Demar's pages are lined with light,
inked in sweat and sun-soaked asphalt,
his father's voice a steady drumbeat,
whispers of hope wrapped in every bounce.
He made it.
Out of cracked pavement,
past chain-link fences,
through the shadows of hands raised
not in prayer,
but in desperation.
But what of the others?
The ones who loved it just as much,
held it like breath
between their teeth,
ran until their lungs burned
just to keep the dream alive.
What of the boy who slept
with a ball as his pillow,
because it was the only thing
soft in his world?
What of the girl who believed
her jump shot
was a ticket stamped in heaven?
The echoes of empty gyms,
the sigh of nets untouched by glory-
these are the stories
no one writes.
They are the prayers of a neighbourhood,
the whispered promises of parents,
the "you'll make it"
held like a lifeline in trembling hands.
But not everyone does.
Some dreams dissolve
like chalk lines in the rain,
leaving only the ache
of what could have been.
Some memories curl into themselves,
wallowing into silence,
their weight too heavy to carry,
their hope too fragile to lift again.
And when the lights fade,
when the echoes die,
you return
to the who you were
before the ball,
before the dreams,
before the belief
that the rim was a way out
and not just another circle
to spin you back to the start.
This is the book not written.
A story without glory,
but still
a story.
