Chapter: Sharpen the Edges
After the West Coast Elite Youth Camp, everything changed.
I was no longer "just talented for his age." I was now the kid who went toe-to-toe with nationally ranked players and hit a game-winner on one of the top guards in the country.
When I got back home, my teammates treated me differently. Some gave me props. Others watched me closely in practice—like they were measuring themselves against me now.
But more than the attention… I came back with clarity.
I had holes in my game. The camp didn't just expose them—it magnified them.
I was quick, yes. I had vision and control. But the difference between me and those top-ranked kids wasn't talent.
It was refinement.
They were sharper. More efficient. Stronger.
That's when I sat down with my dad and made a list:
Strength & Core Stability – Too many times I got bumped off the ball or outmuscled on drives.
Consistent Shooting Under Fatigue – My form dipped when I got tired
Defensive Lateral Quickness – I could keep up for a few possessions, but not for full games at that camp pace.
Left-Hand Finishing – I had it, but I didn't trust it under pressure.
"I want to fix all of it," I told him.
And my dad, without blinking, said: "Alright. Then we go back to work."
Every morning, we were up before the sun.
Pushups. Resistance bands. Core planks. Ladder drills in the driveway. Cone slides to build foot speed. And for the first time, I started lifting light—just to build a foundation.
At night, I ran a shooting circuit.
100 free throws. 100 off-the-dribble jumpers. 50 floaters. All with a weighted ball first, then a regular one. It made the real ball feel like air in my hands.
We even made up a game called "Fatigue 5"—I had to sprint, then hit five different shots from five different spots, with my legs burning. If I missed two in a row, we reset.
That one humbled me fast.
But I saw the difference week by week.
My body started adjusting. I didn't get pushed off my spot as easily. My left hand started becoming automatic around the rim. And for the first time, I was locking up guys on defense in practice.
Meanwhile, the interest from schools picked up.
I had letters from three private academies by October—two in California, one in New York. A couple were offering full academic scholarships and early access to elite programs. My dad handled most of it, but he'd always keep me in the loop.
"You don't have to decide anything yet," he said. "But just know—you've got options now."
It was wild to think about. I was eleven years old.
Still walking the halls of public school, still doing multiplication tables and writing book reports. But on the weekends? I was being talked about by scouts and writers.
One kid at school even asked for my autograph.
I laughed at first, but then he said, "My big cousin saw your game-winner on some camp highlight reel. He said you might go pro someday."
I didn't know what to say.
Because that's the dream, right?
But dreams don't matter if you don't do the work.
So I just told him the truth: "Thanks, man. I'm still getting better."
And that's exactly what I was doing.
Piece by piece.
Drill by drill.
Sharpening the edges.
Because I knew the next time I stepped on a big stage…
I wouldn't just show up—I'd take it over.