Why Did We Only Understand a Star After the Game? Patrick Beverly Remembers Shyrik's Quiet Moment of Belief

The Moment Before the Glow

I still remember it—the third day of training camp, sweat still clinging to our jerseys, the air thick with unspoken tension. Shyrik Alexander didn’t say he’d be ‘the next Jordan’ like some hype-driven rookie would. He looked me in the eye—quietly—and said, ‘I’m going to be more than a star.’ No smile. No pose. Just stillness.

We were in Toronto then; I ran into his mom at the grocery store two weeks later. She handed me a bag of oranges—not out of politeness—but because she trusted him enough to believe it too.

The Real Superstar Isn’t Measured in Points

The NBA loves metrics: points per game, win shares, player efficiency ratings… But what gets lost? The quiet moments.

Shyrik didn’t want to be called ‘future MVP.’ He wanted to be known—by himself first. That’s not arrogance—it’s integrity shaped by silence.

In Chicago’s West Side, where I grew up watching my father work double shifts just to keep lights on—we understand this better than any stat sheet ever could.

Why We Only Understand After the Game

We mistake noise for greatness until it’s too late.

Shyrik never asked for applause—he didn’t need it. His value was carved in practice: 5AM lifts before dawn, cold showers after midnight.

That’s when stars are born—not on TV screens, but in empty gyms with no crowd listening.

You don’t see greatness until you’ve walked through his mother’s silence—and held an orange she gave you without words.