Trey Dodge: An Autobiography (Full Book)

**Trey Dodge** (1978-2042) was a professional basketball player, most notably in the Carnagan Basketball League (CARBL), often regarded as the greatest player to ever play in the league. He was known for dominating in the early 2000's decade, averaging upwards of nearly 100 points per game, being more athletically gifted and being able to shoot over anyone. His dominance did cause controversy, however, as it caused an uproar of players who did not get playing time in premier basketball leagues, such as the HBA (Heyan Basketball Association) and ABL (Afrostar Basketball League), to transfer over to leagues with lesser talent pools and dominate there, as more players were able to defend Dodge and he got weaker every season of his career. However, he did remain one of the most popular athletes in the country, being well regarded from across the world for his dominance, accuracy, and moves.

Dodge was born in the depths of Heatsville, Heya, in a very poor community of many other dark-skinned people, his parents previously immigrating from Trask, a country in Afrostar well known for its basketball culture. However, before he could remember his parents, he was sent into adoption, where he remained in foster care his entire childhood, with no parent adopting him. At age six, he transferred to Dermont James Foster Academy, located in Hamegont, Heya, a suburb outside of Zoma. The complex building served as both a K-12 school, large cafeteria and indoor park/pool, and foster home building, where he would make his lifelong friends, share beds with roommates, develop strong connections with teachers and foster workers, and develop his basketball skills in the gymnasium. Growing up, he recalled it being strange not having a parental figure, but learned from his fellow foster kids and bounced ideas and behavior around to learn while growing up. In this academy, he also met the love of his life, Jola K. Dodge, formerly known as Jola Katrina Kuplink, who would get married to him, eventually raise foster children of their own, and live together up north in Cardagan. In his teenage years, he developed a much bigger build than his peers, worked out on a consistent basis, grew very tall, strong, and muscular, and pursued his interest in basketball, playing for the Dermont James varsity team against other schools, and developing into a 4-star prospect, being highly touted for the HBA. He also pursued football, being a fan of the Houston Flash growing up, with some of his favorite players being Xavier Simmons, Andre Reyes, and Thomas Vaitai. However, his main interest was basketball, his main inspiration being Zobe Bryum, and eventually graduated from Dermont James Foster Academy to accept a scholarship to Zoma Tech, and after a mixed season, being selected by the Troy Tigers in the mid-second round, the same team that also drafted his idol, Zobe Bryum.

Dodge would have a very poor rookie year at age 19, playing mostly back-end minutes, averaging 4.8 ppg, 2.4 rpg, and 2.1 apg. Despite being expected to make the team next season, he asked for his release from the team, wanting to play in a league with a lesser talent pool to improve his talent, with his request being accepted. He soon moved up north to Condure, signing a contract with the Residone Pistons, getting extensive playing time and putting up impressive statistics for two years, averaging 26.9 points his first, bumping it up to 34.1 points his second. Despite his success, and recruitments as a player back in the HBA, he and soon-to-be wife were conflicted on where to go. However, one day in the mail, he received a letter sent from GM of the Halifort Rangers, Ardene Pauford, giving him the largest offer he'd receive yet, making the bold risk of paying a lot of money to a foreign player, in hopes that they would play in the Cardagan Basketball League and dominate. GMs have tried this before, usually to failure, as players would prefer not to travel as far, and would be offered larger contracts anyways in the HFL. Dodge sent a letter back to the address, saying he would like to know more, and eventually would travel with his partner to Cardagan, and after negotiations, signing a large 3-year contract with the Rangers, officially moving into a winter house up north, which Dodge and his family would reside in for the rest of their life.

Upon training camp for the Rangers, he got to know his coach Kershanko Franklin, a man in his late 70's known for his communist beliefs. Cardagan, once a state in the Norwedian Union, had once been communist, but later fell to Heya and the United League in 1956, after years of war, poverty, and hunger raged upon by external capitalist forces. Despite this, Cardagan and other former NU states observed an economic comeback due to money loaned in by the United League (in an effort to curbstomp more communist revolutionaries), and along with laws influenced by the former NU granting extreme worker's rights, saw life expectancy, quality of life, and happiness levels grow, which more and more support for capitalist policies and lies being spread about the NU, seeing record levels of capitalist support. Dodge cites his coach Franklin as the man who got him into communist ideology, and the inspiration to write the autobiography of his life in the former Norwedian Union and how it differs from Heya and Condure, He notes that the racism he experienced near daily in Heya was nonexistent in Cardagan, and everyone seemed much happier and helpful of others.

## Trey Dodge: An Autobiography

It was a hot blazing summer day, with temperatures reaching over 100 degrees. But that did not matter; as sweat dripped down my great uncle's face, he dribbles the ball past his defender, stepping back, and releasing his shot, as the basketball rattles in, sinking down and scoring 2 points for my uncle. His opponent takes the ball, going to the top of the key and catching his breath, before checking the ball to my uncle, dribbling the ball out to his side and creating a shot of his own as my uncle defended.

Basketball runs in my genes. It's like I was born to play this game.

My great uncle, who I now know as Teki Makotano, was a very solid player in the Crystal League of Wunvee, located in north Afrostar. He wasn't the best player in the north, not at all. At his peak, though, he was ranked #98 in the Crystal League. #98! Sure, it wasn't #1, and the Crystal League was not even the premier league, but that man had the support of my entire family, and played all the way up to his skill level, and I could not be more entertained reading his stories from around the league many decades ago and his life playing the ancient sport of Wunvee.

And, stop trying to tell me that his rank was low. Nearly hundreds of thousands of men in north Afrostar tried to make a career out of this, and most have failed. My great uncle was 98th at his peak in his own league, with hundreds of others trying to compete in it, and thousands even trying to get in. And Wunvee is not an easy sport. Many of the people who dominate in basketball will NOT succeed in Wunvee. Heck, I probably wouldn't have done as great as he did in his shoes, he was so great. Just reading the printed transcripts of his games that my biological parents read to me, and I was amaxed at how good he was.

Obviously, I could go on all day about the effects of Wunvee in north Afrostar. The influence, the rulings, the assassinations, the civil wars, and the many people dead all because of a game of ball, which I made my whole career out of. But it couldn't be overstated how much this sport means to my family, how grateful I am to have played this sport, learn from my mistakes, and most importantly, inspire tens of millions all across Naridia. The fact that this very same sport we all know and love around the world was inspired by the sport my great uncle played, truly does mean a lot to me.

I know my uncle would've loved to see where I am at in my career, being played on TV every day and millions tuning in to my games to see how many points I put up. I couldn't be more grateful that my parents were here to see what I've accomplished, even though they did not raise me or have enough money to afford to raise children. I don't blame them for that, and I thank God for giving me the opportunity to be raised in foster care and giving me the opportunity to meet wonderful people, including Jola. More on her later.

I do quite remember my parents in my earliest memories. I was born in Heatsville. I remember, for once, being around people who looked exactly like me, dark skin and all. My parents did care a lot about me, despite their economic status. I remember our house. It was very small, very noisy, and most of the windows were busted. I remember it being very hot inside during the summers, and very cold during the winters. My parents would fight a lot, and they would later tell me it was just financial arguments and disagreements on how to finance to avoid being kicked out of the small and broken living space we had, but they still did love each other very much, despite the stressful times.

Here is where I will get political. Even though Jola and I live together with no worries about financial stability in the slightest, I can still relate to everyone who has to go through these struggles, being lower class and not being able to provide for a family, no matter how small. Some people will ignorantly say, and I've heard this a lot, "Why didn't your parents just work hard enough?" Then they might be able to afford having me and the house? For everyone who is reading this and thinking it right now, let me educate you on the systematic troubles of being a minority not only in Heya, but just about everywhere else as of now.

First of all, Heatsville nowadays has like what, more than 100 million people? That alone is a great chunk of human population on Naridia, and the second-largest city only to Venema of course. In the depths of this large city, the infrastructure is not great. I mean, it definitely has been getting a lot better, with more freeways and interstates being built, along with underground and above-surface high-speed rails. I do have hope for the future of Heatsville and addressing these issues with its high density, but understand that these issues lingered around and were among the worst in Naridia as a whole.

With these infrastructural issues, it was extremely hard to navigate, especially without a car, and even find a place to work. Now, also remember that we were Afrostan, and Heatsville, unfortunately, has a large racism problem. Even once we did get into neighborhoods outside ours, people would try and avoid us, and not a chance they would offer us a job. Even if they did offer us a well-paying career, it would lose net profit in their business, as many regular customers might actually avoid the service because of this racism. I'm not saying everyone was like this, or all people of Heyan descent are racist, but I am being brutally honest that this was a large issue that many today with my skin tone even still experience.

Because of all these factors, work was very limited, and many in my community couldn't even find jobs and were evicted. It was very unfortunate how many homeless people I remember seeing, and some knocking on people's doors and asking them for some place to live. If you ask me, I don't think homelessness should exist in the first place. I believe food, shelter, water, and everything else needed to live should be provided to everyone at the bare minimum. There are homeless shelters, but many are full, and often times people get kicked out for staying there too long, and most are unsanitary and full of disease. On the streets, you have people with no access to food or water, often resorting to trash cans and dumpsters on the side of people's houses, sleeping under tents or cars, and urine and feces everywhere on the streets. Crime was high, with poor people breaking into homes, resorting to violence due to their unfortunate class condition. Many would commit crimes just to get arrested and have somewhere to live in prison.

If you ask me, this is not a healthy system. The problems are a result of forcing people to live like this in the first place, under a system that enforces wealth inequality and poverty among those unfortunate.

I'm fortunate enough that my parents did find very low-paying jobs at a restaurant across town, but due to very limited economic flow and growth, could not be paid a lot of money. There was a minimum wage across the city, of course, but my parents were forced to take less than that per hour, as that was all their employer could afford, otherwise they would have to be let go of and replaced with other desperate workers who would take even less than they would. They worked many hours a day, often leaving me alone at home, hungry for food, stuck in my dirty diapers as a kid, and not knowing their situation or what was to come next.

One of my most vivid memories was sleeping on the couch as a toddler. I was not wearing any clothes and was stuck at home for hours, wearing only a diaper, something that my parents could hardly even afford. I heard a knock at the door. It was a homeless person who had darker skin just like me. He kept knocking, as baby me cried due to not knowing who that guy was. I remember him standing there for minutes, figuring nobody was home, then watching him as he used a rock and smashed the window, crawling inside as I cried, scared as I've ever been. He took a few belongings as he left my crying on the couch, even stealing some food in the refrigerator, before heading back out the front door and leaving it unlocked. I cowered, crying the whole time, hoping nobody else would break in. My parents came home later that night, as I was sKntill crying. They quickly realized they were robbed, comforted me, fed me, changed me, and put me to sleep. I still had nightmares for months about that man, and I always think of him even now.

Knowing what I know now, the man only did was he needed to in order to survive. I mean, stealing from others is wrong, definitely. But what else was he going to do? It probably wasn't his fault he couldn't even work or feed himself, and he likely didn't have anywhere to live. He could have done a whole lot worse, yet he didn't harm me or destroy any property (other than our window of course). What economic system even put him here in the first place?

I always think about the possibility of me not being sent to foster care by my parents, and living with them for my whole life out in that neighborhood. Of course, they were able to find well-paying jobs outside the neighborhood, and finally, move out to the countryside and start a new life there. They were probably only one in a hundred, as many more did not have the same luck as them in finding jobs. If they kept me, would it have been any different? Maybe they had to invest more money into me instead of getting a car, being able to travel to their jobs, and earning enough money to move out. If I was still there, would they have even made it out of the neighborhood? In the alternate reality where they raised me, I probably wouldn't have gotten as good of an education, would probably have to spend time working instead of practicing my game, and said enough, Dermont James Foster Academy did give me the resources and materials to develop and succeed, unlike that neighborhood. I might have been raised into a life of crime, maybe even dealing with illegal substances instead of making millions playing ball, resorting to crime and violence (which my parents did not do), and perhaps dying a premature death. Who knows what would have happened?

Or, there are even more what-if scenarios. What if my parents never made the choice of immigration, and decided to stay in Trask? I've visited there quite a few times, being where my family was from and all that, and even played a few exhibition games there for fun with some well-known basketball players. Of course, I lived in a very poor part of Heatsville, but apparently the neighborhood in Trask was even poorer. My parents did not regret moving, apparently, and stood by their sight of a better future, even if it didn't quite mean raising me.

I love my parents. I understand why they sent me off at age 4. Otherwise, the three of us might have been living on the streets. I love them now and have always loved them. I just wish I had more to say to them as a kid and teenager, but I eventually grew up without them in my life.

The years at Sheldon Foster Care, still located in Heatsville, were the hardest 2 years of my life. I wasn't motivated without my parents being there. I remember seeing all these orange-skin children, and they were alien to me. But I was alien to them. They made fun of me and bullied me for being different. I remember suffering a few injuries. The caregivers did nothing. Absolutely nothing. I remember storming to the bedroom, crying myself to sleep. Except, I shared my room with about 10 others. They all bullied me for crying so much, adding fuel to the fire. I had no privacy to process emotions. Those 2 years taught me how to hide emotions, toughen up, and deal with the situations that were handed to me.

Kids are cruel. But kids reflect on the situation that was reflected onto them. It most likely started from one kid at the foster care center, who made fun of me and got enjoyment out of it. The other kids, sensing a moment of positivity being able to bring me down to their level, also joined in. I do feel like an ideal world without this racism is possible, as long as everyone commits to it.

I remember making no friends at Sheldon. I was by myself on the playground, by myself at school, and had no figure to guide me, not knowing any friends. As I said before, I learned to deal with it. It soon became a normal part of my life. I couldn't be more glad it didn't make me into a sour person, and that it only lasted for two years, before I was transferred.

I don't know why I was transferred. Maybe it was because they saw I was being bullied. Maybe it was racism on the keeper's part. Maybe it's not that complicated, and they just ran out of room here and decided to boot me. I don't care. Being transferred was the best thing that had happened to me at that point in time.

Stepping into Dermont James Foster Academy at age six was a unique experience for me. Compared to my old foster home, it was just an old, rundown building with loose floorboards and junky hard mattresses. This new place, where I would be living up into my adult years, was fantastic. The floors were actually clean, the beds were nice, and the foster academy actually hired its own cafeteria cooks who worked the entire day, and the food was actually delicious and plentiful. Though there were a lot more foster kids at this academy, by a landslide, estimated to be averaging about 1,000-2,000 kids in and out, rooms were segmented and divided with walls, and I was actually granted a bit more privacy and personal space than Sheldon. During my childhood, I actually liked living at what I called home for once, something that has never occurred to me throughout my previous years and was foreign to me.

Dermont James academy was huge. With many, many rooms on separate floors where all the occupants would live, the halls went straight to the cafeteria, which was practically an indoor mall. All the food was laid out in lines, where the kids would line up to scoop varieties of food into their plates, ranging from pancakes, eggs, cereal, and sausages for breakfast, to pizza, chicken, hamburgers, hot dogs, and all sorts of food varieties for lunch and dinner. Some kids would eat the same food every day, while others would mix it up, as I did. Of course, the workers of the foster academy pushed for all kids to eat their fruits and veggies, and while it was impossible to enforce all thousands of kids to eat their nutritious foods, I made sure to eat a healthy meal at all times, not being tempted by all these delicious foods as others would. I mean, for my first four years, I hardly got full meals to begin with, and the last two years for me I sort of kept up that habit. This place had much better foods, but I stuck by not having too much for my meals while eating nutritiously.

Breakfast lasted about an hour altogether, which gave us kids time to partake in other activities across the indoor plaza. Directly on the other side of the cafeteria from the large kitchen, was a huge indoor park. With a glass ceiling above, it almost felt like the real thing, with turf underneath and synthetic woodchips. There were tons of huge slides, swings, see-saws, monkey bars, domes, pyramids, everything that kids could ask for in a park. Upon seeing that for the first time at age six, realizing that I would be here three times a day, being able to have fun at the park compared to the maybe twice or thrice a week they would take us outside to play, this was as close to a dream come true for a kid, setting into the reality that I could play here everyday and hopefully make new friends.

As for the indoor mall that I had mentioned earlier, there were other restaurants that anyone could eat at for free. For free! There was a seafood restaurant, which I ate at as much as I could, as well as a pizza restaurant, Mexican restaurant, fast food restaurant, sandwich restaurant, coffee place, and even a barber shop, for frequent haircuts of course. That place had everything, and it just made me feel so spoiled as a kid, growing up in poverty and practical abuse, now having all this at my fingertip for no cost. Looking back at it now, it makes me feel so fortunate how I grew up not needing to worry about my financial status, with everything being state-funded for us, and I never had to pay a dime to use these things. Period.

You may be thinking that many kids would abuse these restaurants and eat unhealthy foods every single meal, and then grow up being unhealthy. This was a huge problem when Dermont James and other foster academies similar to ours first opened up, as these restaurants would have crowded lines and very slow service. Fortunately, they fixed these issues by introducing student ID cards, which each academy occupant had, which were required to be scanned before receiving their meal. The limit for eating a meal at any restaurant was three times per week, and entering any more would cause your meal to be rejected, and you would be disallowed from eating at any restaurant for the remainder of the calendar week. The amount of food each student received was also limited, which prevented the loophole of ordering lots of food and sharing it with friends. Of course, this still happened to a lesser extent, but even though no student liked the policy, in hindsight it was great execution by the government in keeping students somewhat healthy.

Of course, they needed to pay people to actually work at these facilities. They hired a couple of adult workers for each place, but also heavily relied on teenage workers, students from the academy who worked in their free time to get more educational credit, and also receive grants for universities of their choosing, with amounts based on how many hours they have worked. It's why you often see older kids helping serve food and even give haircuts, which I anticipated would someday be me in their shoes.

Oh, and I've barely even scratched the surface of Dermont James academy.

Past the cafeteria, indoor park, and mini-mall was another large hallway that led to many more important facilities. The first one was the library, which was huge and contained lots and lots of books. There were many checkout stations, where any student could check out any book they wanted, with different sections divided by fiction and non-fiction, and inside those sections containing segments of different genres and interests. I did spend a lot of time at the library, partaking a genuine interest in non-fiction books about historical events and conflicts, learning about the history of Heyan culture and prominence at a younger age than most. Besides athletics, of course, history was my favorite subject to partake in, and at one point I even decided to forgo my career in basketball or football to become a historian. Obviously, it never happened, but I just so wonder what my life would have been like today if I had strayed away from basketball...

Eh. I could not see it happening. I was obsessed.

The second major facility, of course, was the large gym. There were two extra smaller gymnasiums down the hallway that led to the large gym, but I mostly hung out in the large one. I'm not sure why, but it had always stuck with me to always play in the big one. I first picked up a basketball at age eight, and started practicing as a part of an everyday routine a year later. Something about the sport, whether it be the smooth dribble technique I developed, the quick release that I began to practice, or playing pickup games with several more athletes who were my age or older. I really, really got a hold of the sport. Something about it made me feel I was tailored for it. I really was obsessed, and probably spent more time dribbling and shooting the ball than I would like to remember.

Football, of course, was my side gig. All our rooms had TVs, and I remember being introduced to the sport itself as I was still pretty young. It was a game between the Houston Flash, and the far-away Sugarcane Warriors, two great teams in the depths of the playoffs. The boys I was with also watched the game, not rooting for any team in particular. I decided to root for the Houston Flash, since Houston was closer to Hamegont than Sugarcane, so I figured why not. As I began to cheer whenever Houston made good plays, I remember the other boys purposefully rooting against me, wanting the Houston Flash to lose. The Flash were the favorites in this game, finishing with the best record in the AFC and playing at home against Sugarcane. I rooted whenever Houston had the ball, and the others would root when Sugarcane had the ball. I watched Xavier Simmons for the first time, flinging the ball like it was effortless. I cheered when the Flash were up 16-10, with Simmons having the ball, looking to go up by two possessions and seal the game against the Warriors. However, I was shocked when Simmons threw the ball to the other team, confused at what happened and why the others were cheering. I was a bit frustrated, and let down as Sugarcane drove down the field with rather ease, before scoring a touchdown, going up by only one point with just 30 seconds left on the game clock. I was disappointed, thinking the Flash were to lose, but would move on rather easily. That was not what happened. With 30 seconds left, Simmons tossed up more effortless heaves, redeeming himself as I cheered alone, with the Flash landing in field goal territory. I was not sure what happened at the time, all I saw was their kicker Jonnu Lacey lining up to kick the ball into the goal post, and the Flash suddenly being up by 2 points with no time remaining, as I got up on my bed and cheered, admiring what just happened, as the others laughed and shouted.

The next week, at the same time, we all watched the Houston Flash take on the Alexon Islanders in Ultra Bowl 18. I was hyped to cheer for the Houston Flash again, inspired by their performance from last week. However, things were looking grim. The Flashed trailed for most of the game by either one or two possessions. I laid back in my bed, nervous, not even watching the game and anticipating that the Flash would lose. However, the other boys grabbed my attention. The Flash were down 34-28, with two minutes left of game time. I watched Xavier Simmons once again, chuck the ball downfield and make beautiful passes into his receivers' hands. With only four seconds remaining, down by six, I saw with my own eyes as Simmons led the Flash on the 17-yard line, which was the last play of the game, all or nothing. Simmons received the snap, falling back in the pocket, making a strong pass to his receiver Andre Reyes as he ran across the sideline, catching the ball a few yards outside the goal line. Reyes was tackled, inside the one-yard line, close to the end zone, but just short. Being just eight years old, and barely understanding football, I thought he had made it across before being tackled. I leaped into joy, screaming as the others watched the replays closely. They called for my attention, saying he did not make it past the goal line, and the game was over. I was struck and confused. How did he come up just short? That couldn't be possible. Maybe there would be one more play, right? Nope.

I spent the rest of the day shocked at the result, wanting Reyes to succeed and go in for the game-winning score so badly. He was short. Just short.

From that day on, I was a fan of the Houston Flash. Even though all my clothes were provided by the foster academy, I gathered a bit of loose change, buying myself a cheap knockoff Xavier Simmons jersey at the store with the guidance of an adult. I wore that jersey often. Even though it was far from the real thing, that was my favorite personal possession of my childhood. Some even complained I wore it too much. I did not care. I used pocket change from adults to buy more Houston Flash gear from stores outside the academy, watched highlights of Xavier Simmons way too often, along with highlights of legendary wide receivers Andre Reyes, Thomas Vaitai, and the entire Houston defense, which dominated down the stretch. That team alone inspired me to play football at their indoor facility, and try out for their team, playing as a wide receiver myself and inspiring my moves from Andre Reyes, a black person himself, from the depths of the city like I was.

I remember the day I was 16, when, in his last year, Xavier Simmons lead the Flash to their sixth Ultra Bowl title, and I celebrated tremendously in my Houston Flash gear. Everyone knew I supported them. Their Ultra Bowl win inspired me to play better and work better. I almost decided to switch to football full-time in order to become a wide receiver for the Houston Flash. Ultimately, that was not the case, and who knows if I would've even succeeded in football. It is yet another what-if question that remains unanswered.

Along with the football facility, were other indoor sports facilities, which included tennis, skewgrid, mini-golf, volleyball, bowling, kickball, all different sports I've tried and never stuck with, my main focus being, obviously, football and basketball. There were outdoor facilities too, mainly for football and soccer, but it mostly took place inside. Alongside that, was the enormous indoor water park and swimming pools. Yes, looking back at it now, we definitely were spoiled in exchange for not having parental figures. The indoor water park was such a blast. Some even missed being foster kids for that very reason. Even though some went there every single day after school, I only went there on weekends, practicing football and basketball while lifting in their weight room on weekdays. There were many slides, lazy rivers, whirlpools, spirals, recreational pools, and all sorts of fun stuff at water park resorts, just at our remote location. There were lap pools as well, where the swimming team practiced, and lifeguards who were hired, along with students who volunteered to be lifeguards as part of earning extra credit and college tuition. Not to mention, there were places for water basketball, where the whole team would excuse practice to play at on some long and hard days. Admittedly, I've excused practice for water park fun way more often than I should have, but I still have no regrets.

Let me interrupt myself again. You may also be thinking, with all this fun stuff, why would students even be motivated to study or do homework, when the water park and all other activities were open all the time for public use? Surprise, that's where student ID cards come in again. To enter these facilities, the ID card would have to be scanned, and entry would be permitted based on grades in the database. Having two or more failing grades would disallow the entry. And, they closed pretty early, usually at 8:15 PM, so there would be time to take a shower and everything, and do all the studying and homework that needed to be done before lights out at 10:00 PM. It would stay open until 10:00 PM on Fridays and weekends, and lights out on those days were not enforced, so it wasn't totally lacking fun.

There was also a roller skating rink, which students would often times show up in large planned groups, but roller skating was never really my thing, anyway. I would have to admit that I am not good at roller skating. I'm not sure why it was, watching other kids succeed while I could never find my rhythm on the rink. But I avoided it for the most part, regardless.

Whew. Well, that was a lot of explaining just for the fun recreational activities at Dermont James. Let me get into the actual education in the building, hence the name, 'academy'.

The foster academy serves all grades kindergarten to 12th. The classrooms were on many different floors, often separated by grade, with the lower grades on lower floors and higher grades on top. Even still, it was very easy to get lost in these large arrays of classrooms, with staircases leading up and down each floor. Younger grades tended to stay in their own groups, ran by a foster care adult, who would make sure everyone in their class was in that group at all times, so they wouldn't get lost. They all lived in the same rooms next to each other, had the same classes together (mostly in the same classroom with the same teacher), and were around each other so much that I'm surprised it didn't drive me crazy. Of course, I did make some friends along the way, and my time at Dermont James academy was less miserable than in Sheldon foster care right off the bat.

However, one you advance grade levels by year, these groups split up, and it's now up to you to find out where all your classes are, what floor they are on, what teachers you have, and what materials you need to bring. School days were pretty long, starting at 9:00 AM, partaking in three 64-minute class periods (with 6 minute transitional periods), and lunch lasting an hour, from 12:30 PM to 1:30 PM. Then, there would be two more 64-minute classes, with school finally ending at 3:44 PM. Then, we would have the whole day to study, play, eat dinner whenever desirable, and finally sleep by lights-out. It was a pretty normal routine that was easy to get used to, and honestly wasn't too stressful balancing school and free time.

So, that's pretty much the basics of how my time at Dermont James academy functioned. I've talked to many people about this upon graduating from Dermont James (more on that later). Many people did hear what I said about my time here and wished that they had been put up as a foster child. I've talked to some alumni of Dermont James that I knew pretty well, and even they had missed their days here and wanted to go back. Others, however, would prefer living in their own personal homes with their own family, and that's totally reasonable. The amount of people there and lack of privacy is something to get used to, definitely, and it's not for everyone, either. Overall, I did like my experience at Dermont James, and I do hope that Heya and other nations see the success of these and build and fund more of them, which would hopefully entirely replace the traditional foster home that I was previously a part of and did not enjoy.

Age six was a confusing year for me, and it did take a while to get used to the academy. But I transferred during the summer. Which meant, of course: no school.

The summer days were quite awesome. It gave everyone full days to do whatever they wanted, whether it be going to the pool, hanging out with friends, playing basketball in the gym, trying other sports, watching TV, and so forth. Did I seriously forget to mention that Dermont James had a cinema? Not one, not two, not three, not four, but five different movie screens, playing different G and PG-rated movies throughout the entire summer day, along with some PG-13 movies which were age-restricted based on, you guessed it, student IDs.

Of course, some were able to sneak in and watch movies out of their age range, but many students were caught doing so, and often had gotten written up for it. In fact, there were many ways you could get written up for a major or minor, whether it be for small things (minors), like calling names, stealing personal items, arguing with teachers, swearing, aggression, and so forth. A major, however, would be for more major issues, as the name suggests. Punching other students, fighting, throwing fits in class, etc. A major would be worth exactly five minors, and they would add up to your total over time, which resets at the beginning of every school year. Five minors, or one major, would be an automatic detention, which would be held in special rooms and monitored by a teacher, made sure that there was no talking, no forms of entertainment, and only studying. 7 minors would be a longer detention, 9 minors would be an even longer detention, and 10 minors and beyond would be suspensions, day-long detentions and not being able to partake in school or any activities for the entire day, other than lunch, which would be provided to the student without leaving the detention room. Sure, I've gotten in a bit of trouble, but never have I been in detention, nor punished remotely.

Summers in Dermont James academy were like heaven on Naridia. Upon transferring, I was immediately assigned my room and group, having to stick around them for most of the day. We would collectively vote on what to do for the day, with the group leader having some influence on our decision, of course. We often went swimming, bowling, playing in the indoor park, going places nearby outside, watching movies on the big screen, and even occasionally went on field trips to places like factories, farms, museums, and monuments, among other places across Hamegont and the Zoma metropolitan area. One time, we even visited a baseball game for the Zoma Snappers. All I learned from that game was that baseball was pretty boring, and not something I should pursue. Oh well.

Fortunately, I was not bullied as much in Dermont James as much as I was in Sheldon. I mean, sure, there were a few encounters, but it was never as bad, which I was grateful for. Racism against people of my kind seemed like an issue at times, however, and I would always be getting these weird looks from people as if I somehow made them uncomfortable.

Luckily, I did see some people with darker skin, who I often hung around. One of those people was Chris, who was my age. Chris would be probably my closest friend throughout all of my days at Dermont James academy, and we played sports together, swam together, bowled together, watched TV together despite having separate rooms, and were practically brothers. He would end up joining both basketball and football as I did, and he would play with me on both of our varsity teams. I think having Chris was one of the reasons I wasn't bullied as much, because it is much harder to bully two people than one. Chris and I still remained great friends beyond our days at Dermont James, and we still have contact even as I went on to play in Cardagan, and he was one of the only people who actually was down to earth with me and did treat me like a friend, not a celebrity.

Then, of course, there was Gavin. He first saw me alone at the bottom of the indoor park slide, sitting alone. Usually, the other orange kids seemed to avoid me, perhaps due to me looking different. Gavin? He went right up to me, asking if I needed a friend. We hung out the whole day, then the next, until we did become great friends, along with Chris and a few others in our group. For the first time, I actually had a friend group. Did I feel... popular? Just having many friends to be with, and bounce off of, really did improve my confidence and morale.

Those summers were some of the best days of my life. And then, school hit me like a truck. Me, at age six, being free all summer and suddenly having to learn in school? I was not happy.

But I got used to it.

School itself was never something I struggled in. It was very tempting to enjoy yourself during weekdays instead of studying and doing homework, which I did do a lot of the former over the latter. But, I actually did do good in school. History, as I mentioned before, was definitely my favorite subject. I was decent at math. Language Arts was definitely not my thing, but I did well enough to pass. Science was really not my thing, and those were the classes I struggled with the most. But overall, I did get good grades, never received more than two F's (except that one time, my teacher accidentally marked my test as a zero in the database when I did pass it, and I had a few important things missing in my language arts class, which was taken care of with no issue), and graduated on par with the rest of the students, with rather relative ease in my subjects.

For four years, I never really understood why some kids would disappear from the academy, and I would never see them again. Where would they go? Did they die? I was genuinely confused. Then, my best friend Gavin told me that he was being adopted. I was confused at what he meant by that. I did not know what the term meant. He explained it to me. Apparently, families who want more children could just go to these foster care centers and select the children they wanted? Why wasn't I chosen? To be fair, most others also hadn't been adopted, and I didn't even want to leave this place and all the friends I had made. But, as it turns out, they had taken Gavin from me.

I was borderline depressed. Gavin left, and I had not seen him again for the rest of my school days. He was just gone. Left.

He was also seemingly the only one holding together our entire friend group. As he left, the others I was familiar with just sort of stopped talking to me, and we went our own ways and separated. For the while, it was mainly just me, Chris, and maybe a few others I talked to at times but wasn't really friends with. Chris had other friends, which I talked to often, but never really called them my friends. I hung around with them a lot, but Chris was my only true friend up until that point. For the summers, it was mainly just me practicing football and basketball with him, going swimming with him, and doing all fun things with him, and not his friends. Maybe I did rely too much on him as a person. But I couldn't be more glad he was out there for me, and I'm sure he feels the same way about me as well. We were inseparable.

We did just about everything together. Except on Saturdays, when he would go to the church located inside the building. Previously, I had a glimpse of what the church looked like, and it was pretty huge. It could probably seat around 500 people, with each attendee getting their own small padded chair. It looked like a large auditorium, with seats on the lower floor, the stage where the pastor and elders would perform their sermons, some chairs on the side, and the upper floor, accessible only by going up to the third story of the building through the school hallway, and gave the far overhead view of the church. There was actually a larger auditorium nearby down the hall, which could fit many more students and academy workers (about 1,000), which was used for the drama club, ceremonies, assemblies, and everything related. The smaller auditorium was mainly just used for the church, but also occasionally for drama club if something was happening in the main auditorium.

I first noticed Chris gone on these Saturday mornings, telling me that he was attending church services. I was never religious, and Angelianity was never really my thing. However, I asked him if I could attend service one Saturday morning with him, and he agreed. Beyond that first Saturday morning, I learned so much.

Sitting back with him, along with other students of all ages, some I even recognized and didn't know were religious, was a new experience for me. What was I to believe? Was this religion real? I didn't learn much about Angelianity in the history books I've read, but I was curious to know more. When I had questions, Chris answered them for me. He seemed to know all about this stuff, surprisingly, yet never talked about it with me outside of Church services before. I was intrigued in these first few months of learning about Angelianity, and it taught me so much about history. The dots seemed to be connected for me. I was suddenly enlightened. I borrowed a copy of the Corren from the library, and read it on my own time back in my room. I aspired to learn all about Cesaphil, the holy City of Angels, as well as God and his Judgement Day.

The idea of Judgement Day actually quite scared me at first. He and His Council would by themselves determine if I was worthy of Cesaphil or Hell? What if I was not worthy? I've lied and stolen in the past, something that I was not proud of, but would this bar me from entering His City of Angels? I soon found out, with reading and with sermons, that the cure to all wrongdoings would be repenting to God and begging for forgiveness. So, that's what I started doing. At night, I covered myself with my blanket, sitting up on my bed and praying to God and asking for repentance. I was, and still am, very much trying to do the right things at all times, for the betterment of myself and others, and made myself a true believer of God's Message no matter what. I attended church every Saturday, along with Chris, and we would share our findings about the Message of God and share our ideas. I have a feeling that him converting me to this religion was the best thing that happened to both of us. I, myself, can confirm that I felt like a much better person after discovering Angelianity, and it helped shape part of who I was today.

Graduating from Dermont James and bouncing around Heya and Condure in my early basketball days, for the first time ever, I went to other churches and experienced many other kinds of services that were different from the ones I've been to in my old foster academy. I met many new people on those Saturdays, some young, some old, but my experiences there were a mixed bag, to say the least. Being a believer in God's word, I studied all that there was in the Corren, especially when it came to treating all others with respect, no matter what age, gender, race, nationality, or background. I expected the people at these churches to behave the same.

I remember entering a church I've never been to in Zoma Tech, first beginning my college basketball career. By then, I was just a tall black man to them, 6'8 and a lot bigger than most there. I was ready to experience what this church was like, how it operated, and how it was different than my time at Dermont James. It ended up being a disaster. As I entered the rather large church, I was met with many rude stares and eye contact, with others trying their best to avoid me. It all seemed alienating. Of course, I was different from them, and everyone in that room except me had orange skin and was from here. I played it along, however, ignoring my difficulties with integrating into the church family.

Some time passed. I sat pretty much alone, and the others had avoided sitting next to me. It was a full church, located on the outskirts of Zoma, and had many people entering and staying for the service. It was filling up quickly. I got up from the sermon, going across the hallway to use the bathroom. After a few minutes passed, I washed my hands and went back into the main church room. Skidding across people and finding the spot I was sitting in before, I noticed that it was taken, leaving no room for me to sit. Oh well. I turned back, looking for somewhere else on the benches to sit, opting to sit next to a family of a mother and father, with three young children, sitting down right next to them. The mother looked worried. After a few seconds of silence, the father stood up from his seat during the sermon, telling me to sit somewhere else, away from his children.

I looked at him, puzzled in awe. I didn't know how to react. I didn't even see any other open seats. A lot of people were standing, and I did not want to stand, nor be a distraction. In hindsight, I probably should've just stood instead of instigating conflict, but I also did want to stand up for myself and play defense.

I told him that I was no harm, and I just wanted to sit down. He looked back at me in anger, as his wife gathered and distracted his children, almost seemingly comforting them. The father told me to get up and leave, as he did not want his children to "get corrupted by my rabid culture". Some people were looking at us, but I remained calm, telling him that he needs to respect each individual, that prejudice was a sin, and to tolerate those different from you as said in the Corren. He continued to point me across the room with a fuming attitude, telling me to leave his children alone immediately, calling me a monkey, and saying that he was going to get him kicked out. I just laughed, now ignoring him. By now, the pastor had stopped talking, looking at the ruckus. Nobody said a word, until I heard a few mutters along the lines of "get out", "stop disrupting", and I could've sworn I heard a good amount of people whispering to their partner, saying that my kind always creates disruption and violence, calling me scary, and other sorts of racist things. I was in disbelief at how these people, so-called "Angelics", behaved. I was escorted by a few security workers, walking out with those men behind me as people continued to mutter and stare at me. I left immediately, and have not since returned to that church.

I have been to plenty of other churches in Heya and Condure. Of course, not all of them were disasters like this, but there were many other instances of casual racism, prejudice, and outright sins that were condemned in the Corren. This all just confused me. The Corren goes in-depth on why all these things were bad, and doing enough sins would get you sent to Hell on Judgement Day, regardless if you truly believed or worshipped God or not. I hope that one day they would learn not to judge a book by its cover, but to call themselves Angelics and behave like this? That was not acceptable.

Today's society and politics are strange. Of course, I do lean quite far left, but a large reason is quite literally that I'm Angelic. The Corren goes into broad detail about how society should be organized, by donating to the poor, putting morals above greed, condemning the ultra-wealthy for their actions, and building a society that eliminates this poverty and disease from Naridia as a whole. Of course, there are quite a few radicals like me who believe this, and follow the true words of the Corren, and those people I have met tend to be nice and accepting of me, regardless if their race or nationality was different than mine. What I don't understand is how often this stuff is preached in these churches, and yet most Angelics tend to be very supportive of the rich and ultra-capitalistic policies, such as cutting taxes for the rich, cutting benefits for homeless people, military veterans, retirees, and other people in need of special help, the very things that the Corren tells us to support. I've come across many of these people, and they also happen to be very racist and full of prejudgement, all these things that the Corren condemns. I've even heard sermons that advocate for these policies that the Corren actually opposes, citing opinion rather than the true Message of God.

I will never, ever understand this set of contradicting beliefs. Many of whom are in political power also claim to be Angelic and pass laws that make it easier for the rich and harder for the poor, when the Corren states that they should be doing the opposite. Will these people actually make it to Heaven? Will they come to the harsh reality and contradictions of beliefs on Judgement Day? I guess it remains to be seen, but I believe that a lot of God's Message in Heya has been tarnished, and spat on. I believe society should address all issues brought up in the Corren, and yet actually taking for the heart what is said in the Corren would get others mad and had you called out in service, perhaps. It is especially a problem in Southern Hexojen, that's for sure, but I will get to more on what religion is like in Carnagan and Norwedia later.

I'll be honest. Without all these people protesting and standing for their beliefs, I would never have learned about God's Message in Dermont James academy, to begin with. Once these giant foster academies were being built across Heya, there were numerous calls for concern on many different topics, one of them being access to religious and worship services. Basically, these giant foster care buildings that were being built served many different needs for a kid, including housing, education, food, and recreational entertainment. Aside from the protests of these foster kids being too spoiled, many Angelic worshipers went out to protest the lack of the church's presence in these centers. When they were first being built, most foster academies did not include churches, and since kids were hardly permitted to leave or had any reason to leave the building with every need provided, they would grow up in a life without God, and would lead to an uproar of youth build on not knowing God's Message and being full of corruption. Many, many Angelics took the streets about this issue, protesting and blocking streets along with other protesters of foster academies, forcing the Heyan National Board of Education to answer. Obviously, churches were implemented in these new foster academies, whether they had to improvise by using unused rooms or auditoriums, building new structures onto the main building, or taking direct field trips to these churches every Saturday for those who were interested. I can say it was overall beneficial since that is what got me into faith, and many other students as well across Heya. And, besides, there was no reason to oppose it, since it was optional, and everyone had their own religious freedom. Without all the protesting done by church members, I don't even know if I would be where I'm at today, with Chris introducing me to Angelianity and becoming as radical as I am now.

Since we're already on the topic of protests, there are a few other things I would like to mention. Yes, as I mentioned before, there were a lot of protests against these foster academies, and many myths, along with valid criticisms and things that needed to be changed.

One of the points of interests causing rifts and protests against the building of these foster academies, was, of course, the money it costs to build, operate, maintain, and hire workers and teachers for this. Yes, these buildings were expensive, costing tens of millions to build each. The overall cost it took to build these with the state budget was hundreds of billions, all taxpayer money that could be used on other things, like infrastructure and addressing the already existing issues with public schools and underpaying teachers. Many just thought that they were unnecessary, as foster homes already existed, and these kids could go to their own public schools. I'll say, I did not have a good experience with traditional foster homes, as mentioned before, so I am completely biased against this point. More so, these foster homes were not good to begin with, and were run down in terms of quality. These new foster academies were a huge investment to the foster care population, and definitely benefited me overall. I would 100 times out of 100 choose what we have any day instead of living in a traditional foster home and dealing with what I dealt with from ages four to six. And besides, if you were to criticize spending, then just look at how much the Heyan government still today spends on their military and defense, which hasn't been truly needed for decades now, and defense not even been needed for possibly centuries in Heya, yet they still get more of the national budget spent on them than anything else. Perhaps the government could spend a few billion less in order to invest it into their own people and problems faced at home, instead of spending it on wars, maybe?

Another myth is that if foster cares have it so good and are so "spoiled", then there will be an increasing foster care population, which is getting worse than it already has been, because parents will send their kids to these foster care centers for a better life, up until the point of ruining the normal family structure. At face value, it does seem valid. But once you actually think about it, you begin to raise some eyebrows. First of all, does that mean that foster kids shouldn't have it good? That the crisis of there being too many foster kids, not enough parents wanting to adopt, and a shortage of livable spaces for these foster kids, should just not be addressed and keep happening? Sure, we were pretty spoiled, but I already addressed that in my last point. Additionally, parents sending their kids to these places shouldn't be seen as a bad thing. It means they either do not have enough money to have kids, like my situation, which means it's okay to send the kid into foster care if they literally can't be fed and clothed; or that the parents were not good parents to begin with, did not love their kids, so much so that they wanted to get rid of them and were not fit to parent in the first place. The "normal family" argument is also invalid, and by itself does not outweigh the many good things foster academies have brought foster kids. They have essentially ended the foster crisis, not fueled it, and provided kids without parents with actual happiness and joy.

Now, for a psychological argument. These kids don't have parental figures, and would develop alienated from society, which could lead to extra mental problems and social difficulties. This was actually the reason that most were protesting, and it still is not a good one, at that. I developed just fine, along with most others, and those who were slow at developing or needed additional help were offered it through aide, something that regular foster homes did not have enough budget to address. Kids can also develop by bouncing behaviors off of other kids just like them, not just their parents. And, many studies have been done regarding this issue, and none have found that these large foster academies hinder social development and learning. So, this talking point has been essentially debunked over time, which is strange, because I still hear people online or in-person use this as an actual argument against foster academies from time to time.

Alright. Time for the elephant in the room.

Yes, I remember the Thomas Wilberton situation pretty well.

I was only eleven. The year was 1989. Elkapu, a foster academy built and looked exactly like Dermont James academy, and contained hundreds of children, was investigated after a cafeteria worker reported large amounts of abuse regarding the foster children, and a victim of the incident escaped from the academy herself and reported her experiences at the center to the local police station, crying in tears. After these reports came out, a private inspection was ordered, and after the mass abuse allegations were confirmed, a state military force raided the building, arresting and detaining every adult inside, even some of the workers such as the cafeteria workers, who had no idea the abuse was happening. Nearly 100 adults inside the building were arrested, and minus those who were unaware of what was happening, all were found guilty of child abuse, human trafficking, sexual abuse, sexual intimacy with minors, domestic battery, and many more charges. Security cameras captured all of what was happening in the Elkapu center, capturing horrifying instances of rape and abuse of children of many ages. More adult perpetrators were brought to justice and imprisoned, as caught by previous records and security cameras, and some suspects even committed suicide or tried to flee the country out of guilt.

Thomas Wilberton was the monster behind all of this. He was a billionaire, and stock market manager in downtown Cookah, who began to invest and fund solely into foster academy centers along interstate I-87. Elkapu was the largest academy containing the most victims, and the first to be discovered. Soon, other academies that functioned around rape and abuse of minors were uncovered, piece by piece, including Taylorto, Tifitess, Oshey, Alleyxa, and even several other smaller centers. All were eventually evacuated, with records and security footage destroyed, and sadly today, many workers and adults were not brought to justice. Some were arrested, due to victims describing their abusers, and DNA evidence, but that was only the tip of the iceberg of perpetrators. The worst part of it all was that these places were fully state-funded, meaning taxpayer money was used to fund this abuse. Inspections had to be run on a monthly basis, but most inspectors were often bribed with money, often more than what they would make in several years. These places disbanded their sports activities, hardly ever showing up on public radar while being continually funded while horrifying abuse happened.

As for Thomas Wilberton, as evidence was being brought to court, he was reported to have taken his private jet in hopes of evacuating the country, but happened to be flying with an untrained pilot, and crashing into the Jenga Ocean and reportedly dying on impact, as the radar shoes. Many people close to him spoke publicly about how weird and creepy he was, and personal files and notes were discovered belonging to him, as he documented horrifying details regarding his experiences with children and dark fantasies surrounding his perverted beliefs. His billions of net worth was taken and repossessed by the government, paying for the victims who were deprived of a childhood, mainly not being literate or educated, and thinking that the abuse they received was normal. Many could hardly talk, depending on if they spent their entire lives in foster care or not, and all of them would have the blemish on them for the rest of their lives. The facilities were demolished, and fortunately, thousands of more adults were eventually brought to justice.

Thomas Wilberton- I could not say this enough- deserved a much more painful death. He got out the easy way of dying on impact. He did not have to face any discipline or consequences for his actions surrounding hundreds of children. He did not have to experience in court what exactly was done to these children caused by him, he just died all of a sudden, and that was it. I am glad that he was judged by God for his actions, though, and that he will be burning in Hell for eternity for his actions. Humans aren't perfect, and unfortunately, the circumstances here were too good for him. But God never forgets. God judges appropriately. God knows what is best for him, and the fate of Wilberton's punishment has already been decided by Him. May he rot in Hell forever.

The stories surrounding the whole Wilberton situation were premier news for weeks. All of us were horrified. I mean, it could've happened to us, if we were sent to the wrong foster academy. It could have been me. I could have been the one getting abused, and ended up in the same reality that these children like me faced.

The foster workers barred us from watching the news surrounding these events for those many weeks. Some of us watched the news anyways, intrigued to learn more about kids like them who were way less spoiled and fortunate. A lot of us thought about it, including me. I had nightmares about the stories I've heard regarding the abuse these kids faced. I felt so bad, yet there was nothing I could do. It made me, along with many others, feel guilty it was not us. It just felt surreal.

In the aftermath, many protesters took the streets against all foster academies for the months following. Many people thought that 'all' foster academies subjected us to abuse. Many rumors even spread of abuse stories from different academies, but not all were legitimate, and some were fear-mongering. Regardless, we saw many people outside of our facilities forming protests, holding up signs, and yelling at us. Us! We had nothing to do with it, and yet somehow it was our fault for existing that this happened.

The government definitely made crucial mistakes in funding child abuse and allowing it to happen for far too long, and as a result, made inspections regular, forced more government workers to work at each facility and report findings, and other very cautious procedures to prevent something else like this from happening ever again. And still today, the Wilberton situation still remains the largest instance of this. It just puts into perspective how real dark atrocities like human trafficking still exist, and aren't even talked about in the media nearly enough. This is reality, and it is still happening. It could even be happening somewhere close to you without your knowledge. It's a grim topic, I know, but everyone needs to be aware of this as I was at that time it happened.

I was bedridden and just not motivated after all this happened. My morale and positivity were drained. As a result, Christ and I would hang around, watching sports like football and basketball. Surprisingly, even though I was a huge football fan and practiced basketball near-daily, I did not watch basketball too often, and couldn't name any players. Chris was shocked when I first said this, wondering how I didn't know who Zobe Bryum was. I mean, I know I heard his name before, but I never really watched basketball all too much, and didn't even know what his play-style was.

I still remember Chris's expression when I told him this. He audibly gasped. Then, immediately switched channels, playing highlights of his career. We both watched him. I remember sitting there in disbelief, seeing him shoot over people, uncontested, banging just about every shot he made through. He was pinpoint accurate and persistent. I was absolutely shocked to hear he averaged more than 100 points per game, made more than 90% of his shots, made nearly all his free throws, and was damn near impossible to guard with his speed and his unpredictable moves which created immense separation for his shots. I was bewildered.

The two of us spent the next hour or so watching his highlights. He was just so dominant. He almost never missed. He was pretty much the only scorer on his team, and was often triple-teamed, but even that was no use stopping him. By then, he already won 5 championships, and even played in the city I was born in, Heatsville. His highlights were unbelievable. Chris eventually left, but I kept on watching him for the rest of the day in awe. I never knew someone could be so good, so inhuman. And play the same sport he did, in his birth city.

And that's what inspired me. I spent even more time on the court, trying to improve my shot, improving my accuracy. I began to not miss as much as I did. I translated it into scrimmages, too, beginning to take open jump shots and nail them down. Others began to notice how good I was for my age. I only got better.

I kept watching Zobe highlights. I tuned into all his games on the television, watching him score more than a hundred points in real-time, sitting there in awe at how dominant he truly was. I even sat and watched his highlights, observing his shot motion. Yes, I totally reworked my shot motion to be like his. It ended up failing. It just felt unnatural to me, I don't understand how he did it. As much as I tried to adapt to his form, I just couldn't. I don't know how his body worked like that. Eventually, I gave up, and switched back to my old form, improving my release and accuracy and practicing on a daily basis.

Soon, I even began to practice his moves as well. His selection was unpredictable, and I was determined to be just like him. Turn-arounds, maneuvers, shifts, step-backs, floaters, quick taps, he had them all. The only problem was being smart enough to see your surroundings, knowing when to do which, and where to navigate exactly. Obviously, I was not good at first. But I kept on working at it. The years passed. I got taller, bigger, and faster. I went to the weight room, being able to muscle my way past guys. My shot became even more efficient, and my release was very quick and accurate. I actually felt confident about myself as a scorer, and was soon able to translate it onto the court after years of practice.

I was in 9th grade. A freshman in high school to most, but not much different than 8th grade to me. Other than the fact that I was eligible to be on the varsity team, after years of being stuck on the junior squad. I was ready to make a big impact, learning all of my moves from players like Bryum. I was the leading scorer on our junior squad, and I had no worries about being selected for the varsity team right away.

And I was.

Chris, however, did not make it on. For all these years, we would shoot, practice, and play scrimmages and one-on-ones together, and yet he did not make the varsity team with the other 9th graders. He was very disappointed, and so was I. For all these years, we played on the same team, and he didn't even make it on varsity? To be fair, the academy was large, and we both had stiff competition with the freshmen and sophomores. And, even though we still continued to practice together all the time, it would just feel plain weird without him on the same team as me. Even though he was disappointed, I kept encouraging him, and I helped make him a better player.

Unfortunately. team practices were separated by varsity and junior varsity. Even though he was a starter in the highest ranking junior varsity team, we never practiced together outside of personal shootarounds, and very rarely in team practices. It felt alienating to us. That first year in varsity did feel weird without him, but I continued my grind.

The whole summer before 9th grade contained near-daily practices, which lasted several hours. Lots of running, lots of cone drills, lots of dribbling, and lots of exercises. From that summer alone, I must have lost more weight than desired, though I would eventually start eating more protein in my diet and building up muscle mass. I was 6'5 as a freshman, and could still shoot over most defenders who were smaller than me, and jump higher and dunk the basketball.

I have to give appreciation to the older kids in basketball. They taught me a lot, and prepared me for a lot. They showed me new moves to replicate, and even though I was years younger than them, I was taller, and fit right in. Our coach, Mr. Mayfield, pushed us to work and yell at us to get better. Of course, he was a very nice guy when you talk to him. On the game court, he was a different monster. In our first preseason scrimmage against another team at another basketball center, he yelled at us whenever we missed a shot, weren't in the right place, or made the slightest mistake. He yelled, coaching us and yelling at us right on the courtside, while the other team's coach just sat down on the bench and looked confused. Mr. Mayfield was a serious coach, took no things about this game lightly, and was a big reason why I had to push myself further and become a better player.

I had to prove a lot during those scrimmages with other teams. Oftentimes, the clock was running but the score wasn't even being kept. Our team played against another school, as we would both trade and miss buckets, but never know who was ahead, or how many points behind either of us were. It was just instincts. I was fighting for the starting role on our team, and even though I was the tallest on my team, I still had to claw my way through players that our coach trusted and already had faith in.

One of my very first scrimmage games in varsity was against Locoma High School, a rural town located miles off the interstate. I sat on the bench, watching for the first ten or so minutes as both teams struggled a bit to score. Mr. Mayfield was furious, yelling and stomping every time we missed, turned the ball over, or weren't where we were supposed to be. Angrily, he pointed at me, telling me to sub in at the 5. A whistle was soon blown, and I tagged one of my teammates on the shoulder, as he ran to the bench. Finally, I had playing time to prove myself.

The game started with a free throw, and the buzzer sounded. As I boxed out my opponent, the ball was shot in the air, landing at the side of the rim, right into my arms, as I secured it. As everyone else began to run back, I dribbled the ball slowly, waiting for our offense to set up. Mayfield did not like that one bit, yelling at me at the side of the court. "Get your ass down there, Trey! No need for lollygagging!"

I dashed, passing the ball to the point guard, and driving to the rim. After a couple of passes, the shooting guard found me posting up, passing me the ball. This was my opportunity to score. I dribbled the ball with my back into the defender, before hovering and navigating the post for a bit, stepping back, and letting it fly for an open shot. The ball bounced off the heel of the rim, missing, and was rebounded by my defender as I sprinted to the other side of the court to defend him. I didn't really think much of the missed shot, other than hearing my coach yelling at me for missing. I was a bit frustrated with him, to say the least. Was he going to yell at me for missing a shot and not doing exactly what he wanted me to? If that failed, he would've yelled something else, and still blamed me. I was a bit frustrated, but kept playing.

After running up and down the court a few more times on offense, I was open for the three-pointer. The shooting guard passed me the ball again, as I took the shot, which came up short and deflected on the rim. Once again, Mayfield yelled at me for missing the shot. I was open. What else did he want me to do? I'm not perfect, and can't make all my shots. If I did, then I sure would be giving Zobe Bryum some competition. If I passed, he would've yelled at me for not shooting. What gives?

Apparently, I was too distracted in my thoughts, as the person I was supposed to be defending drove past me in the fast break, getting an easy layup. I heard him yelling at me some more, and that was understandable, that was my guy. But he called a time-out, as the game stopped. As we all went to the bench, he immediately told me to sit down, subbing in someone else for me. I did not play for the rest of the game.

I thought about what happened for a while. I only took two shots, and accidentally let my defender slip past me, which I'll admit, was my fault. But to be benched for that? Not even giving me another chance of redemption?

Mr. Mayfield didn't even mention the incident to me on the bus ride home. I just sat by myself on the bus, with the other varsity students, as they all talked and had a good time. I was frustrated. How did I not even get enough of a chance to prove myself? I was given up with, just like that?

I remember all these thoughts racing through my mind. I'm not good enough, and never will be to make it to the big leagues. Maybe it was better if I just stuck with football. Or... maybe I can prove him wrong! Yes, I will be the best player on the team! But what if that doesn't happen? Then what? I just look like a fool?

Finally, we pulled up to the academy, and we all entered the side doors, going to the locker rooms. Mr. Mayfield, who I hadn't even talked to since earlier, tapped me on my shoulder, catching me by surprise. He asked me if I wanted to see him before heading to football practice, which took place later today. I agreed, as he pulled me aside in his personal office.

I sat down. He asked me if I knew why I was benched. I shrugged, saying that it was just for a bad performance. He chuckled. He didn't even seem mad at my performance. He was laughing like he didn't even care at all.

"You did play bad today, son. That's part of the reason I benched you. Now, you have to understand that if you keep having these bad performances, I will keep doing so, you understand?"

I was a bit mad at him for this. How was I going to get better if I didn't even get to play? Why would I just whither away on the bench while others get better? I knew this was a bad way of coaching, and felt like calling him out for it. But he continued.

"Trey. I have a hunch you will be a starter on this team by October. Right now, you need to show up when it matters, even in pointless exhibition games. I know you have the potential, and I was hoping that these benchings would give you the motivation to work harder, make fewer mistakes, and prove me wrong. And I really hope you can. I feel like you can be really good, Trey. One of the best. Would you agree with that?'

That was a lot to digest. I nodded, not even fully comprehending yet what he was saying.

"I'm glad you agree. Now prove it to me. Got it?"

I nodded, as I soon left his office and got changed.

Even throughout the day, and during football practice, I was confused and intrigued by his strategy of making me better. Was I really going to get benched again? Was this just a trick to play with my mind?

All I know is that I am NOT getting benched again. Period.

I did show up to practice. I did take all this seriously, just like Mayfield hoped. Soon enough, the next practice scrimmage came. Once again, I was on the bench again,