He Had a Million Salary—Yet Still Wrote Poetry at 3 AM by the Courtside

The Court Was My Desk

I still remember those midnight sessions at the rec center—me, a clipboard, three highlighters, and a laptop running Python scripts while the last player left. My dad drove a cab; my mom graded papers. Neither had a million salary—but we both knew what it meant to chase a dream when no one else was watching.

Stats Don’t Sleep

NBA draft picks? They’re just numbers until you’ve seen the kid who dribbled through poverty like it was poetry. That first-round pick? It wasn’t about potential. It was about the silence between plays—the kind of quiet that only someone who grew up with cracked sidewalks and half-baked dreams can hear.

The Algorithm Knows Your Name

They say data is cold. But ask the kid who coded his hopes after midnight—when the lights flickered orange and the ball never stopped bouncing. I turned trade rumors into truth because someone had to believe in something bigger than money.

You’re Not Alone in This Race

You think your basketball dream ended when you got drafted? Nah. It’s still here—in your headphones at 3 AM, in your feed when you scroll past another highlight reel. You didn’t leave. You’re still writing poetry… by the court.