He made millions—but still writes poetry at 3 AM on the court

The Court Was My First Classroom

I didn’t need a degree to know what grit means. I learned it at 5 a.m., when the streetlights flickered and the rim sang back—just me, my brother, and six other boys with worn-out sneakers and dreams too big for this world. My mom taught third grade by day; my dad drove a cab by night. We didn’t have sponsors—just sweat, silence, and someone who remembered your name when the clock hit midnight.

Data Doesn’t Sleep—Neither Do We

I now work in IT—not as some suit in Silicon Valley—but as a poet with Python scripts and basketball stats burned into my bones. Every box score is a sonnet. Every assist? A haiku. When they ask why I’m still here at 3 AM analyzing turnover rates—I laugh because they don’t get it. You think analytics change systems? Nah.

They Call It ‘Capital’—We Call It ‘Community’

They sell jerseys with logos we never wore. They call it ‘engagement.’ We call it ‘survival.’ Jordan didn’t rise because he was rich—he rose because he knew what the court taught him before fame came knocking down your pride. Kobe? He wrote his last line on a whiteboard after losing Game 7.

You’re Not Alone in This Fight

You ever stay up past midnight hoping your dream still lives? Yeah—we do.

This ain’t content farming. This is poetry written in sweat. And if you’re reading this… you already know why we play. You’re not alone in this fight.