The Shot by Jalon

The Shot by Jalon - April 2024 Scholarship Essay

Ever since I shot my first three pointer, I knew from then that I loved the sport of Basketball. Amongst my peers, Basketball is the tradition of choice, fathers taking their sons outside to shoot some hoops. Basketball is so dear to me because this is my earliest memory of a father son moment. On the public park court, a five-year-old child, bouncing the ball around, impatiently ecstatic to demonstrate his shooting form to his father. This kid was me, but I missed the shot. My father walked the ball back over to me, came down to my size, placed the ball in my hands, adjusted my tiny fingers and positioned these small hands around the ball into proper shooting form. Pausing, seeing his reflections in my miniature brown eyes, gentle smile, he then stood up, stood aside, and told me, “Take the shot.” Taking the shot, surprisingly I made it. My father, shocked, hugged me, threw me in the air, shouting, great job. This was the earliest memory of my father just before he left.
For most of my life, my father was around, but he wasn’t nearly present enough. My childhood comprised of a revolving door of inconsistent futile father figures that were not compatible enough to fill the void. I grew up in a modest colonial home that housed several men but not models. My grandfather, my granduncle, my uncle, a second cousin and my brother. Every day an aide would come to our home to assist my grandfather, helping his frail body stand with his walker, brushing his teeth, and feeding his lunch. Granduncle, whose short-term stay turned 10 years because of his criminal past. My uncle stayed in his designated area, constant stench caused by laziness and unemployment. My mother’s cousin whose drug habits turned mental illness. And my brother, second in line to be my hero but turned college dropout.
Not having a strong father figure led to me acting out as a kid. In multiple instances in elementary school my mother was called due to my behavior. It was reported, I flipped over tables, chairs, threw objects at others and displayed rage and anger. But why was I so angry? The summer of fourth grade was a pivotal time for me. I picked up hobbies such as drawing and writing that brought me to a dimension where the only critic were my thoughts. Searching for answers, I recall an internal discussion about what I truly gained from behaving like a misguided child. I ended my summer determined to fill the void with the faith, discipline, and values, which was instilled by my mother.
In this void there was always a figure in the shadows. She was strong, she was wise, and she was consistent. Supporting our dreams with enrollment in Basketball clubs and installing a hoop at home, I realized there was more support, guidance, and bliss in my life than I credited. I was encouraged to push past mediocracy and heeded the lessons of not accepting the societal expectations of a fatherless child. With concentration on what I did have, I was able to focus on my best self, which now achieved multiple honors in Junior High School.
Despite my background I maintain motivation by not becoming a victim to a statistic. I’m focused on the privilege my mother’s hard work afforded me and utilized it to propel me to high academic standing in High School. Success is breaking out of my destructive past and taking on leadership roles in socially conscious clubs and as the boys Volleyball team manager where I now can be a reliable source championing other young men. This is who I am today, centered, accountable and honorable. Not looking for anyone to position my fingers around life. Not waiting for someone to hand me the ball. Where do I stand today? Prepared to take the shot.