My LOVE for the game of Basketball

🏀 The Game That Raised Me

My love for basketball isn’t casual. It’s not recreational. It’s obsession. The kind that seeps into your bones before you even know what passion is. In many ways, the game didn’t just find me—it adopted me. It became my sanctuary long before I understood what I needed saving from.

As a kid, when life got heavy, I didn’t reach for a journal or a phone—I reached for a ball. I’d walk to the nearest park or gym, no agenda, no audience. Sometimes I prayed for an empty court. Just me, the echo of my sneakers, and the rhythm of the bounce. That sound became my heartbeat. That space became my refuge.

Basketball was my emotional crutch before I had the language to call it that. It gave me something pure to hold onto when everything else felt unstable. And over time, that relationship evolved. I recalibrated. I learned to love the game not just for what it gave me, but for what it revealed in me.

I know I’m not alone in this. I’ve met dozens—maybe hundreds—of people whose stories mirror mine. Kids who grew up in the shadows of poverty, depression, violence. And yet, on the court, we found light. We found each other. We found family.

It’s strange how the game does that. You show up for a run, and leave with a brother. You battle for rebounds, talk trash, bleed a little—and somehow, that shared struggle becomes sacred. Not every moment is poetic. It gets heated. It gets ugly. But when the final whistle blows, there’s often a mutual respect that lingers. A bond forged in sweat and silence.

Some of my closest relationships didn’t come from classrooms or neighborhoods. They came from the hardwood. Guys I hooped with twenty years ago—I’ve watched them become fathers, leaders, protectors. We don’t talk every day, but the connection is permanent. The game made it so.

Basketball isn’t just a sport. It’s a language. A lifeline. A legacy. And for me, it’s home.