She would grow up remembering that moment not as a grand event, but as a small mercy that rewrote the course of her life. Mr. Ellis’s simple question became a doorway: not just to a game, but to the possibility that she was worthy of being seen. The first time the ball smacked her palms, it startled her; the first time laughter burst from her chest, it surprised everyone. She missed more shots than she made, but each attempt stitched a little more courage into the quiet spaces of her heart.
When he mounted the smaller hoop, it told her she didn’t have to be bigger, louder, or braver to belong—she only had to show up. Those evenings of shared sweat and sunset shadows taught her the language of teamwork, the warmth of being chosen, and the power of a single adult who bothers to notice the child standing just outside the circle.
