
When my far-fetched dreams of playing in the NBA were still alive as a kid growing up in Taunton, Mass., I was a regular attendee at the Tomorrow’s Stars summer basketball camp, which was held at Dean College in nearby Franklin. And there was a moment when those dreams didn’t seem so crazy.
It was 2001, I was 9 years old – in one of the youngest age groups at camp – and at the end of one of the days, a camp-wide game of knockout was held. For those unfamiliar, knockout is a classic. A line is formed, typically at the free throw line, and the two participants at the front have a ball. One shoots first, then the second. If the second shooter makes their shot first, the first shooter is knocked out. It goes until one is left standing.
And then a wild thing happened: Despite my age difference, I won.
After making the final shot, I vividly remember being hoisted up in the air by my fellow campers. They chanted my name, too. And I went home with an enviable prize: a custom, green-and-white Celtics ball, which has since lost its grip but is still buried somewhere in my parents’ basement. I felt like I was on top of the world.