The days leading up to kindergarten felt weird.
I wasn't nervous—at least not in the same way a normal five-year-old would be. I had done school before. I knew what it was like to sit in a classroom, follow rules, raise your hand to speak. But this time was different. I looked like a kid. I was a kid. And no one would understand what was going on inside my head.
I didn't try to act older than I was. That would've drawn too much attention. Instead, I played along—spoke simply, stumbled over my Rs and Ls sometimes, just enough to blend in. But deep down, I was thinking about footwork, muscle memory, training regimens. I was calculating how much time I had until middle school ball. Until high school. Until scouts.
My dad took a photo of me on the first day—me in a tiny backpack, holding a lunchbox with cartoon characters on it, grinning for the camera. I looked like every other kid. But inside, I wasn't.
The classroom smelled like crayons and glue. Bright colors were everywhere, and my teacher had this super cheerful voice like she drank a gallon of coffee that morning. The other kids were either crying, playing with blocks, or chasing each other around like they were hopped up on sugar.
I sat quietly.
Listened. Observed.
I watched how some kids were already forming little friend groups, how some were loud and others shy. I didn't talk much that day. I just watched. The old me—the high school version of me—was still there, sitting just beneath the surface.
When recess came, most kids ran straight for the slide or sandbox. I walked over to the little concrete area on the edge of the playground where they had a plastic toddler-sized basketball hoop.
It was a joke—but it was something.
I picked up the rubber ball someone had left nearby and started shooting. It was way too light, and the rim was barely taller than me, but it gave me a rhythm. Shoot. Retrieve. Dribble. Repeat.
Some other kids noticed and came over. One of them—his name was Cody—challenged me to a game. He didn't know what he was doing, but he was fast and full of energy. I let him score a few times, just to keep it fun. But when I hit a smooth step-back jumper, even with the wobbly plastic rim, a group of kids went, "Whoa!"
I smiled. Not too big. Just enough.
By the end of the day, I had already become "the basketball kid." A nickname was forming. That was fine by me.
When my dad picked me up, he asked how it went.
"It was good," I said casually. "I made a shot."
He smiled and ruffled my hair.
That night, lying in bed, I couldn't sleep. I stared at the ceiling and thought about my journey ahead. I had years—years—to train, to prepare, to mold my body into something great. I just had to be patient, play the part, and work in silence until it was time to shine.
And when that time came…
They wouldn't know what hit them.