Demar made it—
climbed out of the shadows of the court,
where the ball dribbled hope into his father's hands,
where hard times met hardwood floors,
and somehow, through sweat and silence,
the rim became a reason.
He wrote a book.
A testament, a triumph.
A voice for those who touched the stars
through chain-link fences.
But what about the stories
left unwritten?
The kids who loved it just as much—
ran the same cracked asphalt,
shot the same prayers at dusk,
heard the same chants of their neighbourhoods:
"You're gonna make it."
The kids whose lives
became the ball.
Who sacrificed everything—
every single thing—
to feel alive beneath the arc of a perfect shot,
to carry a family's hope
on a single crossover.
What about the ones
who did not make it?
The names that fell silent,
memories fading into forgotten corners of playgrounds.
The jerseys never worn,
the banners never raised.
What becomes of the dream deferred,
when it sinks like a stone
into the same hands that once clung to the ball?
What becomes of the nights spent waiting
for the call that never came?
Back to who you were.
Back to empty pockets
and heavier hearts.
Back to jobs that ask for everything
but leave you feeling nothing.
The book unwritten is vast,
its pages filled with silence,
And yet, the earth spins.
