Written by me, edited by ChatGPT.

 

Chapter One: Limelight in My Corner

 

Halftime was over. Beads of sweat poured down my exhausted and aching body. The Bears were killing us, but we had a reputation for spectacular comebacks, even in the most hopeless games where the odds were stacked against us. The name’s Jamar Barkley Jensen III. My jersey number was thirty-two, but Coach always bragged about me, saying I deserved to wear number one—thanks to that half-court shot I made in our fifth game against the Virginia Crusaders. Maybe he was right, but I couldn’t get cocky now. There was too much at stake.

 

“Jensen,” Coach called as I wiped sweat from my face with a white towel. I glanced past my teammates, busy stretching and preparing for the next quarter, to the stern, weathered face of the Kansas Jayhawks’ coach. My heart began to race, its beats quickening with every passing second. This was the moment I lived for. “Use your fouls, Jensen, you’re in.”

 

I leaped from my seat, crouching at the end of the bench and psyching myself up to give everything I had. This was it—our last game before the tournament, and then the playoffs. Tonight, I’d prove myself. Tonight, the crowd would finally know my name.

 

I waited for Warscoff to come off the court so I could sub in and make an impact. The energy surged, our team had the ball. Jon Ashley, a towering seven-foot-eight dunking machine, passed it to Dean Thomas, a six-footer with lightning speed. Dean sprinted down the court like a cheetah hunting its prey. The Bears’ defenders spread out, setting traps. Two of them closed in on Dean in the right corner, leaving him with two options: pass or take a contested three-pointer.

 

Joe Parks, a tall, built redhead known for his precision on free throws, dashed across the court to the opposite side where he would be open. I sprinted toward Dean, receiving the ball, then quickly dribbling toward the middle to pass to Parks, who was clapping and signaling for the ball. As I tossed it to him, he made a swift move, crossing up the point guard before jumping and tossing the ball in the air, falling out of bounds.

 

The crowd held its breath. The ball seemed to hang in the air, taunting gravity. It swished through the net, and everything went silent for a second before erupting into cheers. The commentators began shouting over the loudspeakers.

 

“Look at that shot, Martin! The Jayhawks are at it again! That’s a foul on number three from the Bears! Classic play!” Joel Lukens, the gray-haired commentator, shouted. “Takes me back to my coaching days with the Milwaukee Panthers twelve years ago!”

 

“I don’t think the Bears can make a comeback from this,” a young commentator said, his voice full of disbelief.

 

“Why is he even in the box?” Lukens shot back, glaring at the young guy. “Bonton, do you even know basketball?”

 

I jumped in the air, messing up Parks’ sweaty, rust-colored hair. I quickly wiped my hands on my jersey, then turned my focus back to the game. The referee handed Parks the ball for his free throw, and he sunk the first one. Our fans went wild as we hustled down the court, setting up our defense.

 

“Twenty-eight!” I called, signaling our next play.

 

“Get three!” yelled Dean, as Dawson hurried to guard a six-foot-eleven Bear player before he could catch the ball.

 

“What a magnificent steal by Caleb Dawson!” the commentator shouted as Dawson dashed toward the basket. He handed the ball to me just as I was slapped in the face. I threw it to Jon Ashley, who leaped with everything he had, slamming the ball into the basket.

 

“Look at them go!” Lukens yelled.

 

“Fifty-eight to sixty-three! Keep it coming, Jayhawks!”

 

We pushed hard to keep the momentum and brought the score up to sixty-seven to seventy. Dean Thomas got subbed out for Trent Fare, a six-eleven player, just four inches shorter than me. Trent was ambitious and good—some even called him the white Michael Jordan. I tossed the ball in, Dawson passed it back, and I surveyed the court. Our players weren’t moving much, so I called another play. Trent was the first to move, and I passed the ball to him. He went for a layup but missed. The Bears quickly turned it around, and we sprinted down the court.

 

Harvey Patton, a friend on the opposing team, went for a shot, but I leapt up and grabbed it mid-air.

 

“Was that a steal, Robins? I can’t believe it!” the commentator asked. “Can he do that?”

 

“Oh yes, Larry Schwebbson has drilled the Jayhawks day and night. They know exactly what they’re doing,” Terry Robbins, the former Texas Hawks coach, replied.

 

I passed the ball to Jon Ashley, who passed it back to me. I took a three-pointer. It felt wrong—shoved back, I prayed it would go in. The crowd roared as the ball flew through the air. My teammates cheered, slapping me on the back.

 

I took a deep breath, preparing for my free throws. The noise of the crowd and cheerleaders filled my ears. The referee passed me the ball. “You can do it, focus, Jamar,” my mother’s voice echoed in my head. I bit my tongue, aimed, and took the shot. The roar of the crowd intensified. The ball bounced off the rim, ricocheted back to me, and I took another shot just as the buzzer sounded. The ball soared, slowly, as if time had slowed.

 

“HE MAKES IT! THE JAYHAWKS WIN SIXTY-FOUR TO SIXTY-THREE! WAY TO GO, JENSEN!”

 

My teammates rushed to me, celebrating wildly.

 

In the locker room, Coach Larry Schwebbson came up to me.

 

“Jensen.”

 

“Yes, sir?”

 

“That three-pointer… Never do that again,” he said with a grin.

 

I smiled nervously. “It was great, but I wish you’d get more consistent. I’m too old for these risky threes.”

 

“Yes, sir.”

 

Just then, a short, blonde reporter with a microphone and a camera crew approached me.

 

“This is Joyce Wilks with WWNC live at the Texas Bears’ gymnasium, here with Kansas Jayhawks’ own Jamar Jensen, who scored the winning shot today. Jamar, how did it feel taking that gamble on that shot?”

 

“Hi, Joyce and WWNC. Well, I knew I had to do something. I wasn’t too confident, but it worked out,” I replied.

 

She smiled, looking at the camera before turning back to me. “The Jayhawks are tournament-ready, right? What’s Coach Schwebbson got planned for you guys?”

 

“Lots of drills. We’re grateful to have him—eight years and counting. He’s got all the stats to push us harder. Tournaments are huge for our rankings, both privately and nationally. We’ve trained hard, and I think we can go far.”

 

“Are you looking forward to the playoffs?”

 

“Well, if we stay a strong, well-gelled team, I think we’ll do fine. But first, we need to get there.”

 

“Thanks, Jamar,” she said as I nodded and faded into the crowd.

 

My dad caught up to me, gripping my hand. “She’d be proud, Son. I could feel her smile today.”

 

I wiped a tear away. “She was talking to me, like always—especially when I was at the free throw line.”

 

“Yeah?” He smiled softly. “Well, Palatka’s made some Chinese food at home. Your favorite.”

 

“Oh, yeah. She’s still the cook?”

 

“Still the cook. Your sister’s home, too. You should come visit.”

 

“Amy or Deyanna?” I asked, hoping it was Amy, my sweet, spunky sister.

 

“You’ll see,” he grinned.

 

“I’ll pass.”

 

Dad raised an eyebrow. “Palatka’s been waiting for you to come home. Ever since college.”

 

I smirked. “I guess she missed the ‘thrill’ of having me around.”

 

He chuckled. “I’m not paying for another broken window. Geico would raise interest.”

 

I laughed. “Did Damien ever sell his Prius?”

​

“Dad replied.

 

I nodded. “Oh, he married her? Finally, that boy got something right.”

 

“Yeah, he joined our church and accepted Christ. I heard him singing behind me on Sunday. He’s really changed.”

 

“Good for him,” I said. “How about a ride home?”

 

He grinned. “Sure, but you’re driving.”

 

I caught the keys he tossed me, smiling.

 

Chapter Two: Kambris Lockland

​

Somewhere amidst all the frenzied mishaps and crazy events of the past few days, I found myself innocently walking down the old boulevard past Washington High School when I was cornered by a janitorial worker with wild eyes and crow’s feet that seemed to frame them like jewels.

​

“Excuse me, are you who I think you are?” asked the old man.

​

I smiled.

“Yeah, yeah. Big NBA Jayhawk’s man here… nothing out of the usual. Want me to autograph your mop or your dirty ballcap?”

​

The man chuckled, as if I had just told the world’s funniest joke.

“Excuse me? What’s so funny?”

​

“Son, don’t be flattered. I just wanted to know if you were that kid who got lucky the other night with the free throws and the buzzer-beater at the last second.”

​

“Lucky? Well, that’s one way to put it.”

​

He readjusted his ball cap on his glistening dark skin.

“Did you honestly think you did that on your own? That was pure luck. I haven’t seen one of those in heaven knows when. Back in my day, we got lucky a lot. Some men were smart enough to recognize Divine intervention, while others thought they did it by their own strength and skill.”

​

“Divine intervention… haven’t thought about that.”

​

“I know. Pride runs the court these days; it’s a shame.”

​

“And who are you? When did you play? High school? College?”

​

“Well, sweet reveries! You don’t recognize me, do ya?” he asked, as I tilted my head, trying to remember where I might have seen a face like that before. “Go on, try and guess.”

​

“I’ve never seen anyone like you in my life. I swear I don’t know you from Adam!”

​

He laughed and shook his head.

“Young men forget their forefathers too fast. I’m Kambris Lockland, number 28 from Waacataw State, way back when.”

​

“Kambris… Kambris Lockland… Oh! I remember! You were the man who scored thirty consecutive lay-ups in that game against Milwaukee!”

​

“That ole Sanford Sweeden overshadowed me with his twenty-five free throws.” I shook my head. Sweeden went on to do drugs and rob an orphanage in San Antonio later in life, after he retired and went bankrupt.

​

“Sweeden, what a wasted talent.”

​

“Hey, he started just like you and me. He grew a big watermelon head and started going around bashing his promoters, thinking he got there all by himself and deserved everything fame and basketball could give him. I think he collapsed somewhere around that time, and Mary Jane became all he knew. I wasn’t even surprised when he denied God’s existence and bashed his old church after they tried to reach out to him in his addiction. It’s sad when you forget where you came from.”

​

I shook my head, at a loss for words.

“You see, ego is the great tomahawk.”

​

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I remarked, scratching my head.

​

“The enemy swings it around a few times until it pummels one’s sense of humbleness and respect. Shoot, it even throws dents in morals and self-control. A man at his highest point of glory is still a speck when compared to the glory of the Omniscient.”

​

Preaching. He sounded like he was preaching. But why? I knew the good book, I knew heaven and hell, what was he suggesting that I didn’t already know?

​

“I suppose you’re right.”

​

“Suppose? Without pride, man can achieve so much more, especially spiritually speaking. Pride crushes the spirit but uplifts the flesh.”

​

“Man, you’re right, but why are you preaching to me?”

​

He smiled and sighed, looking me straight in the eyes.

“When I look at you, I can see myself. I see a broken heart just trying to feel something. Basketball is your comfort, it’s the only thing that brings you peace, right? You live basketball.”

​

“Yeah, I do.”

​

“You’re missing life. I mean, when was the last time you prayed? You seem to have a lot of confidence in your abilities… That’s not bad, but I notice that the past three games you’ve played, you’ve shown bad sportsmanship when you miss those three-pointers. You know, the same ones. EVERY TIME. It’s the same threes, in the same spot, at the same time. I’ll admit, you’ve got good form and talent, no doubt, but you keep making the same stupid mistakes. You think that every time you make a shot, it’s all you. All. You. You think the coach plays you because you’re better than Warscoff. You’ve got talent, kid, you’ve got heart too, but you’re missing one important thing—Divine recognition.”

​

“I believe there’s a God.”

​

“Yeah? The thing is, He’s not just some good luck charm. He’s not just some great healer you call on when you can’t make it anymore. He’s every day, every breath, every good thing in life. The thing is, society wants to be served. Somehow, people get this twisted thought that He’s supposed to fight for them and do whatever they want to make them happy.”

​

“Well, I thought He wanted us happy, right? I’m living the dream, I’ve fought hard, and I’ve come a long way. Now I am truly happy.”

​

“You can’t tell me you don’t fight yourself inside and try to convince yourself it will get better. If you can just get a good sleep and focus on the good things, and what your team will do next game and tournament-wise, that everything will be okay. That then you’ll remember that rush and how much life is worth living again.”

 

Tears came to my eyes.

​

“You trying to bring me down, man?” I asked, sighing and looking at the sky, trying not to focus on his words.

 

“Man, I know because that was me.” He raised his hand and closed his eyes. I saw his arm descend as a smile appeared on his face.

“What did you do?”

​

“I went to church, and I realized that without the Lord, I was hopeless and skill-less. Man, without Him, we would be dust. At creation, He breathed life into us. The good book says that pride cometh before the fall, and yeah, it did.”

​

“What happened to you?”

​

“I fell. Hard. I literally fell and wrenched my knee. They had to do surgery, and I was done for.”

​

“Was it all worth it? I mean, look at you now?”

​

“Janitorial job. The chance to be around kids all day—some cursing, others laughing. Curses and blessings. It takes me back. I am blessed.”

​

“You lost your ability and your fortune. What’s so great about that? You lost all you ever worked for…”

Kambris looked at me.

“I am truly the happiest I’ve ever been. I still have a great fortune. I choose not to be flashy—to live in perfect meekness and quiet peace like the Bible says. I even preach at a local church. Since my egotistical downfall, I met a woman I call ‘wife,’ and I have truly known what prosperity looks like. I believe we’ve crossed paths so that I could warn you not to make the same mistake I did.”

​

“Are you telling me to forfeit my livelihood?”

​

“Just open the Bible a couple of times. Realize you ain’t no Jordan prodigy. You are Jamar Jensen—an original, destined for prosperity. Go for the prosperity. The greatness comes from God. Seek Him, because without Him, you are dust—lifeless, immobile, good-for-nothing dust.”

 

I closed my eyes and sighed.

​

“Well, what do you mean by that?”

 

Then he was gone. I looked around for his figure, but it was apparent that Kambris Lockland was no longer standing in front of me, coaching me on. ‘Divine recognition,’ a voice in my head repeated.

​

That was the day that changed my life forever. I started unpacking ideas and emotions I thought I had long packed away. I had been going through the motions living one game to the next. I know I was relying on myself and my own strength and talents too much. His words hit me and as I pondered them I could feel walls around me crumbling as I surrendered to a higher power. I repented then and began to sort through the kind of man I was and the man I wanted to be. And I realized I had some unfinished business to attend to.

 

That afternoon, I called my sister Amy and found out that she was struggling as well. She had been strung out on drugs for months, and finally, she said she had gone to rehab.

 

All of the pressure of being perfect to sustain the high standards that “everyone”—meaning me and my beloved father—had put on her had made her collapse.

 

She thought she was in control until addiction took over. Her ego came crashing down with every withdrawal she had to endure, and I had to embrace the fact that it was ultimately all my fault.

 

I had thought so much of myself and my accomplishments that I was blindsided. I had become so blinded that I couldn’t see my sister struggling and reaching out for love and support, or my father trying to bring us together before his heart would tragically fail him in a matter of months.

 

Saying all of that, I am here to say that it has made me a better man.

 

I quit professional basketball. I quit ego. I quit just living for the rush in the games with the crowds, cheerleaders, hot dogs, and rush shots, and I started living for God, again. I found out that life was more than just another ball game, just another cycle in the never-ending rut that I had grown so fond of and accustomed to.

 

No, I don’t bash my time on the court, I cherish it, because if it wasn’t for egotism’s demise, my family would be divided, my life would be empty, and my service to God would be cold and dead.

 

You see, I’m no chaplain, I’m no preacher-man: I’m just saved. I’m not only saved from hell but I have been saved from myself. I coach the travel church ball team and I speak to teams like the Jayhawks before the tournaments to uplift them and keep them going.

 

Above all, I have gained respect from teammates and even from a couple of fans, and I have committed myself to show the love of Christ to all of the empty and brokenhearted whenever given the chance to “cross paths” like Kambris Lockland did when he crossed mine. You see, egotism is a tomahawk that crashes into the mind. When the time is right and the going grows tough, it will finally meet its demise.