Montego Bay, Jamaica — Summer, 1989.
The heat was sticky, like honey baked onto asphalt. The kind of heat that slowed your movements and forced you to breathe through your mouth. But Derrick Wilson didn't mind. The cracked pavement of the concrete court outside his neighborhood wasn't just a slab of rock — it was his altar. His escape. His whole world.
At seventeen, Derrick was already a legend on the island. They said he had eyes in the back of his head. That he could throw no-look passes before the receiver even called for the ball. That his first step was smoother than jazz and faster than a mongoose on fire. The nickname around the island was simple: "The Seer."
Tonight, half the neighborhood was watching him hoop at the annual MoBay Summer Run — no refs, just rules you learned by bleeding. Four-on-four, twenty-one wins, no timeouts, no mercy.
