Neighborhood.
Neighborhood.
Keshawn going league after this season?
Neighborhood.
The digital glow of 98-82 with 4.3 ticks left in overtime was a victory lap in neon, but for Keshawn, slumped on the pine, the real game film was still running on a loop behind his eyes. Every muscle in his body hummed with exhaustion, a dull ache that felt strangely, deeply satisfying. Sweat, no longer pouring but still clinging, cooled on his skin, and the roar of Spectrum Center was a distant, muffled ocean, even though he was right there, engulfed by it.
He wasn’t watching Dylan Andrews dribble out the clock, wasn’t really seeing the jubilant fist-pumps from Coach Cronin, who’d ridden him like a mule through the entire second half. No, Keshawn was back at the stripe, the ball a familiar weight in his palms, the leather tacky against his fingertips. Six seconds left in regulation. Down two. The entire arena holding its breath, a collective vacuum of sound that sucked all the air from his lungs.
The first one. Dribble, dribble, spin. Bend the knees. Eye the front of the rim. Follow through. It felt like slow motion, the ball arcing, kissing the net with that perfect, ripping swish.
The second one. The Miami players tried to ice him, screaming nonsensical instructions across the free throw line, the crowd a renewed beast trying to will the ball through or away. He blocked it out. Same routine. Dribble, dribble, spin. He could feel the tiny tremor in his calves, the burn in his lungs from twenty minutes of relentless, lung-searing effort. The twenty-nine points, twenty boards, ten assists, the eight goddamn steals that had clawed them back from that twenty-point abyss – none of it would matter if this second shot clanked off iron. He’d be the goat — the wrong type of goat — the kid who almost saved them just to fuck it up in the closing moment.
Almost.
The thought, sharp and unwelcome, had tried to wedge itself in. He’d shoved it away. Follow through. The ball left his hand, a perfect extension, and for a split second, he knew. Before it even reached its apex, he knew.
He’d almost been the reason they lost. Could have bricked both. Been the freshman who choked. The weight of that possibility, even now, settled heavy in his gut. But then, the counter-thought, clearer, stronger, solidifying in his mind like fresh concrete: But he didn’t.
Of course he didn’t.
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. He was tired, yeah, bone-deep tired. But something else was stirring, a quiet hum of certainty that had been building all season, louder with every made shot, every tough rebound, every crucial stop. He’d looked pressure in the face and hadn’t blinked.
Maybe three years ago he would have missed that shot, overcame by the pressure of twenty-thousands folks screaming their lungs out, every camera lens and eyeballs fixated on him. But that was before he rode a bus through Crenshaw to go to school or hung out at Gilliam Park, playing basketball into the night when the hustlers and the Bloods came out. No amount of screaming fans could equate to that feeling in his stomach when he had to walk home to Aunt Elly’s house, performing a balancing act of walking with purpose without also looking like he was scared. This was just basketball and basketball was now his domain.
The final horn blared, a triumphant punctuation mark. His teammates, a wave of blue and gold, mobbed the court, then surged towards the bench. Stefan was already there, pulling him up into a crushing, sweaty hug. “You a dog, my nigga! A straight dog!”
Keshawn just nodded, the smile widening a fraction. He was a dog, alright. He was that nigga. He was him.
…
The tiny kitchen, usually a chaotic jumble of takeout containers and half-empty instant noodle cups, was currently a zone of focused, almost desperate, culinary ambition. Her phone, propped against a bottle of Sriracha, played a YouTube tutorial on repeat: “Perfect Pan-Fried Pork Chops (Juicy EVERY Time!).”
Jessica, her brow furrowed in concentration, adjusted the flame beneath the cast iron skillet. She’d rewatched the crucial “don’t overcrowd the pan” segment at least four times. Each pop and hiss of the hot oil was a small explosion of anxiety. This meal had to be perfect. A symbol. A foundation for… well, for whatever came next.
Gloria and Andrea were miles away, probably screaming themselves hoarse in Charlotte, living the life Jessica had once idly daydreamed about. Basketball wives in the making, draped in their boyfriends’ oversized jerseys, basking in the reflected glow of athletic glory. She’d seen that life through reality shows and Instagram: the chartered flight, the courtside seats, the designer bags. A pang, sharp and undeniably envious, pricked at her. It wasn't that she begrudged them their happiness, not exactly. But their path seemed so… clear. Her future, on the other hand, felt like these pork chops – one wrong move away from being dry and unpalatable.
She carefully flipped a chop, the seared side a beautiful, mahogany brown. So far, so good. Vic was on his way over, a full day with work in the morning and then night classes. He thought this was just a nice dinner, a rare treat since she usually claimed culinary incompetence. He had no idea it was an ambush, albeit one seasoned with garlic powder and paprika.
The sizzle intensified, the rich, savory smell now tinged with a faint sweetness from the onions she’d added. She imagined Gloria, effortlessly charming an owner’s wife, or Andrea, already planning their victory celebration outfit. They’d have stories to tell, vacation pictures to share. Jessica would just have… this.
She glanced at her reflection in the darkened microwave door. Did she look different? Older? More… maternal? She pressed a hand to her still-flat stomach. It was all so surreal. One minute she was just Jessica, juggling classes and a complicated situationship with Vic, the next she was… this. A soon-to-be mother. Vic’s baby mama. The words felt foreign, ill-fitting, like a scratchy wool sweater on a humid day.
A sharp rap on the apartment door startled her, nearly causing her to drop the tongs. She jumped, her heart thumping a frantic rhythm against her ribs. Wiping her sweaty palms on her apron, she took a deep breath and pasted on what she hoped was a casual, welcoming smile. She swung the door open.
Vic stood there, looking tired but with a small grin. "Smells good in here, baby. We celebrating something?”
"Just felt like cooking," she said, trying to sound breezy. "Long day?"
"You know how it is," he sighed, stepping inside and dropping his backpack by the door. "Mind if I grab a quick shower before we eat?"
"Go ahead," Jessica said, gesturing towards the bathroom. "Dinner's almost ready."
As the sound of the shower running filled the small apartment, Jessica quickly plated the pork chops, mounding garlic mashed potatoes beside them and adding a sprinkle of green beans she’d optimistically steamed. She set the table with the good plates – the ones they usually only used when one of their parents visited – and even lit the single, slightly lopsided candle she’d found in a drawer. Everything had to be just right.
Vic emerged a few minutes later, dressed in a white t-shirt and sweats, looking more relaxed. "You went all out, girl.”
They sat, the flickering candlelight casting dancing shadows on the wall. The first few bites were eaten in comfortable, if slightly strained, silence. Jessica picked at her food, her appetite a distant memory.
"So," Vic said, his mouth full of pork chop. "You got this from Tik Tok? This shit is banging.”
"Yeah," she forced a weak laugh. "It came out okay, I guess.”
"Just okay? Come on, these is good eats," he chuckled. He took another bite. "Did you watch the UCLA game? I for sure thought you’d be at a watch party or something.”
This was it. The opening. Or maybe just the moment her carefully constructed composure finally cracked. The words, the ones she’d rehearsed a dozen times, tumbled out, clumsy and urgent, not at all like the calm, rational speech she’d planned.
"Vic," she began, her voice a little too loud, a little too shaky. He looked up, fork halfway to his mouth, sensing the shift in her tone. "There’s something I need to tell you." She took a shaky breath, her gaze locked on his. "I'm pregnant, Vic. And… and I want to have it. Our baby."
The fork clattered onto his plate. Vic stared at her, his expression unreadable. The small kitchen, moments before filled with the clinking of cutlery and casual conversation, was suddenly, overwhelmingly silent. The only sound was the faint hiss of the candle and the frantic thumping of Jessica's own heart. He said nothing. Just looked at her, his eyes wide, the news settling around them like a thick, suffocating fog.
Neighborhood.
2025 March Madness Elite Eight: March 30th, 2025 - Spectrum Center, Charlotte, North Carolina
(24-6) #2 Oregon Ducks vs. #1 UCLA Bruins (32-7)
ORE | 27 | 29 | 56
UCLA | 41 | 37 | 78
Starting Lineups
(So) Jackson Shelstad - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Sr) T.J. Bamba - G - Lazar Stefanovic (So)
(Sr) Jadrian Tracey - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Brandon Angel - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Sr) Nate Bittle - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)
G Jackson Shelstad, Sophomore: 6 pts, 4 ast, 4 to, 2-4 FG, 1-2 3PT G T.J. Bamba, Senior: 13 pts, 5 reb, 4-12 FG, 2-6 3PT, 3-5 FT F Brandon Angel, Senior: 9 pts, 4 reb, blk, 3-6 FG, 1-2 3PT
G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 9 pts, 2 reb, 8 ast, 4-4 FG, 1-1 3PT G Lauzar Stefanovic, Senior: 13 pts, 3 reb, 5-11 FG, 3-3 FT F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 22 pts, stl, 9-15 FG, 4-6 3PT F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 4 pts, 7 reb, stl, blk, 2-7 FG, 0-3 3PT F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 2 pts, 8 reb, 3 ast, 2 stl, 1-6 FG F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 8 pts, 8 reb, 2 ast, blk, 3-6 FG, 1-1 3PT, 1-1 FT G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 5 pts, 3 reb, stl, 2-4 FG, 1-1 3PTUpcoming Schedule March Madness Final Four vs. #1 Villanova (31-8)
Season Stats 16.6 PPG, 5.6 RPG, 4.5 APG, 2.0 SPG, 0.8 BPG, 1.9 TOPG, 2.3 FPG, 53 FG%, 47 3PT%, 77 FT%
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Beat the fuck out of them boys 
Neighborhood.
Game was closer than the box score says. Oregon cut it to 9 early in the 2nd half but then we went on like a 16-3 run which is the MO for CH2K8, just depends on which side you're on in the closing moments
that's almost a double double lmao
Neighborhood.
The crystal chandeliers of the San Antonio hotel ballroom dripped light like honey, sticky and sweet, coating everything in a golden, expensive sheen that landed on Elijah like a cruel joke, a reminder of the world he once belonged to. Beside him, Loraine was a queen in her element, her smile radiant as she chatted with a woman whose diamonds could probably fund a small nation. Simone, ever his quiet observer, stood a little straighter than usual, her eyes wide as she took in the spectacle.
The air thrummed with the low murmur of power, of money talking to money, all of it swirling around the UCLA Bruins on the eve of their Final Four appearance. And at the vortex of that swirl, undeniably, was his son.
Elijah watched, a strange mix of pride and a hollowness he couldn’t quite name settling in his gut. Every few minutes, it seemed, a different hand would clap Keshawn on the shoulder, a different beaming face would lean in for a hushed word or a blindingly white smile for a photo. Men in tailored suits, their wives in elegant dresses, all gravitating towards his boy. They weren't just congratulating a player; they were investing, anointing.
"Mr. and Mrs. Chase, so glad you could make it!" A portly man with a UCLA pin gleaming on his lapel approached them, hand outstretched. "John Atherton, pleasure to meet you. You’ve raised a great young man in Keshawn.”
Loraine, ever graceful, took the lead. "Thank you, Mr. Atherton. We're incredibly proud."
Elijah offered a curt nod and a firm handshake, the words of praise washing over him. He’d known Keshawn was good and certainly have improved since transferring to Hamilton and then the various scholarship offers that came his way along with the NIL package that was helping keep them afloat – those were markers of talent, yes. But this… this was different. This was the machinery of big-time college sports, oiled by alumni dollars and booster largesse, and Keshawn wasn't just a cog; he was rapidly becoming one of the main gears.
He saw Keshawn across the room, momentarily free, and their eyes met. A fleeting, almost imperceptible nod passed between father and son before Keshawn was swallowed again.
He saw it for the first time. Not just the athletic prowess he’d witnessed on the court, but the magnetism, the easy going charm that drew people in. He saw the future unspooling, bright and lucrative, a path paved with opportunities he himself had fumbled. The department store, the comfortable life in Baldwin Hills, all gone, replaced by the cramped reality of Leimert Park and the gnawing shame of his conviction. But here, in this opulent ballroom, Keshawn was rewriting their family's narrative, one handshake, one photo op at a time.
And in that moment, the hollowness in Elijah’s gut was filled, not with pride exactly, but with a stark, undeniable realization: his son was no longer just his son. Keshawn was a commodity, a brand, a rising star whose trajectory was already arcing far beyond anything Elijah had ever envisioned, or perhaps, had ever been capable of himself. The torch wasn't being passed; it was being seized.
…
Across the ballroom, tucked away in a less ostentatious corner, shielded by a fern and hushed tones, Alon Bronstein was holding court. Not with the fawning boosters, but with two men in slightly less expensive suits, representatives from the UCLA NIL collective. A half-eaten plate of canapés sat forgotten on a nearby table, Bronstein’s focus was entirely on the conversation.
"Honestly, if you listened to me back in February, you could have hade him for a quarter of that,” Bronstein shook his head in amusement, "But this, I think it’ll get it done.”
One of the men cleared his throat, "Hindsight is always twenty-twenty,” he replied with a defensive tone, “We’re just glad to have him back.”
“We’ll see,” Bronstein said with a dismissive shrug, "I think the kid wants to come back, don’t get me wrong but thirty and twenty? National television? Sweet Sixteen? Let’s be serious, fellas.”
“This is an extremely competitive offer,” the other added, "You never know with the draft, look at the kid from Duke last year.”
"Unless you know something I don’t, which you don’t,” Bronstein scoffed, "Boychick doesn’t have some fifty-year old broad recruiting him to some cult.”
"I’m just saying,” he retorted, “Six hundred grand is a lot of money.”
"Look, we all want the same thing here,” Bronstein comforted him by placing a hand on his shoulder, "Now, where are we at with McBridle? His family wants to stay closer to the city.”
…
The familiar, musty scent of the old church’s gym hit Vic like a physical blow. The squeak of his worn sneakers on the faded varnish of the court was a sound he knew better than his own heartbeat. He propped his phone against a dusty water fountain, the cracked screen showing that night’s Final Four matchup. Earbuds in, the roar of the Alamodome crowd a tinny echo in his head, Vic started his ritual.
The ball felt heavy in his hands, a familiar weight he’d carried for years. Dribbling drills first, the repetitive thud a metronome to his ragged breathing. Left hand, right hand, crossover, behind the back. His muscles, already protesting from a week of pushing himself, burned with a dull ache that he welcomed. He glanced at the phone as Keshawn’s name was mentioned by the commentators following a basket.
Vic grunted, driving hard to the basket, laying the ball up off the glass. It clanked off the rim. He snatched the rebound, his jaw tight.
Sprints next. Baseline to baseline, the burn climbing his legs, searing his lungs. Each footfall was a question. Why him? Why not me? Keshawn, loping down the court on the tiny screen, each stride smoother than the previous one. Six-foot-eight, bordering on six-foot-nine by now, with a seven-footer’s wingspan and a frame that would easily add more weight as he physically matured. And him? Five-eight on a good day, with a heart full of asphalt and a future that felt like it was shrinking with every passing second.
He dropped to the floor for push-ups, the sweat stinging his eyes. Twenty. Thirty. Forty. The image of Jessica’s face, pale and uncertain, flashed behind his eyelids. A baby. A mouth to feed, another life tethered to his own struggling existence while Keshawn was bound to make millions for the next decades. And here he was, grinding in an empty gym, chasing ghosts.
Back on his feet, he worked on his shot. Free throws first, the arc a familiar prayer. Most went in. Muscle memory. Then threes, from the spots where he and Keshawn used to workout in the morning before school, back when he was the star player and Keshawn was in his shadow. The ball felt like a lead weight now. His arms were heavy, his legs trembling. Clank. Airball. Clank.
He looked at the phone again at yet another mention of Keshawn’s name. He had taken pride in Keshawn’s success, helping him get better but the unfairness of it all, the random lottery of genetics, gnawed at Vic. He had the same blood, didn't he? The same dreams, once upon a time. What had he done wrong? Where had he stumbled so badly that Keshawn was on national television, on the cusp of greatness, and he was… here? Fighting exhaustion, fighting despair, fighting the suffocating weight of what-ifs and a positive pregnancy test. He picked up the ball, his chest heaving, and forced himself back to the line. The game on the phone was a distant, taunting whisper.
Neighborhood.
2025 March Madness Final Four: April 5th, 2025 - Alamodome, San Antonio, Texas
(31-9) #1 Villanova Wildcats vs. #1 UCLA Bruins (33-7)
NOVA | 30 | 33 | 63
UCLA | 37 | 39 | 76
Starting Lineups
(Sr) Jhamir Brickus - G - Dylan Andrews (So)
(Sr) Wooga Poplar - G - Lazar Stefanovic (So)
(Sr) Jordan Longino - F - Kobe Johnson (Sr)
(Sr) Eric Dixon - F - Eric Dailey Jr. (So)
(Fr) Josiah Moseley - C - Tyler Bilodeau (Jr)
G Jhamir Brickus, Senior: 11 pts, 4-8 FG, 2-4 3PT, 1-1 FT G Wooga Poplar, Senior: 12 pts, 3 reb, 5 to, 4-6 FG, 1-10 3PT, 3-3 FT F Eric Dixon, Senior: 12 pts, 6 reb, 3 ast, 3 stl, 5-10 FG, 2-2 FT G Dylan Andrews, Sophomore: 5 pts, 2 ast, 2 stl, 1-3 FG, 1-3 3PT G Lauzar Stefanovic, Senior: 5 pts, 2 reb, 2-2 FG, 1-2 FT F Kobe Johnson, Senior: 12 pts, 4 reb, 5 ast, 4 stl, 4-6 FG, 4-4 FT F Eric Dailey Jr, Sophomore: 7 pts, 4 reb, 2 ast, 3-5 FG, 1-2 3PT F Tyler Bilodeau, Junior: 14 pts, 8 reb, 2 blk, 4-10 FG, 6-7 FT F Keshawn Chase, Freshman: 14 pts, 8 reb, 3 stl, 2 blk, 5-19 FG, 1-4 3PT, 3-5 FT G Stefan Parker, Sophomore: 4 pts, 3 reb, 1-2 FG, 0-1 3PT, 2-2 FTUpcoming Schedule National Championship vs. #9 Kansas (22-11)
Season Stats 16.2 PPG, 5.7 RPG, 4.3 APG, 2.0 SPG, 0.8 BPG, 1.8 TOPG, 2.3 FPG, 52 FG%, 46 3PT%, 77 FT%
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4735
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Neighborhood.
Bring it on home and then head to the league