Chapter: Under the Lights
By the start of the 2001–2002 season, something changed—not just around me, but within me.
I hit another growth spurt.
I stood in front of the mirror one morning and realized the clothes that fit just fine two months ago were now riding up my ankles and wrists. We checked at the clinic again.
Five foot five.
Two inches taller.
Lean muscle starting to show.
Shoulders squarer. Frame filling out.
The early morning lifts with my dad, the late-night bodyweight circuits, the extra reps—they were paying off. I wasn't just quicker now—I was stronger. Guys couldn't bump me off my spot like before. I was finishing through contact, fighting over screens, and chesting up bigger guards.
My game evolved.
But with that came something new: expectation.
I was no longer the unknown kid working his way up the roster. I was the starting point guard for Oak Ridge Prep—one of the youngest players to hold that role in years.
And the season opener?
It was televised locally.
Cameras. Announcers. Packed gym.
All eyes on me.
The opponent was Lakeview Academy—a disciplined, high-IQ team with a full-court press and a 6'0 point guard named Tyron Grant who'd been making waves. A regional phenom. Strong, aggressive, and relentless.
From the moment the ball tipped, they were on me.
Double teams. Traps. Blitzes off every screen.
They knew who I was—and they came to shut me down.
The first quarter?
Rough.
I turned the ball over twice, bricked a mid-range jumper, and struggled to find rhythm. My teammates looked frustrated, and Coach Bradley pulled me aside during a timeout.
"Look at me," he said. "You're not here to play perfect, Jacob. You're here to lead. Even if you're struggling. Especially when you're struggling."
That flipped something in my head.
I slowed the pace down. Read the press. Attacked angles. I got my teammates touches, kept the ball moving, and picked my spots.
By the third quarter, I'd figured them out.
I hit a corner three off a flare screen. Drove baseline and finished through a foul. Stripped their shooting guard for a transition layup.
The cameras were rolling, but I didn't even see them.
I was in the moment.
We won by seven. I finished with 13 points, 9 assists, and 3 steals. Not flashy—but commanding. It was the kind of game real hoopers noticed.
The next day, a clip of one of my step-back jumpers hit a youth basketball forum. The caption read:
"11-Year-Old Floor General? Jacob Adams from Oak Ridge is the Real Deal."
The rest of the season brought more challenges.
Harder matchups. Late-game pressure. And the weight of leading a team when things got tight.
But I leaned into it.
And while my game matured, so did I.
I started taking pride in film study. I watched old NBA point guards—Stockton, Kidd, Tim Hardaway. I mimicked their poise, the way they controlled tempo. I learned how to command the huddle, not just the court.
I wasn't just playing anymore.
I was becoming.
By season's end, we were 14–2, heading into the middle school state invitational. I averaged 11.4 points, 7.1 assists, 2.2 steals, and my turnover rate was one of the lowest in the league.
My dad, proud as ever, told me, "You're starting to play like someone years older."
And truthfully?
Sometimes I felt like I was.
But deep down, I knew I still had more levels to reach.
The lights weren't going away.
So I'd just keep getting brighter.