One Sentence:  From city courts to the NCAA stage—my first college game under the bright lights. 
An 18-year-old steps onto an NCAA basketball court for the first time, overwhelmed by the bright lights, roaring crowd, and the weight of the moment. As he warms up, memories of grinding with his big brother on cracked city courts flood back, reminding him how far they’ve come. Spotting his brother in the stands, proud and cheering, gives him calm and confidence as the whistle blows and his college career begins.
START: 

Walking out of the tunnel felt like stepping into another universe. The sound hit me first—layered and alive. The band blasting some fight song, the student section already chanting, the echo of sneakers hitting the hardwood, random shouts from the crowd as more people found their seats. My heart was thumping so loud I swear I could hear it over everything.

The lights were blinding, way brighter than any gym I’d ever been in. The court was so clean it looked unreal, the NCAA logo shining at half-court like it was waiting for me. I glanced up at the banners in the rafters—years of history, legends who’d played on this same floor. I couldn’t stop the thought: I’m really here. I made it. 
I stepped onto the court, and it felt solid, heavier somehow. I jogged out toward the baseline, trying to look calm, like I’d been here before. But inside? My hands were sweating, my stomach was flipping, and every step felt like a dream.

Warmups started—simple passes, layups, a few jumpers. But it didn’t feel simple. My first shot  came off my hand awkward, hit the rim, and bounced out. I laughed to myself, shaking it off. I started to focus on the rhythm—the ball hitting the floor, the swish of the net, the DJ playing some hype track over the speakers.
Up in the stands, my big brother was already on his feet, clapping and smiling like he owned the place. He had my jersey on, repping my number. Just seeing him there—so proud, yelling like crazy—made me think about us back in the day.

We used to hoop on the city courts, the ones with the bent rims and chain nets. Hot summers, winters in hoodies and gloves, it didn’t matter—we were always out there. Sometimes it was just the two of us, sometimes it was a whole crowd of dudes running pickup all day. My brother was always the one pushing me. If I missed a shot, he’d grab the rebound and say, “Nah, run it back. You’re not leaving until you hit that.” We dreamed about this moment back then, under those dim streetlights with cars driving past, acting like the city playground was Madison Square Garden. 
And now... I was really here.

Coach walked by and gave me a quick pat on the shoulder. “Play your game,” he said. My teammates were keeping it light too—one of the vets slapped me on the back of the head and said, “Relax, rook. It’s just ball.” That loosened me up. 
 As warmups went on, my body started to settle. The layups got smoother. The jumper felt better. I stopped hearing the crowd as much and started hearing my own breath again. 
Then the lights dimmed for introductions. The announcer’s voice echoed through the arena, calling out each name. When mine hit, the place erupted—or at least it felt like it did. I ran out, slapped hands with the guys, and glanced up at my brother again. He was standing, fist in the air, yelling something I couldn’t even make out, but I didn’t need to. I knew what it meant.
We circled up before the game, hands in the middle. Coach gave one last short, sharp talk. My nerves were gone now. All that was left was the energy.
 The ref walked out with the ball. The arena went quiet for a split second. I looked around one more time—at the crowd, at the court, at the place where I was about to start something bigger than anything we’d ever dreamed on those city courts.

Then the whistle blew. 

The ball went up.

And it was on.