George was six when his dad finally handed him a real basketball.
It wasn't new—the leather was worn smooth, the grooves faded from years of use. His dad spun it once in his hands before bouncing it toward George.
"Try," he said simply.
George caught it and held it awkwardly. The ball felt heavy in his small hands, but there was something thrilling about it.
Bounce.
Bounce.
Bounce.
He dribbled once, twice, and launched a shot from just a few feet away. The ball hit the rim, bounced up, and rolled away.
"Again!" George shouted, running after it.
From the side, Marcus—his older brother—watched with his arms crossed. Nine years old, taller, stronger, already fast on the court.
"You can't just shoot all the time," Marcus said, shaking his head.
George grinned. "Why not? Watch me."
He set up again. This time, he faked a pass, then pulled up mid-dribble from the same spot. The ball arced perfectly, swished through the net.
"Did you see that?" he shouted.
Marcus frowned. "Beginner's luck."
But George didn't care. The net sang. The ball listened. That was all that mattered.
Every afternoon after that, George would shoot first, everything else second.
Step-back from the driveway line → swish.
Quick pull-up after a dribble → net rattled.
Crossover, fake left, pull-up right → nothing but net.
Marcus wanted points. George wanted shots. He wasn't thinking about assists yet, or reading defenders. He just wanted to make it, again and again.
"Stop shooting so much!" Marcus yelled one day. "Pass the ball!"
George smiled and dribbled past him, pulling up from further out. Swish.
Marcus groaned, but there was no stopping it. George loved shooting. He lived for it.
Some nights, George lay in bed replaying the day—not the points he scored, but the shots themselves.
The arc.
The sound of the net.
The way the ball felt leaving his hands.
It was perfection in motion.
One afternoon, his uncle came to visit. George grabbed the ball immediately, shooting from the driveway line without hesitation.
Uncle Mike watched, arms crossed, expression calm.
"You like shooting," he said.
George grinned. "Yeah. I just… want to make it every time."
His uncle nodded. "Good. But remember—if you want to go far, sometimes you have to see the court, too. Pass. Set up your teammates. Don't just shoot."
George frowned slightly, but the ball was already in his hands, bouncing rhythmically.
He didn't know it yet.
But this was the first time the game noticed him—not for what he understood, but for what he loved: the shot.