I was 5'10" my senior year, and I knew I was done growing. If only I had been taller—maybe I could've made it D1. But I wasn't. I was just slightly above average in height, and in basketball, height is everything. At least 80% of the time. There are a few exceptions, sure, but I wasn't one of them.
I remember back in my freshman year—those early days of high school—I was one of the best dribblers on the team. My mid-range game was solid, and when it came to shooting, I was the guy. No one could outshoot me. But I lacked strength, and it showed. I could never really finish strong in the paint, and it hurt my game more than I liked to admit.
My coaches saw me as nothing more than a shooter. They never truly believed in me—not beyond the arc, anyway. By junior year, that doubt started to sink into my own mind. I began to lose confidence. Shots I used to hit without thinking suddenly rimmed out. I passed up open looks, started playing scared. I wasn't the same.
Then came the moment that broke me.
It was during a regular season game. I made one mistake—just one. I turned the ball over, and my coach immediately pulled me out. I walked to the bench, frustrated, but what came next stung deeper than any loss.
My coach stared at me, red-faced, and started yelling.
"Listen, Joshua. You're not playing well. You're dragging the team down. What happened to you?"
Then, his tone shifted. Quieter. Almost sad.
"I'm sorry, but… I have to cut you from the team after this game. I'm really sorry."
He let me sit there the rest of the game. No more minutes. No more chances.
After that day, I never touched a basketball again.
Still, every now and then, I feel this ache. This pull of nostalgia. I remember walking to the local park, ball in hand, headphones in, just practicing for hours. Dreaming. Believing I had a shot—at college ball, at the NBA, at making a name for myself.
Now I sit in a void of nothingness I still remember the car and how Jackson screamed but will it always be black after I died maybe I'm in a coma,