There he is again. The dude everyone talks about. He scores, he hustles, he makes plays that leave defenders in the dust. They say he’s just better. I see it.
But in this moment, my mind goes quiet. Everything around me slows to a crawl.
I’m driving right and he bites on the fake—exactly as I’ve practiced a thousand times when no one was watching. I cross over, feeling the ball roll perfectly off my fingertips. Suddenly I’m past him, attacking the hoop with purpose.
He recovers—of course he does, that’s why he’s him—spinning and soaring to block my shot. But I’ve prepared for this too. In the countless early mornings and late nights when the gym was empty except for my shadow and the echo of the ball.
I pump fake, go under his outstretched arm, and reverse it in with a touch I’ve refined through repetition after exhausted repetition.
The ball kisses the backboard and drops through the net. Clean.
The court falls silent. Everyone processing what just happened. Even me.
That wasn’t luck. That was the culmination of every sprint run when legs were burning. Every shot taken when arms felt like lead. Every drill completed when friends were out having fun.
In that silence comes the realization: The lonely hours weren’t lonely at all. They were accompanied by purpose, by growth, by the version of myself I was becoming.
That’s right. I did that. I can hang.
And tomorrow? I’ll be back in the gym before anyone else.
Because the grind isn’t the path to the moment. The grind is the moment.
Keep grinding. You belong. Be that guy. More moments to come. Believe.
