I Wasn’t Supposed to Be Here

They told me I was too raw for the league. Too short. Too quiet. Too much Brooklyn, not enough spotlight. I heard it all: “He ain’t NBA material.” My high school coach said it like he was talking to his phone—then hung up.

The Draft That Didn’t Make Sense

Pick #16? Come on. I watched the board like a movie we’d all watch—but no one hit play. The scouts were scrolling through tape of kids from Chicago and Atlanta. My mom cried when they called my name. Not because she thought I’d make it—because she knew I’d fight for it. Every early morning drill. Every alley-oop in zero light. Every time they said “no,” I wrote “watch me” on the backboard.

This Isn’t a Fairytale—it’s Data

You think talent’s about height? Nah. It’s about hours logged after midnight when everyone else slept. It’s about crunching stats while your phone buzzes with DMs from strangers saying “you’ll never make it.” I didn’t just get drafted—I turned rejection into rhythm, pain into playbook, silence into spotlight. The algorithm doesn’t care if you’re loud—it cares if you show up when no one’s watching.

You Don’t Need a Halo—you Need a Hustle

They said “hard work beats talent.” The truth? Hard work IS talent—if you’ve got soul and street roots. Picked #16 wasn’t luck—it was legacy carved out by every missed shot before sunrise. This ain’t Hollywood. This is Brooklyn—and now? Now you see me… on screen… in color… in real life.