frame. The air burned his nostrils. His teeth chattered.
"Yuh alright?" the scout asked as they walked toward a black SUV waiting by the curb.
"Mi good," Kyle muttered, though he was clearly suffering.
The scout grinned. "You'll get used to it. Maybe."
BayPoint Prep looked like a palace.
Gray stone buildings, high arched windows, golden leaves scattered across the grounds like God painted them by hand. Students wore navy blue and silver. Everyone looked… clean. Unbothered. Rich.
Kyle didn't belong.
He knew it the second he stepped onto the court.
The Gym
It was bigger than any he'd ever seen. Polished floors that reflected the lights, full-size bleachers, a scoreboard that looked like it belonged in an NBA arena.
And the players?
They were fast. Like, really fast.
6'5" guards with tight handles, shooters who drained threes like layups, and bigs who knew how to position, pivot, and pass with ease. They flowed. The game here wasn't chaos—it was calculated.
Kyle's first practice was a disaster.
He missed his first three layups—timing completely off. Got blocked trying a hook shot by a 6'8" junior. Tried setting a screen but fumbled it. Passes bounced off his chest.
"Yo, who invited King Kong?" someone joked from the sideline.
"Bro, he got hops, but where the fundamentals at?"
"Jamaica ball ain't real ball."
He kept quiet. Took every hit. Every miss. Every eye roll.
The coach—Coach D'Amato—didn't say much. Just watched. Scribbled in his notepad.
But Kyle knew what was being written.
That night
He stared at the ceiling of his dorm.
Couldn't sleep.
The bed was too soft. The heat too dry. The silence too… artificial.
He missed his fan. Missed the sound of dogs barking. Missed the weight of the air back home.
He pulled out his cracked phone and called Ghost.
One ring.
Two.
Click.
"Mi was expectin' this call," Ghost said.
Kyle exhaled. "Mi lost. I can't keep up."
"No," Ghost replied. "Yuh just not used to their rhythm yet."
"They play so fast. So smart. Like they already know what gon' happen before it start."
"That's the system. But remember—system don't beat heart."
"Heart don't get yuh recruited."
"No," Ghost said. "But growth do."
Kyle didn't say anything.
"Mi saw boys break in that position," Ghost continued. "But yuh different. Yuh bend… but yuh don't snap."
The next morning, Kyle woke up before the sun.
He went to the gym alone.
Worked on footwork. Then shot free throws. Then ran suicides until his chest burned.
He kept doing that every morning.
And slowly… something shifted.
Day 3
He wasn't as winded.
Made better reads.
Started finishing through contact.
Even set a perfect screen that gave the point guard space for a mid-range jumper.
Coach D'Amato looked up. Nodded slightly.
Day 5 – Scrimmage
Kyle played ten minutes straight.
Scored twice. Grabbed six boards. Had one block so clean it made a senior scream "DAMN."
Still, he wasn't polished. Still missed some defensive switches. Still looked slow in transition.
But now? He wasn't invisible.
After practice, one of the players—Zay, a 6'4" shooter from Chicago—walked over.
"You Jamaican, right?"
"Yea."
"You got heart, fam. You just raw."
Kyle nodded.
Zay slapped his chest. "I respect it."
Final Day – Evaluation Meeting
Kyle sat across from Coach D'Amato, heart in his throat.
The scout from Jamaica stood beside the desk.
"Kyle," Coach said. "We've been watching. You've got raw athleticism. Strength. Great upside."
Kyle leaned in.
"But… we only have one open scholarship this cycle. And it's going to a guard."
Silence.
"I'm sorry."
Kyle blinked. Swallowed hard.
"So… that's it?"
"You made a real impression, Kyle. If we had more time—if we could bring you in for a semester—we'd consider development. But for now… we recommend continuing back home and applying again next year."
The words hit harder than a body check.
The scout put a hand on Kyle's shoulder.
"You improved more in one week than most boys in a year. That's saying something."
Kyle nodded slowly.
Tears burned behind his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
That night, before flying home, Zay handed Kyle a pair of his old Kobes.
"Keep grinding," he said. "You closer than you think."
Kyle gripped the shoes like they were relics.
"Mi will."
Flight back – Montego Bay
Kyle stared out the window.
Everything below looked smaller now.
He had failed.
But not the same way as before.
He wasn't returning as the same boy.
He was stronger. Smarter. Hardened.
And now?
He knew what the world really looked like outside Rose Heights.
Back in Jamaica – One Week Later
Coach Barrett watched Kyle run drills after practice.
The boy was different now.
Sharper.
More focused.
He ran faster. Jumped higher. His footwork was cleaner. Even his jump shot had better form.
"You didn't make the team, huh?" Coach said from the bleachers.
Kyle kept dribbling. "No."
Coach nodded. "Good."
Kyle paused. "Good?"
Coach stood. "Failure's a better teacher than success."
Kyle didn't smile.
He just shot the ball.
Swish.