I watched the Nets’ draft room like a empty theater—eight, nineteen, twenty-two, twenty-six, twenty-seven, thirty-six. No star lights. Just echoes. I’ve seen how a single overlooked pick can haunt a block. This isn’t about talent. It’s about who gets heard. In Brooklyn, where the court is paved with silence and hope, the real story isn’t written in box scores—it’s carved in the quiet between picks. I’m not here to sell dreams. I’m here to listen.