Kingston, Jamaica – 1993

The sun beat down mercilessly on the cracked asphalt of the Tivoli Gardens basketball court. The rim leaned forward at a crooked angle, its net long since torn away. Faded chalk lines marked a key that nobody respected, and broken glass glittered in the corners of the blacktop. But to Derrick Wilson, this was the Garden — the place where reputations were born and reputations were buried.

He was only sixteen, but he had already learned that basketball was less about height or hops, and more about control. Derrick wasn't the tallest on the court, nor the fastest. His jumper was serviceable at best. But what he had — what nobody else could match — was the ability to see the game before it happened. He studied tendencies, exploited weaknesses, and manipulated pace until the whole flow bent around him.

That afternoon, as sweat stung his eyes, he was locked in a full-court game to twenty-one. His team trailed by two, and the other squad had possession. The biggest guy on the court, a 6'5'' enforcer named Marlon, caught the ball in the post.

"Clear out," Marlon barked, backing his man down.

The crowd of neighborhood kids and hustlers whistled, already smelling blood.

But Derrick wasn't watching Marlon. He was watching his teammates. He noticed how their eyes kept flicking nervously toward the chain-link fence, where a group of older men leaned — men with guns bulging under their shirts. Local dons. Bettors. Money was moving on this game, and Derrick felt it in his bones.

The ball bounced twice. Marlon spun left. That's when Derrick called out:

"Double left! Strip him!"

His teammate jumped the move, swiping the ball clean. The crowd gasped as Derrick darted forward, snatched the loose ball, and fired a no-look pass to the wing. His man buried the jumper.

"Game."

The court exploded. The crowd rushed the players, shoving, laughing, exchanging money hand to hand. Derrick just smiled, towel draped around his shoulders, watching the chaos with sharp eyes.

"Yuh likkle bwoy smart, enuh," one of the bettors muttered. "He call di ting before it happen."

It wasn't just a game. Derrick had predicted the play. He had read the future.

And in the shadows, a man named Big Roy, lieutenant to Tivoli's don, had noticed.

That Evening

Derrick sat on a cinderblock wall outside his mother's house, still buzzing from the win. His mother, a tired seamstress, sewed by candlelight inside. He could hear the hum of her needle and the occasional muttered curse when the thread knotted.

"Derrick," she called, "don't stay out late, y'hear?"

"Yeah, Ma," he answered, eyes fixed on the street.

Two men approached. Derrick recognized one immediately — Big Roy. He was massive, bald-headed, gold chain hanging heavy around his neck. The other was younger, carrying himself like muscle.

"You the Wilson bwoy, eh?" Big Roy asked, stopping in front of him.

"Yes, sir," Derrick replied cautiously.

Roy chuckled. "Sir? Look at manners on dis youth. Yuh smart, I hear. Smarter than the rest."

"I just… play the game, sir."

Roy leaned closer. "Nah, bwoy. You don't just play. You control it."

Derrick's pulse quickened.

Roy flicked a lighter, sparked a cigarette. "I got eyes on di court today. You read di play like book page. That's a gift. And gifts… dem can mek money."

Derrick didn't respond.

Roy blew smoke, studying him. "Tell me somethin', Derrick. You like being broke? You like watchin' yuh madda struggle, stitchin' clothes for pennies?"

Derrick swallowed hard.

Roy smiled. "Stick wit' me, youth. I show yuh how to turn dat brain into dollars. But once you start, no turnin' back."

The First Fix

A week later, Derrick found himself at a small community gym, heart hammering in his chest. The place reeked of sweat and fried patties from the vendor outside. Two neighborhood teams squared off in a league match that, on the surface, meant nothing. But the stands were packed with bettors.

Big Roy leaned against the bleachers, arms folded. He caught Derrick's eye and gave a nod.

The instructions had been simple:

Convince one of the players to throw the game.

Do it quietly.

Don't get caught.

Derrick spotted his target: a jittery guard named Clinton, known for his gambling debts. Derrick approached him during warmups.

"Clinton," he said casually, "you still owe Junior 'bout $200, eh?"

Clinton froze, eyes wide. "How yuh know dat?"

Derrick smiled faintly. "I know everything. And I know dis: you don't pay Junior soon, he break yuh fingers. Maybe worse."

Clinton looked sick.

"But," Derrick continued, lowering his voice, "if yuh miss a few shots tonight… turn di ball over once or twice… money will flow. And Junior? Him never bother you again."

Clinton stared at him, trembling. Then he nodded.

That night, Clinton played the worst game of his life. Bricked open shots, sloppy passes, lazy defense. His team lost by twelve. The bettors roared with laughter, and Roy collected a thick wad of cash.

Afterward, Roy handed Derrick a crisp $100 bill. More than his mother made in two months.

"Welcome to di business," Roy said.

Derrick stared at the money, torn between shame and exhilaration. He had just corrupted a man, altered the course of a game, controlled destiny itself.

And he loved it.

Closing Scene – The Hook Sinks

That night, Derrick lay awake staring at the ceiling. His mother's snoring filtered from the next room. He turned the $100 bill over and over in his hands.

He thought of Clinton's broken spirit. He thought of the thrill of watching the game bend to his will.

And he realized something dangerous.

Basketball wasn't about skill.

It wasn't about passion.

It was about power.

And he had just discovered how to wield it.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.