I’m a Brooklyn kid who bleeds Lakers — but my name? It’s Khephren, after an Egyptian pharaoh who never played basketball.

I Didn’t Choose the Jersey. The Jersey Chose Me.

I’m from Brooklyn. My dad named me Khephren — yes, like the pharaoh. Not because he loved ancient Egypt. Because he wanted me to know: power doesn’t come from a jersey. It comes from standing tall when nobody believes you can.

My first sport wasn’t soccer. It was the court behind our building at midnight — ball bouncing off cracked asphalt, shoes screaming louder than any referee.

When people ask if I support the Lakers? I don’t say ‘yes.’ I say: ‘They’re my mirror.’ My dad didn’t raise me to cheer for Kobe Bryant. He raised me to be him when no one else would.

Why Soccer? Nah.

You think I care about Juventus? About U21 Euros? Nah. We don’t train on grass fields here. We train on concrete with sweat and silence.

The Champions League? Too polished. The World Cup? Too scripted. But when Luka (yes, that’s Luka) scores in overtime against a team that thinks they own the game? That’s when you see truth.

Pharaohs Don’t Trade Jerseys.

I’ve been asked: ‘Why not switch teams?’ I laughed. The last time someone asked if I’d cut my hair to stay loyal? ‘Absolutely not.’ My name isn’t fashion — it’s lineage. The jersey fades faster than your expectations — but your identity? The court remembers you long after the lights go out.

This ain’t just sports analytics. It’s survival in sneakers.