Chapter: Foundations
Kindergarten became routine pretty quickly. Wake up, brush my teeth, tiny pancakes, backpack on, and out the door. I started getting used to the rhythm—learning letters, numbers, coloring inside the lines. None of it really challenged me, but I didn't mind. It gave me time to blend in, to observe. I didn't want anyone figuring out I wasn't like the other kids—not yet.
But once I got home, the real work started.
My dad noticed I kept sneaking outside with my ball, even after long days. So one weekend, he surprised me with something that nearly made me cry.
In the backyard, right next to the patch of grass where we always sat, he had set up a brand-new adjustable hoop—kid-sized. It had a breakaway rim and everything. There was also a smaller basketball, one I could grip with one hand.
"I figured you could use something your size," he said, smiling.
I ran up and hugged him without even thinking. "Thanks, Dad."
From that day on, it became part of my routine. I'd shoot until the sun went down—sometimes longer. My dad would turn on the porch light and call out, "Ten more minutes!" and I'd nod, draining one more shot before time was up.
But I wasn't just out there messing around.
I started designing drills—real ones. Dribble combinations, footwork sequences, balance work. I'd run figure-eights around cones. Practice layups with both hands. If I fell, I got up. If I missed, I shot again. I wasn't playing for fun—I was training for the future.
My brothers started joining me sometimes. At first, they just teased me.
"Jacob thinks he's gonna be in the NBA," my middle brother, Marcus, joked.
"He's gonna be the first kindergartener with a crossover," laughed my oldest brother, Elijah.
But they didn't laugh when they saw how serious I was.
Eventually, Marcus started rebounding for me. Elijah gave me pointers. And slowly, something changed between us. They stopped seeing me as just the baby brother. They started seeing me as… well, one of them.
We'd go to the park together, sometimes just the three of us. They played two-on-one against me, and sure, they beat me—but not without working for it. I was getting quicker. Smarter. I learned how to split a double team before I could even spell "double team."
My dad started watching from the sidelines more, too. He stopped scrolling through his phone and started paying attention to my form, my footwork. Sometimes he'd offer little tips: "Use your legs more," or "Keep your eyes up." He never forced anything on me—just supported. That meant everything.
At school, I was still the "basketball kid." Kids would ask me if I was gonna go pro, and I'd just shrug. "Maybe." I didn't brag. I didn't need to. I let my game speak.
My teacher even called my dad once and said, "Jacob is very focused. Surprisingly focused for a five-year-old."
He just laughed and said, "That's Jacob."
The years passed faster than I expected. First grade flew by. Then second. I kept growing—not just in height, but in confidence, in control. My body was finally starting to listen to my brain.
And then, just like that, I turned seven.
My dad made a big deal of it. He decorated the living room, invited family over, and got me a custom mini jersey with "Adams" on the back and the number 1.
"You've waited for this," he said, handing it to me. "So… you ready?"
I knew exactly what he meant.
"Yeah," I said, gripping the ball in my hand. "Let's sign me up."
Because now, I was finally old enough to join my first real basketball league.
And trust me—I wasn't just ready.
I was built for this.