Bright lights hung high above the court, thousands of spectators packed shoulder to shoulder in the stands, shoes squeaking against polished hardwood and the rhythmic pounding of a basketball against the floor.
At the end of it all waited a championship trophy, the ultimate prize for those fortunate enough to compete for one on the greatest basketball stage in the world.
The NBA.
Not many people would ever experience what it was like to play professional basketball, and fewer still would discover what it felt like to step onto an NBA court with tens of thousands of people watching them.
It was an exclusive world populated by athletes who had spent much of their lives working towards the opportunity, and over the decades some of the greatest sporting icons in history had emerged from its hardwood.
Michael Jordan, Kareem Abdul-Jabbar and LeBron James represented only a small selection of the phenomenal players who had risen through the league.
They had become more than basketball players.
Their names were recognised throughout the world, their shoes were worn by millions, and their highlights continued to inspire children who had not even been alive when some of their greatest performances took place.
Basketball had made them global superstars, individuals whose influence stretched far beyond the boundaries of the court.
For a child who loved basketball, there was an endless amount to admire.
There were the spectacular passes of Magic Johnson, who somehow seemed to know where every teammate was without needing to look at them.
There were the vicious dunks of Vince Carter, who could launch himself towards the rim as though gravity had temporarily decided not to bother with him.
More recently, there was Stephen Curry casually pulling up several feet behind the three-point line and making shots that would have earned most ordinary players an immediate place on the bench.
Every generation had its stars, its champions and its moments that would be replayed for decades afterwards.
For millions of young basketball players around the world, the NBA consequently represented the ultimate dream.
It was the pinnacle of their sport, where the competition was at its fiercest, and even the least important player sitting at the end of an NBA bench had once been one of the best basketball players wherever he had come from.
Fewer than five hundred men could call themselves NBA players during any given season, while millions more dreamed of someday joining them.
The numbers alone should have been enough to discourage anyone sensible.
The road towards professional basketball was crowded with thousands upon thousands of players who were taller, stronger, faster or more talented than the next person chasing the same opportunity.
Natural ability could carry someone far, but talent alone was rarely enough.
Reaching the highest level required years of training, discipline and sacrifice, and even after giving all of that, there remained no promise that any of it would eventually be rewarded.
A player could train every morning and spend every evening inside a gym.
He could sacrifice parties, holidays, friendships and countless hours of his life in pursuit of basketball, only to discover that there was somebody else who had worked equally hard while possessing a little more height, a little more athleticism or simply better natural ability.
For Fergus Robertson, who was only a few weeks away from turning thirteen, those miserable odds had never seemed particularly important.
He wanted to play in the NBA.
He knew it sounded ridiculous whenever he said his ambition aloud.
Some of his classmates laughed and asked why someone from Edinburgh would ever believe he could become an NBA player.
Fergus never had a particularly complicated response.
He loved basketball, he wanted to become good enough to play professionally, and the NBA was where the best players in the world competed.
As far as his nearly thirteen-year-old mind was concerned, there was nothing wrong with aiming for the highest point possible.
Unfortunately, there were several rather large obstacles standing between Fergus and his ambition, beginning with the simple fact that he had been born in Scotland.
Scotland had many sports it could proudly claim a strong association with.
Football dominated conversations in playgrounds and pubs alike, rugby had generations of history behind it, while golf had been played upon Scottish soil for centuries.
Basketball occupied a considerably smaller position in the country’s sporting landscape, and its history of producing NBA players could be summarised with a single name.
Robert Archibald.
Archibald had reached the NBA in 2002 and achieved something no other Scottish-born player had managed before him.
His career in America had been brief, consisting of forty-four appearances before he continued his professional career elsewhere, but Fergus had never particularly cared about how many points Archibald scored or how long he remained in the league.
The important thing was that he had made it.
Whenever somebody told Fergus that Scottish players did not reach the NBA, he could immediately point towards the one man who had already done so.
If Scotland had produced one NBA player, then there was surely no rule preventing it from producing another.
There was, however, another uncomfortable obstacle between Fergus Robertson and his grand ambition.
At present, Fergus wasn’t particularly good at basketball.
At five-foot-three, he was a perfectly decent height for a boy who had not yet turned thirteen, but his body had yet to catch up with his growing ambitions.
He was narrow through the shoulders, painfully thin through his arms and possessed very little strength.
Any attempt to play physically against a larger opponent usually ended with Fergus discovering that enthusiasm did not provide much protection against being knocked backwards.
His actual basketball skills weren’t much better.
Fergus could dribble reasonably well when nobody was guarding him, although his control had an irritating habit of abandoning him whenever he attempted anything complicated.
His left hand remained considerably worse than his right despite the countless hours he had spent trying to improve it, while his finishing around the basket varied wildly from one attempt to another.
His shooting was perhaps the greatest problem of all.
From close range, Fergus could make enough shots to convince himself that improvement was happening.
As he moved farther from the basket, however, his technique gradually deteriorated.
His elbow wandered outward, his feet weren’t always properly set and, whenever he attempted a three-pointer, he compensated for his lack of strength by practically throwing the ball towards the rim.
What made the problem particularly frustrating was that Fergus knew enough about basketball to recognise many of his own mistakes.
He watched an enormous amount of the sport whenever he had the opportunity.
He could sit in front of a screen studying professional players, pausing highlights repeatedly to examine their footwork before running outside and attempting to reproduce what he had seen.
More often than not, the result looked nothing like the original move.
Crossovers bounced off his shoes, spin moves left him stumbling off balance, and attempts at more complicated finishes sometimes failed to touch the rim.
None of it stopped him from trying again.
If anything could be considered Fergus’s greatest talent, it was his willingness to continue working long after frustration told him to stop.
He attempted layups with his weaker hand until missing them became slightly less common, dribbled until his fingertips were sore and practised the simplest movements repeatedly because he understood that there was little point attempting the spectacular moves he saw on television if he couldn’t reliably perform the basic ones.
There was nobody guiding him through any of it.
Personal coaching was far beyond what his family could afford, and neither of his parents knew enough about basketball to teach him.
His father, William, worked long hours at a factory and frequently returned home looking as though every machine inside the building had personally taken a turn exhausting him.
His mother, Diane, worked as a nurse, with shifts that changed often enough that Fergus sometimes struggled to remember whether she would be home for dinner.
Neither parent neglected their children, nor did Fergus ever doubt that they loved him and his younger brother.
They were simply tired, and there was always something else demanding their attention.
There were bills to pay, food to put on the table, school expenses to cover and two growing boys who appeared capable of emptying the refrigerator faster with every passing month.
Fergus understood enough to know that his family didn’t have much money, even if he was still young enough that the full extent of his parents’ financial worries remained hidden from him.
His eight-year-old brother Angus occasionally helped him practise, although calling it practice was perhaps generous.
Angus’s primary basketball talents involved retrieving missed shots, passing the ball back and complaining loudly whenever Fergus made him do either for too long.
That left Fergus mostly alone, and so Fergus continued teaching himself.
His determination had survived hundreds of missed shots, embarrassing mistakes and, most painfully, his failure to make his school basketball team during his first year of secondary school.
The rejection had hurt badly enough that Fergus had spent the walk home pretending he didn’t care, only to go outside the following afternoon and begin practising again.
Nearly a year later, his determination remained intact.
It came considerably closer to breaking one evening in July of 2016, only a few weeks before his thirteenth birthday.
“Fergus, can you come downstairs for a minute?” Hamish called from somewhere below.
Fergus looked away from the basketball video playing on his laptop.
He had been watching the same section for several minutes, studying how the guard changed direction without allowing the ball to drift too far from his body.
“Give me a minute, Dad.
I’m watching something.” “I’d rather you came down now, son.
I need to have a word with you.” There was something unusual in his father’s voice, enough that Fergus stopped the video rather than arguing for another few minutes.
He left his bedroom and headed downstairs, wondering whether he had forgotten some chore or managed to get himself in trouble without knowing it.
The house was unusually quiet.
His mother had taken Angus to a doctor’s appointment, leaving Fergus alone with his father.
Hamish was sitting at the dining table when Fergus entered, still wearing the faded work trousers he had come home in.
He had changed out of his work shirt, although the weariness of the day remained firmly etched across his face.
Fergus slowed when he saw him.
“What’s happened, Dad?
You look really miserable.
I’m not in trouble, am I?” Hamish managed a tired smile and gestured towards the chair opposite him.
“No, you’re not in trouble.
I’ve just got something I need to talk to you about, and I’d rather we did it properly instead of shouting from one room to another.” That answer didn’t make Fergus feel much better, but he pulled out the chair and sat down.
Hamish leaned forward, resting his forearms against his thighs.
Up close, Fergus noticed just how exhausted his father looked.
There were dark circles beneath his eyes, while his hands remained rough and marked from years of physical work.
“You know you’re starting your second year of secondary school next month, and you’ve been talking about trying out for the basketball team again.” Fergus’s concern disappeared almost immediately at the mention of basketball.
“I’m definitely trying again.
I’ve been practising my left hand nearly every day, and it’s actually getting better now.
It’s still nowhere near my right, but I don’t lose the ball as much as I used to.
I’ve been working on my shooting as well, although I’m still terrible if I go too far away from the basket.” William’s expression tightened slightly as his son continued.
“I know you’ve been working hard, Fergus.
I’ve seen you outside often enough to know that.
That’s actually what makes this a little more difficult to talk about.” The excitement faded from Fergus’s face.
“What do you mean?
You don’t think I should try out again because I didn’t make it last year?” “No, that’s not what I’m saying at all.
If anything, I think you’ve got a better chance this year because you’ve kept practising.
The problem isn’t whether you’re good enough to make the team.” Fergus frowned, unable to understand where the conversation was heading.
“Then what’s the problem?
If the coach doesn’t pick me, that’s my fault, but I still want the chance to try.” Hamish rubbed one hand across his jaw before releasing a quiet breath.
He had rehearsed this conversation several times during his journey home from work, yet sitting across from his son made every version of it sound crueller than it had in his head.
“The problem is that if you do make the team, your mum and I might not be able to afford everything that comes with you playing this year.” Fergus stared at him for several seconds.
“But it’s the school team.
Why would it cost that much just to play for school?” “It’s not only one payment, son.
There are registration costs, equipment and travel, and you’ll eventually need another pair of shoes if you’re playing regularly.
None of those things sound enormous by themselves, but when you add them together, it becomes money we don’t have sitting around.” “But I don’t need new shoes.
The ones I’ve got are fine, and I don’t care if they’re old.” “For now they’re fine.
That doesn’t mean they’ll last another year.” “Then I’ll keep using them until they fall apart.” William’s lips almost twitched into a smile, but the seriousness of the conversation quickly returned.
“I know you would, Fergus, but that doesn’t solve everything.” Fergus shifted forward in his chair as anxiety began settling in his stomach.
“I’ve been practising all summer because I want to make it this time.
If I finally get picked and then have to tell everyone I can’t play, that’s worse than not making the team.” “I know you’ve been practising, and I’m proud that you didn’t give up after last year.
I’m not telling you this because I want to take basketball away from you.” “Then please let me try, Dad.
If I don’t make it, we don’t have to pay anything anyway, and if I do make it, then we can figure something out afterwards.” Hamish sighed and looked down at his hands.
“That’s exactly what I don’t want to do.
I don’t want you spending the next month getting excited, making the team and coming home happier than I’ve seen you in ages, only for me to sit you down that evening and tell you we can’t afford it.
You deserve to know before you walk into those tryouts.” Fergus’s throat tightened.
He understood money, or at least he thought he did.
He knew they weren’t rich.
He knew his father sometimes accepted extra shifts and his mother occasionally returned from work after Fergus had already gone to bed.
He knew new clothes usually meant waiting until they were actually needed, and he had learned not to ask for expensive trainers simply because somebody at school had them.
Basketball felt different.
It wasn’t a new game he wanted for his birthday or a pair of shoes because they looked good.
“Dad, basketball is the one thing I really want to do.
I know I’m not very good yet, but that’s why I need to play.
I’m not going to get much better just bouncing the ball outside by myself all the time.
If I make the team, I’ll actually get to practise with other people and play proper games.” “I understand that, Fergus, but wanting something badly doesn’t make the money appear.
Your mum works every hour she reasonably can at the hospital, and I’m doing what I can at the factory.
Rent has gone up, food costs more than it did last year, and there are always other bills arriving.
We’re managing, and you don’t need to worry about whether there’s going to be dinner on the table, but managing doesn’t mean we’ve got spare money whenever something comes along.” Fergus lowered his gaze towards the table, blinking rapidly as his eyes began to sting.
Hamish continued more gently.
“There’s also the time involved.
You’ll have practices and games, and somebody has to get you there and bring you home.
Your mum’s shifts change every week, and I can’t leave work whenever you’ve got training.” “I could take the bus when I need to.
I’m nearly thirteen now, Dad.
I can get myself places if you show me where I’m supposed to go, and if it’s close enough, I’ll walk.
You don’t have to drive me everywhere.” “There will probably be times when you can do that, but it isn’t going to solve everything.” “I’ll do whatever I have to.
I just don’t want to stop before I’ve even had the chance.” His voice cracked on the final few words.
Fergus quickly looked away, embarrassed when the first tear escaped despite his efforts to stop it.
He wiped it away with his sleeve, but another soon followed.
“I’ve worked really hard, Dad.
I really thought I was going to make it this year.” William’s shoulders sank at the sight of him.
He moved his chair closer and pulled Fergus against him.
There was a moment of resistance born more from embarrassment than anger before Fergus buried his face against his father’s chest.
“I’m sorry, son.
I wish I didn’t have to talk to you about things like this.” “It’s not fair,” Fergus muttered.
“No, it isn’t, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise.” “I don’t even want anything else.
I just want to play basketball.” Hamish rubbed his son’s back while considering what he was about to do.
There were a dozen sensible reasons to tell Fergus that they simply couldn’t afford it.
There would always be somewhere else for the money to go, and Hamish knew perfectly well that agreeing now might mean squeezing an already tight household budget even further.
Then he thought about how many evenings he had come home and seen his son outside alone, bouncing that battered basketball against the ground until darkness drove him indoors.
Hamish released a long breath.
“All right, Fergus.
Look at me for a moment.” Fergus pulled away, wiping his face.
“What is it?” “If you make the team, your mother and I will find a way to let you play for the year.” For several seconds, Fergus simply stared at him as though afraid he had misunderstood.
“You really mean that?
If I actually make it, you’re not going to tell me I can’t play afterwards?” “I mean it, but before you start celebrating, there are going to be conditions.
We can’t make extra money appear, so whatever we spend on basketball has to come from somewhere else.” Fergus immediately straightened.
“I’ll do anything.
Seriously, Dad, just tell me what you want me to do.” “Your birthday is coming up, so there won’t be presents this year.
Christmas will be the same.
Anything your mum and I would’ve spent on presents for you will go towards basketball instead.
If you need a pair of basketball shoes, those count as a present as well rather than something extra.” Fergus nodded before his father had even finished.
“That’s completely fine.
I don’t need birthday presents anyway, and I definitely don’t care about Christmas presents if I get to play.” “Let me finish before you agree to everything.” Fergus pressed his lips together and nodded again.
Hamish couldn’t quite suppress a small smile.
“Your schoolwork still comes first.
Basketball isn’t an excuse to stop studying, and if your grades start falling because you’re spending every spare minute practising, we’ll have another conversation.” “I’ll keep my grades up.
I can do homework before practice if I need to.” “Good.
You’re also going to help more around the house.
Dishes, rubbish, washing, cleaning, whatever your mum or I need you to do.
If we’re making sacrifices so you can play basketball, then you’re old enough to make a few as well.” Fergus considered that for perhaps two seconds.
“That’s fair.
I might complain about the dishes a little bit, but I’ll still do them.” Hamish laughed softly.
“I’d prefer the version where you don’t complain.” “I’ll try not to complain, then.” “That’s probably the best agreement I’m getting out of a nearly thirteen-year-old.” A small smile finally returned to Fergus’s face.
Hamish gave his shoulder a squeeze.
“The last thing is that you’ll need to take some responsibility for getting yourself to practices when it’s safe.
Your mum and I will help whenever we can, but we can’t build our work schedules around basketball.” “I can do that.
If there’s a bus, I’ll take it, and if it’s somewhere I can walk to, I’ll walk.
You won’t have to keep leaving work for me.” Hamish studied his son for a moment.
“You’re certain this is worth giving up your birthday and Christmas for?” Fergus looked almost offended by the question.
“Dad, I’d give up presents for the next five years if it meant I could keep playing.” “Let’s not make promises you’ll regret when you’re eighteen.” “I’m serious!” “I know you are, son.” Fergus’s expression suddenly brightened as the reality of the agreement finally settled over him.
“So I can actually try out?
You’re definitely saying yes?” “If you make the team, you can play.” Fergus shot out of his chair so quickly that Hamish barely had time to react before his son wrapped both arms around him.
“Thank you, Dad.
Seriously, thank you.
I’m going to make it this time.
I know I said that last year, but I’ve practised way more this summer, and I’ve still got nearly a month before school starts.” “You’d better make it after putting me through all this.” “I will!
I’m going to practise right now.” Hamish glanced at his son’s tear-streaked face with amusement.
“You were crying less than two minutes ago.” “That was before you said I could play.” “Apparently you’ve made a miraculous recovery.” Fergus was already backing towards the door.
“Can I go outside?
I’ve still got ages before it gets dark.” “You can, but remember everything we’ve just talked about.
I’m going to hold you to it.” “I know, and I promise I’ll do it.” “And don’t stay outside all evening.” “I won’t!” Fergus disappeared towards the front door before Hamish could add anything else.
A few moments later, the familiar sound of a basketball bouncing against the driveway reached him.
Hamish remained seated at the table for a while longer, allowing the quiet of the house to settle around him.
Nearly thirteen was a strange age.
Sometimes Fergus seemed mature enough to understand far more than Hamish wanted him to worry about, while at other times he could go from crying at the dining table to sprinting outside with a basketball in the space of two minutes.
Eventually, Hamish pushed himself to his feet and wandered into the lounge.
Through the window, he could see his son on the driveway.
The basketball in Fergus’s hands had seen better days.
Its surface was worn smooth in places, and the dark lines had faded after countless hours outside, but Fergus treated it as though it were precious.
He dribbled with his right hand several times before attempting to move the ball across his body.
The crossover was too high, allowing the ball to bounce away from him.
Fergus chased after it, retrieved it and immediately returned to where he had started.
Hamish rested one shoulder against the window frame.
There were times when being a father made him feel extraordinarily powerless.
He could work longer hours, Diane could accept more shifts, and together they could stretch meals, delay replacing things and carefully decide which expenses could wait until another week.
No matter how hard they worked, however, there always seemed to be something they couldn’t provide.
He watched Fergus lose control of the basketball again, mutter something under his breath, and immediately begin another attempt.
Hamish couldn’t understand where the obsession had come from.
He had never cared much for basketball himself, yet somewhere along the way his eldest son had fallen completely in love with the game.
“If only we could give you half the chances you deserve, son,” Hamish murmured quietly.
Outside, Fergus knew nothing of his father’s thoughts.
His entire world had already narrowed back towards basketball.
He was going to get another chance at tryouts.
Last year, nerves had destroyed him.
Fergus had rushed passes he could normally make, lost control of the ball twice and missed several shots from positions where he usually felt comfortable.
When the team list had eventually appeared without his name on it, he had spent the walk home telling himself that he didn’t care.
He had cared a lot.
This year would be different.
It had to be.
Fergus lowered himself slightly and began bouncing the ball between his hands.
He wanted to keep it lower this time, remembering how often taller players had reached in and knocked it away from him during the previous tryouts.
He crossed from right to left, caught the ball awkwardly and continued.
“Still too high,” he muttered.
“Come on, keep it down.” He started again, dribbling several times with his right hand before crossing towards his weaker side.
The movement felt smoother this time, although Fergus knew it was still painfully slow compared with the players he watched on television.
That didn’t matter.
They had been practising for years.
He had time.
Fergus imagined a defender standing in front of him and shifted the ball from left to right before taking two quick steps towards an imaginary basket.
There wasn’t actually a hoop in the driveway, so he simply went through the motion of gathering for a layup before bringing the ball back down.
“I really need a hoop,” he muttered, glancing towards the empty space above the garage.
For several seconds, Fergus entertained the idea of asking for one for his birthday.
Then he remembered the conversation he had just finished having.
He chuckled quietly to himself.
“Yeah, that’s probably not happening.” There was a public court within walking distance where he could practise shooting when he needed to.
For now, the driveway was enough.
His ball handling needed more work than anything else, and he didn’t require a hoop to practise that.
He resumed dribbling, repeating the same movement again and again.
Whenever the ball escaped, Fergus retrieved it without complaint.
Whenever a crossover felt awkward, he tried to work out what had gone wrong before repeating it.
Sweat gradually formed across his forehead as the warm July evening wore on, but the thought of tryouts kept him moving.
He had several weeks before school returned.
Several weeks to improve.
Maybe that wasn’t enough time to become good, but Fergus didn’t need to become good overnight.
He only needed to become better than he had been last year.
He planted his right foot and crossed the basketball sharply towards his left hand.
For once, everything worked.
The ball remained low, his hand caught it cleanly, and Fergus shifted his weight without stumbling.
A grin spread across his face.
“That was actually good.” Naturally, he immediately tried it again.
Fergus bounced the ball twice, lowered his stance and prepared to cross.
That was when the pain struck.
There had been no warning and no gradual headache building behind his eyes.
One moment Fergus was concentrating upon the basketball beneath his hand, and the next a sharp sensation seemed to drive directly through the centre of his skull.
Fergus gasped as the basketball slipped from his fingers and rolled away across the driveway.
Both hands immediately rose towards his temples while his knees bent beneath him, and for several frightening seconds the pain was strong enough that he considered shouting for his father.
Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it disappeared.
Fergus remained crouched on the driveway while his breathing gradually steadied.
He cautiously rubbed the side of his head, expecting the pain to return, but there was nothing.
No throbbing headache remained behind his eyes, nor did he feel dizzy or sick.
“What the hell was that?” He slowly stood upright and glanced towards the lounge window.
For a moment, Fergus considered calling his father anyway.
A headache strong enough to nearly put him on his knees probably wasn’t something he should simply ignore.
Before he could shout, something appeared directly in front of him.
Fergus froze.
A translucent white rectangle hovered in the air less than a metre from his face.
He blinked several times before looking around the driveway, wondering whether someone was somehow projecting an image in front of him.
When he moved his head to one side, however, the strange rectangle remained exactly where it had been.
Fergus cautiously took a step backwards.
The screen remained.
“What is that?” Dark lettering slowly appeared across its otherwise empty surface.
Fergus forgot about calling his father.
He forgot about the basketball that had rolled halfway towards the pavement, and for the first time since leaving the dining room, he even forgot about the upcoming school tryouts.
His eyes remained fixed upon the impossible words floating before him.
‘Welcome, Fergus Robertson.’ A second line appeared beneath the first.
‘You have been selected as the host of the Basketball Development System.’