Several years later...
The roar of the crowd in the Beijing Olympic Basketball Gymnasium was deafening, but Trace LaRose barely heard it. At fifteen, he stood on the precipice of greatness, the youngest member of the Amateur Athletic Group: U.S. Basketball Under-17 team and already being hailed as the future of basketball.
Trace took a deep breath, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet as he waited for the opening tip-off. The weight of expectation sat heavy on his shoulders – from his teammates, his country, and the scouts from several major colleges, universities, and even some NBL teams watched from the stands.
Just yesterday, Trace had had an intense conversation with his father, Marcus, who also served as his manager. They sat in Trace's hotel room, the Beijing skyline twinkling through the window.
"Son, we need to talk about your future," Marcus began, his voice a mix of pride and concern. "Several NBL teams have reached out. And while it's still early, they think you could be drafted straight out of high school if you continue along this path. By then, the NBL's rule of being one year removed from high school will have expired."
Trace's heart raced. "Seriously? Dad, that's... that's incredible!"
Marcus nodded, a small smile playing on his lips. "It is. You've worked hard for this, Trace. I'm proud of you." He paused, his expression growing more serious. "But I want you to understand something. You're still too young, so you don't need to rush things."
"But Dad," Trace protested, "this is what we've been working towards. It's my dream."
"I know, son. Believe me, I know." Marcus leaned forward, his eyes intense. "But remember, I've been where you are. The pressure, the expectations – they can be overwhelming. There's no shame in taking your time, in developing your game further before making the leap. You still have a few years ahead of you before you're of college age."
Trace felt a flicker of frustration. "You think I wouldn't be ready? We're in Beijing, in case you forgot, a couple of Chinese Pro League teams came 'round just a few months ago!" He argued, full of teenage bravado.
Marcus raised an eyebrow at his son's tone of voice, before shaking his head. "You have more of your mother in you than she likes to admit. You'd rather ride the bench more than play? International professional team's value experience and team chemistry above potential. You'd have been waiting two years for a real shot, at the least."
Marcus sighed, trying to be patient and understanding. "You're my son, my only child. I'd never underestimate you. You're talented, Trace. More talented than I ever was, especially at your age. But talent isn't everything. There's a mental aspect to the pro game that takes time to develop. I just want you to consider all your options. You have plenty of time, I just don't want you to focus too much on this one path. I don't want you to get distracted and just continue to grow not just as a player, but as a person."
Trace fell silent, absorbing his father's words. Part of him wanted to argue, to insist he was ready for any and every thing. But he could see the wisdom in his father's eyes, the love behind his cautious advice.
"You have a few years yet. I just want you to keep these things in mind," Marcus said softly. "Don't let the allure of going pro blind you to other future possibilities. Your future is bright, son. There's no need to rush towards it."
Trace nodded slowly. "I promise, Dad. I won't let myself get distracted, but I know what I want."
"Good, that's all I ask." As Marcus pulled him into a hug, Trace felt a complex mix of emotions – gratitude for his father's guidance, excitement for the possibilities ahead, and a nagging uncertainty about what path he should choose.
Now, as he waited for the opening tip-off, those emotions swirled within him. The path to his dreams lay open before him, tantalizingly close, but also fraught with important decisions.
As the referee tossed the ball into the air, time seemed to slow. Trace's muscles coiled, ready to explode into action as his team's Center slapped the ball out of the air and in his direction. In that moment, he felt both invincible and vulnerable, standing on the cusp of greatness but also at a crossroads.
He had no idea how quickly it could all come crashing down.
It happened in an instant. Third quarter, u17 Team USA leading u17 Team Canada by six points. Two minutes, ten seconds left on the clock before the fourth quarter.
Trace landed evenly on his feet as he pulled in his eighth rebound in the game. As he turned, he saw open hardwood stretching out before him as Canada was slow to shift back onto defense. A fast break opportunity if he ever saw one.
Trace had the ball, shooting up court with his teammates flanking him and the opposition being left in their wake.
Driving hard to the basket with that naturally explosive speed that was steadily becoming his trademark. He leapt, twisting in mid-air to avoid a defender that managed to catch up at the last moment, when he felt it – a sharp, searing pain in his knee.
The world tilted. The ball slipped from his grasp as he fell out of the air. Trace crashed to the court, clutching his knee, his scream of agony lost in the collective gasp of the crowd.
As he lay there, the pain pulsing through his body, all Trace could think was, "No. Not like this. Please, not like this."
Three months later...
Trace sat in yet another doctor's office, staring blankly at the MRI images on the screen. The words washed over him: "extensive damage," "long recovery," "setback."
He thought of his NBL dreams, now slipping away. The concerned looks from his parents, echoing the same pain they'd lived through with his father. The pitying glances from teammates and coaches.
"We'll start with intensive physical therapy," the doctor was saying. "But Trace, I need you to understand – your playing days, at least at the level you're used to, will completely rely on how your body takes to the corrective surgery. While your mind is willing, there exists the chance that you could be a different player, or no longer be able to play at that high level again. This is something that sheer determination and will won't help you overcome."
"What are his chances, doctor?" Trace heard his father ask from over his shoulder, causing him to look up at his medical specialist.
"Too soon to tell, but to put a number on it…" The doctor trailed, shifting his eyes back onto Trace. "Fifty-fifty."
"You heard the doctor, Trace. You'll need to take your rehabilitation seriously, but not push it too hard, you understand?" His father said softly, placing a hand on his shoulder.
Trace nodded numbly, but inside, a flame of defiance flickered. He'd find a way. He had to.