Chapter: The Separation
By winter break of 2000, I had a decision to make.
Three private schools had sent official offers. One was local—just a couple cities over—but the other two were serious basketball academies with reputations. The kind of schools where future pros were being molded. Where gym time was sacred and every practice felt like a game.
I talked it over with my dad for weeks. Pros and cons. Long-term goals. What I'd be giving up versus what I'd be chasing.
And then one night, after a long workout, I told him:
"I want the challenge."
That was it.
January 2001, I officially enrolled in Oak Ridge Prep, a private middle school in San Diego known for its elite basketball program. It wasn't the flashiest school, but the gym was always open, the coaches were experienced, and most importantly—the competition was fierce.
The first week at Oak Ridge felt like being dropped into a different world.
The classes were harder. The kids were older, bigger, more polished. Everyone was there for a reason, and I was no longer "the star" walking into the gym.
I was just the new point guard from the AAU circuit with a chip on his shoulder.
Practice was brutal.
The starting shooting guard was already 5'8 and dunking in warmups. The forward I had to run pick-and-rolls with didn't trust me at first. And the coach—Coach Bradley—he didn't hand out compliments. He demanded perfection.
"You're talented, Jacob," he said one day. "But talent without consistency is just noise."
That stuck with me.
And it motivated me.
Every night I stayed after practice to shoot. I asked for film from our scrimmages. I asked the older guards how they handled pressure. I became a student of the game in a way I never had before.
But while I was leveling up in basketball…
I was drifting from home.
My brothers, especially the oldest, didn't say much when I left for Oak Ridge. But I could feel the distance. I missed our backyard games. Missed them cheering me on in person. We still hung out on weekends, but it was different now.
And my friends from public school? Some didn't understand the decision. Others started acting weird around me, like I thought I was "better."
I didn't blame them.
But it still stung.
I was only eleven, but I was learning what sacrifice looked like.
Pursuing something big meant leaving something behind.
My dad noticed it.
One night, he sat on the porch with me and said, "You don't have to pretend this is easy."
I nodded. "I just want to make it all worth it."
He looked me in the eye. "You already are."
By the end of my first semester, I wasn't just surviving Oak Ridge—I was rising.
I earned the starting point guard spot by spring.
Coach Bradley started calling me "Floor General" in huddles
We were winning games against powerhouse teams, and my name started popping up again in regional write-ups.
But it wasn't the stats that meant the most to me.
It was knowing I had earned every inch.
And it made me hungrier.
Hungrier to train.
Hungrier to lead.
Hungrier to prove that leaving comfort behind was the right call.
Because this wasn't just a new chapter.
It was a new standard.