Kingston, Jamaica – 1993
The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked asphalt of the Tivoli Gardens basketball court. The rim leaned forward at a crooked angle, its net long since torn away. Faded chalk lines marked a key that nobody respected, and broken glass glittered in the corners of the blacktop. But to Derrick Wilson, this was the Garden — the place where reputations were born and reputations were buried.
He was only sixteen, but he had already learned that basketball was less about height or hops, and more about control. Derrick wasn't the tallest on the court, nor the fastest. His jumper was serviceable at best. But what he had — what nobody else could match — was the ability to see the game before it happened. He studied tendencies, exploited weaknesses, and manipulated pace until the whole flow bent around him.
