Chapter: The Invitational
By the time we entered the state invitational tournament, I had grown another inch—now 5'6, still wiry but with a more solid build than even a few months ago. I wasn't just getting taller; I was growing into myself.
But what mattered even more than the inches on the measuring tape?
My mid-range game was becoming lethal.
Coach Bradley noticed it first.
"You're hitting that elbow pull-up like it's second nature," he said one day at practice.
It was true.
All those hours of floaters, touch shots, one-dribble pull-ups from the high post—they were clicking. I didn't always need to get to the rim now. If the big dropped on a screen, I punished him. If the defense overplayed my drive, I'd stop on a dime and bury a 15-footer.
It gave me a new weapon.
And heading into the invitational, I knew I'd need every tool I had.
The state invitational brought together the best middle school teams from around California. That meant stacked rosters. Ranked kids. Coaches and scouts in the bleachers. Cameras rolling.
Pressure? Absolutely.
But it wasn't new to me anymore.
In our first game, we faced a team from the Bay Area loaded with athletes. The pace was fast, and the game turned into a track meet. I stayed composed—controlled the tempo, hit my teammates in transition, and took smart shots when the chaos opened windows.
I finished with 18 points and 8 assists, and we won by double digits.
But the real challenge came in the semifinal.
They were called Silverwood Prep—a private academy that recruited like a high school. Their star guard, Devin Brooks, was a nationally ranked 7th grader at 5'11 with a quick first step and a killer instinct.
The moment the game tipped off, it felt different.
Devin pressed full court. He picked me up at half speed, then exploded with a trap. He wanted to rattle me. Wanted to prove I wasn't on his level.
First quarter? He won the battle.
I turned it over twice, missed a runner, and got caught slipping on a backdoor cut he capitalized on.
We were down 10–2 early. Coach called a timeout.
He didn't yell. Just looked at me and said, "It's your game to take back."
And so I did.
The second quarter, I adjusted.
Used screens better. Changed pace. Got into that elbow mid-range and hit two straight jumpers that made Devin hesitate on his press. Then I drew a foul and hit both free throws.
I started reading him.
He wanted the flashy steal. He gambled. So I punished him—step-backs, hesitation dribbles, ball fakes. By halftime, we were tied.
The second half was a war.
Every possession felt like a playoff game. Every shot had weight. I locked in, ran the offense, and kept my cool.
With 15 seconds left, the game was tied at 53.
Coach drew up a play: stagger screen to free me for a catch at the top.
But the defense blew it up.
So I improvised.
Crossed over, split a trap, and rose just inside the free throw line.
Mid-range. Clean. Nothing but net.
We won 55–53.
The crowd exploded.
Devin gave me a nod after the buzzer. That silent respect between hoopers who went at it.
After the game, a scout approached my dad.
"That kid's poise is rare," he said. "Most kids panic in that moment. He didn't even flinch."
My dad smiled. "He works for it."
And that's the truth.
It wasn't magic. It wasn't luck.
It was hours of sweat, drills, mistakes, adjustments.
It was trusting the work.
We didn't win the tournament—we fell in the final to a bigger, more physical team. But I dropped 20 and 6 and left with my head high.
Because I didn't just play in the biggest tournament of my life…
I made my mark on it.
And now, people weren't just asking who Jacob Adams was.
They were asking what he'd become next.