The flyer fluttered on the chain-link fence like a bright red flag calling out to the wind.
"WESTSIDE YOUTH HOOPS CLASSIC — AGES 10–13 — ONE-ON-ONE SHOWDOWN — JUNE 10"
Jalen squinted at the bold letters, gripping the handlebars of his rusty bike. His shoelace had come untied again, but he didn't care. The kids at the court were already buzzing.
"That's two months from now," one kid said, dribbling between his legs.
"I'm gonna win the prize money," another bragged. "I already got a crossover like Kyrie."
Jalen didn't say a word.
He was only eleven, skinny as a twig, with knobby knees and a buzz cut that looked like his cousin did it with gardening shears. But his heart thumped like a bass drum.
Something about the words on that flyer pulled him in.
One-on-one showdown.
June 10.
A voice echoed in his mind—deep, calm, and full of that quiet power only his dad carried.
"One day, J... the game'll come knockin'. And when it does, don't just answer. Own it."
That night, Jalen ran home, kicked off his sneakers at the door, and raced into the small room he shared with his little cousin. The posters of superheroes on the wall seemed to blur as he stared at the blank corner above his bed.
This was it.
He grabbed a notebook from his backpack, tore out a page, and wrote in bold capital letters:
"JALEN COLE — CHAMPION — JUNE 10"
He taped it above his bed with a piece of chewing gum. It stuck... barely.
The next morning, the grind began.
Not the kind of grind people post about on social media. Not weight rooms and protein shakes.
No, this was the real kind. The backyard kind. The "use what you got" kind.
His basketball was half-flat. The hoop? A rusted metal rim nailed crookedly to the side of a garage wall, no net in sight. But Jalen didn't complain.
Because this was his Staples Center.
He started with free throws—bent knees, deep breath, let it fly.
Thud. Miss.Thunk. Miss.Swish.
He raised both arms like a champion. "Let's goooo!"
Then he began sprints across the cracked driveway, weaving between overturned trash cans like he was dodging defenders in the final seconds.
As days passed, he got creative. He practiced his dribble with a tennis ball, forcing himself to keep control. He slid on socks across the living room hardwood floor, mimicking jab steps. He studied YouTube clips of Kobe's footwork, pausing every few seconds to rewind.
But the best part?
Every night, when the moon climbed high and the neighborhood quieted down, he'd sneak out to the alley with nothing but his ball and imagination.
The streetlights cast long shadows. Jalen imagined a packed crowd. A championship game. Him, in a purple and gold jersey, staring down the best player in the city.
"Final shot. Five seconds," he'd whisper. "Jalen Cole with the ball…"
He crossed over a milk crate, spun, pulled up, and launched the shot.
Thud. Rim. Bounce. In.
He threw his hands in the air and ran in circles. "He hits it! The Black Mamba Jr. wins it at the buzzer!"
A dog barked from a few houses down. Jalen grinned and bowed to the imaginary crowd.
One afternoon, as he practiced his layups off a plywood backboard, his aunt poked her head out the window. "J! You been out there for hours. You good?"
He wiped sweat from his brow, panting, his T-shirt clinging to his skinny frame.
"Yeah!" he shouted back. "Just practicing for June 10!"
She shook her head and laughed. "You better hope that tournament has water breaks."
But it wasn't just about the game anymore.
It was about him. About chasing something real.
Jalen started eating better. No more candy before bed. No more soda after dinner. He wrote "Mamba Mentality" on his school binder in black Sharpie.
His classmates teased him, but secretly, some of them started copying his drills at recess. His PE teacher caught him doing wall sits during lunch and just gave him a thumbs-up.
Even his little cousin asked if he could be his "trainer."
"Sure," Jalen said, handing him a stopwatch. "You time me while I do suicides."
"What's a suicide?"
"You'll see."
The tournament was now only a few weeks away. Jalen's body ached, but his heart burned brighter than ever. Every step he took on the cracked pavement, every bead of sweat that hit the concrete, felt like a brick in the foundation of something bigger.
And at night, when he'd lie in bed staring at the page he taped above, he'd whisper a little promise:
"I'm gonna make you proud, Dad."
Then he'd close his eyes and dream of purple lights, roaring fans, and the ghost of a legend nodding in approval from the sidelines.