Montego Bay, Jamaica — Summer, 1989.

The heat was sticky, like honey baked onto asphalt. The kind of heat that slowed your movements and forced you to breathe through your mouth. But Derrick Wilson didn't mind. The cracked pavement of the concrete court outside his neighborhood wasn't just a slab of rock — it was his altar. His escape. His whole world.

At seventeen, Derrick was already a legend on the island. They said he had eyes in the back of his head. That he could throw no-look passes before the receiver even called for the ball. That his first step was smoother than jazz and faster than a mongoose on fire. The nickname around the island was simple: "The Seer."

Tonight, half the neighborhood was watching him hoop at the annual MoBay Summer Run — no refs, just rules you learned by bleeding. Four-on-four, twenty-one wins, no timeouts, no mercy.

Sweat dripped from his chin as he stared down a rival from Kingston, a 6'4" grown man named Torch. Derrick was guarding him with the same calm he used to walk through gunfire during turf beefs.

"Yuh sure yuh ready, bwoy?" Torch barked, trying to rattle him.

Derrick just smirked. "Me was born ready."

Torch jab-stepped, tried to muscle past him — but Derrick anticipated it like he'd seen it in a dream. He stole the ball, went coast-to-coast, then stopped on a dime at the arc and drained a deep jumper to win the game.

Cheers erupted. Some kids sprinted onto the court. The vendors blew horns and waved fry chicken in the air like trophies. Even the oldheads on the sideline leaned forward and nodded in approval.

But Derrick didn't celebrate. He looked up at the hills above the court — where his house sat tucked in shadows — and sighed. Home meant responsibility. And his time was running out.

Later That Night

His mother, Roslyn Wilson, coughed again — violently this time — as he entered the one-bedroom shack. It rattled the pots on the stove.

"Yuh played tonight?" she asked, wiping blood from her lips.

"Yeah," Derrick muttered, sitting beside her. "We win."

"Of course you did," she said with pride. "But that won't pay the bills."

She didn't mean it to hurt. But it did.

Roslyn had sickle cell anemia, and her condition had worsened that year. The hospital in Montego Bay could only do so much, and the best clinics were in Kingston — far too expensive. Derrick worked part-time at a hardware store after practice, but it barely paid for food. Basketball was his only real hope.

"I gettin' out, Mama," he whispered. "I goin' to America. I swear it."

Roslyn smiled faintly. "Just don't sell your soul to get there."

Two Weeks Later — Kingston Invitational Tournament

Derrick's name had started to ring out beyond Montego Bay. He'd been invited to the national invitational tournament in Kingston, with scouts from U.S. junior colleges and mid-major programs in attendance.

It was his chance.

The game was electric. Derrick dropped 27 points, 12 assists, and 5 steals — a clinic in control. His vision was surgical. His timing, spiritual. The crowd chanted his name as he walked off the court.

After the game, a tall man in a cream linen suit approached him, flanked by two quiet bodyguards. He didn't smile, didn't blink — just handed Derrick a business card:

Mr. Glenford Reid

International Consultant. Sports Investment.

"I want to help you reach the top," the man said, voice calm and deep. "No strings. Just opportunity."

Derrick hesitated. "You a scout?"

"I'm… a facilitator," Mr. Reid replied. "I can open doors that colleges won't. Planes. Paperwork. Exposure. And maybe… a little more."

The man's words were like sweet poison. Derrick didn't trust him. But he also didn't throw the card away.

Fall 1990 — Stateside

Derrick arrived in Connecticut on a cold October morning. He'd signed to a Division II program called Millfield State, a school known more for its cold winters than for basketball. But Glenford Reid had made the transfer happen in weeks — handled his passport, flight, and tuition. No questions asked.

Derrick dominated his freshman season. He led the team in scoring and assists, and by February, whispers of NBA interest had begun. Mid-majors started circling. National scouts from Nike summer camps took notes.

But then the calls started.

"Don't win by too much next week."

"Keep the final score under 130 combined."

"Make sure you miss at least one free throw in the last two minutes."

Mr. Reid never said it directly. He didn't have to.

Each "favor" came with a cash envelope: $500 here. $1,000 there. Sometimes just grocery money.

And Derrick always justified it: Mama need meds. Rent due. I just miss one shot. Just one pass.

But once you start fixing games, you don't stop. You lose a piece of your soul each time — and the game starts to feel like a lie.

Spring 1992 — Millfield vs. Hudson University (National Tournament Game)

By now, Derrick was a junior and a projected second-round draft pick. But he had to keep the game close — Mr. Reid had bet heavily against Millfield covering the 7-point spread.

They were up by 10 with two minutes left. Derrick tried everything: turned the ball over twice, missed a layup, let his man score. It wasn't enough. Millfield won by 12.

After the game, he got a call.

"You disrespected the arrangement."

"I couldn't throw the game, Glen," Derrick snapped. "Not this one."

"You're finished."

Click.

Weeks Later

The investigation was swift. NCAA officials had already been suspicious of point-shaving. Mr. Reid was untouchable — no direct connection. But Derrick wasn't.

Photos. Transactions. Voicemails. He was blackballed.

Every NBA team pulled out.

Millfield erased his records.

He was expelled.

His mother died that summer. Alone in a hospital in Kingston. He didn't have enough to bring her to the U.S.

Derrick flew back to Jamaica in silence. He didn't speak to the media. No interviews. No closure.

He walked off the plane and disappeared into the hills.

Final Scene: A Memory Etched in Silence

Ten years later, a teenage Kyle Wilson practiced on the same Montego Bay court his father had once ruled.

Derrick sat in the shadows on a plastic chair, old and limping, but with eyes sharp as ever.

He didn't yell. Didn't clap. Just watched.

When Kyle missed a shot and cursed, Derrick finally spoke:

"Don't let this game own you, son."

Kyle looked up. "You ever play overseas, Pops?"

Derrick paused, then shook his head.

"Nah. I only ever played for real once — and I lost that game."

Kyle didn't understand what he meant. Not yet.

But one day, he would.

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