Introduction: The Real Non-Profit

  “B You, Be U, Buckets Up”

  Basketball is more than just a game—it’s a culture, a community, and for many, a lifeline. But in recent years, the youth basketball landscape has shifted dramatically. What once started as a platform for young athletes to grow, learn, and find opportunity has become, in many cases, a cash grab. This is the story of how one family—our family—sought to rewrite the narrative, planting the seed of an idea that blossomed into something greater: The University of Buckets.

  The Seed: “Money Grab”

  The term “Money Grab” perfectly describes what we began to notice in youth basketball. Leaders of teams and organizations capitalized on the growing popularity of grassroots basketball, turning a community-driven sport into a marketplace where profits overshadowed players. Families were paying exorbitant fees for “elite” programs, and kids were being shuffled around like commodities.

  The structure became baffling. Within a single organization, you’d find up to six teams at the same grade level, each promising a pathway to greatness. But for many kids, it was a path to discouragement. Confidence was eroded, self-worth diminished, and the love of the game replaced by a system that seemed designed to churn out profit rather than potential.

  A System That Fails Kids

  The “new AAU” model no longer requires tryouts or team-building; instead, everyone is placed on a team, no matter the fit or level of development. Recreational basketball, under the guise of competitive play, became the new normal. While inclusivity is important, this model often prioritizes financial gain over skill development, personal growth, and mentorship. For too many young athletes, the result is stagnation—on and off the court.

  This wasn’t just a hypothetical for us. We watched as families emptied their pockets, and kids became disillusioned with a sport they once loved. While our kids were fortunate enough to avoid the brunt of this, the issue was glaringly obvious. This wasn’t how youth basketball was supposed to be.

  From Frustration to Action

  Out of this frustration grew the foundation of The University of Buckets. It started as an idea—a dream to create something authentic, something that put kids first. This was never about money for us; it was about values: hard work, community, and the simple joy of putting the ball through the hoop.

  At The University of Buckets, we flipped the script. We weren’t interested in cashing in on the next big name or assembling a dozen teams to collect registration fees. Our mission was to build a program that nurtured players, giving them the tools to thrive as athletes, students, and individuals.

  Why This Story Matters

  This story isn’t just about our family or the players we’ve coached. It’s about shining a light on a system that has drifted from its purpose—and showing that there’s another way. Youth basketball can be more than a “money grab.” It can be a platform for growth, a source of inspiration, and a community that fosters lifelong success, both on and off the court.

  With NIL (Name, Image, and Likeness) deals creating millionaires out of 19-year-olds and even bench players, the stakes have never been higher. The question is, are we building these kids up—or tearing them down before they even begin?

  This is our story. A Brady Bunch family origin tale with all the challenges, lessons, and victories that make basketball so much more than a game. It’s about buckets, yes—but it’s also about belief, values, and rewriting the rules.

  Buckets up. This is The Real Non-Profit.

  Intro Intro: How This Book Will Be Told

  This book isn’t your typical sports or nonprofit success story. It’s not a step-by-step guide to building a program or a memoir that centers on one perspective. Instead, this book is a collection of stories—real, raw, and interconnected—about the people who made The University of Buckets what it is.

  Each chapter focuses on a different person who crossed paths with the Buckets and captures their unique experience. These stories aren’t just about basketball; they’re about life, community, and how a shared goal can bring people together in unexpected ways. You’ll see how The University of Buckets left its mark on each individual and how those moments shaped their lives moving forward.

  But here’s the twist: these stories overlap. You’ll find yourself standing in the same gym, at the same tournament, or in the same meeting from multiple perspectives. What one person remembers as a breakthrough, another might see as just another day. What one experienced as a struggle, another might have seen as triumph. It’s this dynamic of different vantage points that makes the story of the Buckets not just one story, but many stories woven together.

  And what makes this book even more special? It’s all true. There’s nothing exaggerated or glorified here. There was nothing glamorous about what we were doing at the time. It was just us—ordinary people—trying to do the best we could with what we had, for the people around us. What came out of those efforts wasn’t planned or calculated, but it was something extraordinary nonetheless.

  This isn’t a story about fame or fortune. It’s a story about impact. It’s about how doing something small, with good intentions, can ripple out to create something big. And as you read, you’ll see the highs and lows, the struggles and successes, and most importantly, the humanity in each story.

  So get ready to dive into the lives of the people who made The University of Buckets what it was—and what it continues to be.

  How We Got Started

  The University of Buckets began as a simple idea rooted in helping the kids in our home—Pierce and Presley Crawley. But, believe it or not, its true origins date back even further, starting with Whitney Crawley and the moment Dawn and I (Bryan) decided to move in together in Burien, Washington. Dawn wanted her kids to have the opportunity to pursue basketball, and I wanted to help make that happen.

  Basketball was something I’d been around my entire life. My father, though he only made it as a college walk-on, was a huge advocate for the game. He coached me starting at the age of five, not just to pass on his love for basketball, but also as a way to give back to the community and spend time with me. Those early years instilled in me an appreciation for the game, but my true passion was always business.

  Even as a kid, I spent hours drafting business plans, coming up with ideas, and dreaming of one day becoming a business mogul. I watched people stress over money in every corner of my life—at home, in my community, and beyond. My solution? Own every type of business so I wouldn’t have to rely on anyone else. My childhood business endeavors started early; by 12, I had my own car-washing company, and entrepreneurship quickly became a driving force in my life.

  Basketball, though, remained a big part of my journey. I played everywhere—open gyms across Washington and beyond, training with coaches, personal trainers, and even NBA professionals. Unlike many kids, I played every position and learned the game from countless perspectives. However, deep down, I wanted to build businesses more than I wanted to play basketball. I never quite knew how to express that to my dad, who was so excited about my potential on the court.

  Still, I pursued basketball through college, playing at Bellevue College in Bellevue, Washington, and Cascade College in Portland, Oregon. My playing career ended abruptly when I blew out my knee at 20. That injury closed one chapter, but basketball had already shaped who I was and set the foundation for my growth into adulthood.

  When The University of Buckets started, it wasn’t planned or intentional. A few basketball friends and I wanted to get time in the gym. At first, it was just Pierce and Presley, plus the occasional extra kid from our circle. But before long, more kids started showing up—4, 5, 6, then 10 or 12 kids in the gym. We weren’t advertising. People just wanted to be a part of it.

  We started out at Elite Prep in Preston, Washington, where we were lucky enough to use their gym at night. From 9 PM to midnight, Monday through Friday, we ran sessions. Even through COVID, people kept coming. What started as informal workouts turned into something more structured as we began playing in tournaments.

  The beginning was rough. We weren’t ready to compete against teams that had been organized and trained for years. Our early losses were humbling, but they provided invaluable lessons. Playing against older, stronger, and more experienced competition forced our kids to adapt quickly, understand their strengths and weaknesses, and grow as individuals and teammates.

  What stood out most in those early days wasn’t just the basketball. It was the organic way we grew—a group of people coming together, united by the love of the game. Over time, we found our rhythm, started winning games, and became more than just a group of players. We became a team, and eventually, an organization.

  At its core, The University of Buckets wasn’t about building superstars or creating flashy success stories. It was about helping kids grow, providing a platform for old-school and new-school basketball to meet, and showing how basketball can be a tool for community, learning, and connection. From those late-night sessions in Preston to the tournaments and beyond, our mission remained the same: to build something bigger than basketball.

  This is how it all began. The rest of the story is told through the voices of the people who lived it. You’ll see the triumphs, the struggles, and the lessons from every perspective. Through these pages, I hope you’ll see that The University of Buckets is more than a program—it’s a community that helped people grow on and off the court.

  The Beginnings of University of Buckets

  This story starts in California, during a tournament where Pierce and two of his teammates competed. After the games, we took the boys to lunch at a Texas-style barbecue joint—a lively spot with an electric bull. Riding that bull was one of the highlights of the trip. Not to brag, but they couldn’t kick me off the thing. Let me just say, brothas can ride naturally.

  While the kids enjoyed themselves, we struck up conversations with other players, asking them about their college offers and opportunities. What struck us the most was how few of them had anything lined up. These were talented juniors and sophomores, yet unless they played for top-tier teams or were standout athletes, they were overlooked. At this tournament alone, there were at least 75 teams in one age bracket, but only a handful of players were getting any recognition.

  As we drove back with Pierce and his teammates, we started brainstorming. Being good parents who wanted the best for our kids, we asked, How can we help? It wasn’t just about Pierce or his friends—it was about all the kids like them, those who had the talent but lacked the exposure. That car ride turned into the foundation for what would later become University of Buckets.

  At the time, our family wasn’t struggling financially, so we decided to take a leap. Why not create something that could help kids get noticed while giving us a reason to attend more tournaments and enjoy more basketball? The idea started to snowball, and by the end of the trip, we were convinced we could make it happen.

  Finding the Name

  Later that night, I started searching for a name for the website. My initial thought was to keep it simple and short—something easy to type and remember. I tried combinations like “UB” or “BU,” but they were already taken. “Unknown Buckets” came up next, but it didn’t feel quite right. That’s when it hit me: University of Buckets. It sounded official, professional, and aspirational.

  I reached out to my website guy, and we secured ubuckets.com. At the time, we didn’t realize just how big the NIL (Name, Image, Likeness) movement was going to become, but we knew it had potential. We discussed the importance of social media and branding for young athletes—ways to get them ahead of the curve. Critics told us it was a waste of time, that online presence didn’t matter, and you couldn’t judge a player’s talent from social media. But we saw the bigger picture.

  Building the Foundation

  The project wasn’t just my vision. Avery Sharer, known as Flav, played a key role in getting things off the ground. He was one of the founding members and brought valuable experience to the table. Through our nonprofit connection, Men Impacting Men, led by Herbert Smith, we had access to a framework for fundraising and community outreach. While we never fully leveraged the nonprofit, it was reassuring to know we had that option.

  Avery’s involvement was driven by his own experiences and desire to give back. He had played overseas and wanted to use his knowledge to support his kids and other young athletes. He brought in a friend, Joe, who had big ideas about running camps, focusing on life development, and offering training programs. Joe’s vision was impressive, but it didn’t align with my immediate goal of forming a competitive team. I wanted to prove that Seattle kids could compete on a national level, and I was determined to travel with the best talent in the area.

  Lessons in Humility

  In hindsight, my stubbornness caused friction. Joe and I clashed to the point of losing potential funding. This chapter taught me a hard lesson: humility opens doors, while ego often slams them shut. It’s a recurring theme throughout this story—learning to grow, collaborate, and work towards a common purpose.

  As our paths diverged, Avery left to play in Korea and later Japan. We found ourselves at a crossroads, unsure of what to do next. But we did what we knew best: we found a gym, worked out, and kept pushing forward.

  This is just a glimpse of how University of Buckets began. The journey was far from over, and the challenges ahead would shape us even further.

  Bryan Ferguson’s Basketball Journey and the Birth of University of Buckets

  I started playing basketball when I was about five years old, but I didn’t really know what I was doing. My father coached a team of nine-year-olds, and since he was the coach, I got to be on the team. Of course, I was too young to keep up. The other kids were faster, stronger, and had more experience. I just ran around, clueless, trying to keep up. My dad loves to tell a funny story about those early games. He says that at first, I just sprinted back and forth, always trailing behind the action. I didn’t really understand the game—I was just a kid running around, enjoying myself.

  But something clicked. I realized that if I kept trying to chase the other kids, I would always be a step behind. So instead of running back and forth aimlessly, I stopped in the middle of the court. I figured out that if I stayed in one spot, I could anticipate where the ball would go and actually make a play. One day, I finally got my hands on the ball, passed it to a teammate, and started to understand the game. My dad thought that was amazing because most kids my age would just keep running, never stopping to think about strategy. Without even realizing it, I had made a key adjustment—one that shaped the way I saw life.

  That moment kind of defines who I am. I’ve always been okay with being in the middle—starting from the bottom, working my way up, and figuring out my own way forward. Life isn’t always about being at the top; it’s about constantly moving forward, learning, and adapting. That’s one of the biggest lessons basketball taught me.

  But here’s the thing—basketball wasn’t really a choice for me. It was something I was born into. My dad loved the game, and because of that, I played. Luckily, I loved to compete, so I never had a problem with it. From age five to about 23, I played nonstop, rarely taking a break. But looking back, I don’t know if that’s necessarily a good thing. That’s why I’m mindful of how I coach kids today, especially through University of Buckets. It’s important for young athletes to have balance in their lives. They need time to grow as people, not just as players. They need to find out who they really are and what they’re willing to fight for.

  I grew up in the Kirkland/Bellevue area—nice neighborhoods, but that didn’t mean we had money. People assume that if you come from a good area, you have everything, but we struggled a lot. We moved around often, and my dad fought hard to keep us in good schools. Education was always a priority in our household. Whether it was basketball or real life, my dad made sure we learned what we needed to succeed. We sat down and studied algebra, broke down words, and constantly worked on understanding the world around us. At the same time, I was learning how to compete—not just in sports, but in life.

  As the founder of University of Buckets, I see myself as the captain of the ship. I make sure things move forward, but it’s not just me—there are so many great people who contribute to this program. My goal has always been to build something different. Basketball is a business, and I understood that at a young age. But what never made sense to me was how coaches and organizations would pick and choose only a few players to invest in, while others were left behind. To me, a team is a product as a whole. You don’t just take the best parts and throw away the rest. You build everyone up. That’s what University of Buckets is about—helping young athletes, especially those between 16 and 25, navigate their journey.

  I know what it’s like to struggle during those years. By 16, I thought I knew everything. By 25, I started to realize I didn’t. That’s when I learned to check my ego, recognize my mistakes, and be more understanding of others.

  People often assume I was just some basketball kid who played and had fun, but my life was more complicated than that. I got into trouble, made mistakes, and had plenty of run-ins with the police. The truth is, I was privileged in ways I didn’t even realize at the time. Despite being Black, I lived in a neighborhood where my mistakes didn’t ruin my future. My mother told me that by the time I was 22, my record and past decisions would make it nearly impossible to get a good job. At the time, I laughed it off because I was working for a mortgage company. I always found a way. But the reality was, I had to take jobs where background checks didn’t matter. My success depended on my ability to perform and compete—just like in sports.

  Even after I tore my knee at 21, I tried to come back and play at 25. I only lasted about a year. It wasn’t about chasing a dream at that point—it was just for the love of the game. But when I walked away again, I didn’t feel like I had wasted my time. I felt like I had found closure.

  From 25 to 35, I barely thought about basketball. My focus was business. I was learning, growing, and building something for myself. But life has a funny way of bringing things full circle. Around 35, I met an amazing woman—Dawn. At that time, I was working construction, helping a friend grow his business while dealing with my own issues. Dawn helped me figure out a complicated L&I situation, proving from the start that she was something special. She’s the greatest woman I’ve ever known.

  Before I knew it, I was back in the basketball world—this time, not as a player, but as a mentor and coach. I didn’t expect it. I had walked away from the game for good. But now, I was in the gym, helping two incredible young athletes—Pierce and Presley Crawley.

  Pierce was a relentless worker, always questioning whether he had done enough. Presley had all the skills in the world but struggled with fear—her desire to be perfect sometimes held her back. Coaching them taught me a lot about myself. It reminded me that developing an athlete isn’t just about training their body—it’s about shaping their mindset.

  When they first moved to Seattle from Wenatchee, we started small, playing pickup at LA Fitness, competing against older and stronger players to toughen them up. But COVID changed everything. With gyms closed, we built our own work culture. They trained two or three times a day, six days a week. We ran, lifted, shot thousands of jumpers, and did everything possible to prepare them for the game.

  That’s what led to University of Buckets. I saw firsthand how difficult it was for kids to get the right exposure. Even when you’re talented, you have to pay just to be seen by the right people. The politics, the fees, the favoritism—it was frustrating. I didn’t want to complain about playing time. I wanted to create a system where kids could earn their opportunities.

  And that’s what we’ve built. University of Buckets is more than a training program—it’s a movement. It’s about giving young athletes the knowledge, discipline, and work ethic they need to succeed in basketball and in life. I don’t just want to create better players—I want to create better people.

  Basketball has given me everything: lessons, discipline, success, and even heartbreak. I walked away from it, thinking I was done, only to realize that my purpose was always tied to the game. Now, I’m here, doing something bigger than myself. University of Buckets is just getting started.

  Our first tournament was out in the middle of nowhere, in Chehalis. When I say the “middle,” I mean it was one of those trips where you feel like you’re headed to the end of the earth. It was south, but also very much in the center of the state. We didn’t have many options, so we ended up going to these tournaments because, honestly, they were the only ones available at the time. They were money tournaments for adults, and we did about three or four of those. Looking back, it was definitely a unique experience.

  During these tournaments, I was still out on the floor a lot, but in reality, I ended up doing most of the coaching. I didn’t really want to play anymore—my focus had shifted. What I learned from all of this, though, was pretty enlightening. I realized that a lot of coaching happens beforehand. I had wanted to be a great coach, but the truth was, as I told the team, I was actually a great player manager. I could get the talent to show up, assemble good teams, and organize groups, but when it came down to actually setting things up and making real-time decisions during the games, I just didn’t have the bandwidth to be the “wizard on the fly” that I imagined I could be. And honestly, I’m not sure that’s even possible. The job of a coach is more about teaching and developing, slowly, over time. It’s about giving your players the skills to handle the game, not just calling plays and reacting to every situation in the heat of the moment.

  But let’s not get too deep into all the lessons I learned—I want to focus on the fun parts, at least for now. Those tournaments were honestly a blast for us, even if we didn’t perform well. We were out there, joking around, laughing, and enjoying the experience. Usually, we got three games in over the weekend. We didn’t win, but we were learning the ropes. Losing wasn’t easy for everyone, though. Some players had a hard time with it because they’re so competitive. But I tried to explain to them: there’s no preparation for this. For you to expect us to just win the championship right off the bat is nearly impossible without more preparation. I told them, “If you guys want to win, we’ll have to work harder at this.”

  During that time, we started a weird, almost ritualistic thing—the Breakfast Club and the Nightclub. Honestly, it all started with the nightclub first, and I’m glad it did, because the energy was right. It was a mix of coaching and training, but the Nightclub itself was about getting the players into a rhythm of hard work. We’d do drills that most people had never seen before. One of our favorites, the drill that really exposed who was good and who wasn’t, was called King of the Court. Now, this is a game that many have played, but we put a completely different spin on it.

  Here’s how it worked: You had 4-6 players all on the court at once, and one player had the ball. You had one defender guarding the ball handler, but unlike the typical drill setup, there were three other players set up in various help defense positions. One person was on the wing, another along the baseline, and the third behind the defender, ready to back him up. Finally, an extra defender was protecting the basket.

  The goal? To be “Michael Jordan” on the court. It was all about creating space, using your moves, and reacting quickly. The twist was, you could only take two dribbles and had to make your move before everyone converged on you. Most would think that no one would score under these conditions, but surprisingly, you could still get it done!

  It was tough for the kids at first, but it was a drill designed not just to sharpen their skills, but to teach them court awareness, geometry, and the ability to see the game in a whole new way. Those who were committed, who showed up consistently to practice, really thrived in this kind of environment. The reality, though, was that the commitment wasn’t always there. Players would come in and out of rotation, showing dedication for a short while before losing interest. Those who did stick with it came back excited about their improvement—making more shots, crossing people up, and feeling like no one could guard them. They’d boast about how much better they were, but I’d always remind them, “This is LA Fitness. That’s not good basketball yet.” I’d tell them, “It’s great you’re excited, but at some point, you have to treat this like a professional. A guy who’s going to the league won’t be out here running pick-up games at LA Fitness. He’s putting in the work—getting shots up, hitting the gym, refining his game—but he’s not wasting time with guys who can’t push him to that next level.”

  What I realized about coaching through this process is that there’s a real distinction between training and coaching. Training is about getting kids to learn the fundamentals—getting downhill, making moves—but coaching is about teaching them how to understand and play the game. One of the best pieces of advice I ever gave my players was to watch full games. Many players don’t understand the flow of the game until they’ve seen it unfold in real time. They want to make every shot, but by watching full games, they realize that even the best miss shots. Steph Curry himself has airballed in games, and I always reminded them, “If he can airball, so can you. Don’t beat yourself up over it.”

  So, these tournaments weren’t about winning. They were about stepping stones—learning, growing, and taking the next steps toward something bigger. We learned a lot, and although we didn’t come out on top, it was just the beginning. The transition from these tournaments led us into the Marvena camp tournaments, and from there, to even bigger challenges, like the Chip tournament.

  Lessons from Coaching: From Managing to Strategy

  Coaching has been a wild ride—full of learning, mistakes, and moments that still make me laugh. I never really liked coaches growing up, so when I stepped into that role, I had to figure out how to be a better one. In reality, for a long time, I wasn’t coaching as much as I was managing—making sure players had what they needed, keeping things organized, and staying out of the way so the athletes could be athletes.

  The First Tournament: A Humbling Experience

  Our first tournament? A disaster. Easily one of the worst experiences as a coach and player—because yes, I was doing both at the same time. My knees were on fire, my body was exhausted, and I quickly realized I hadn’t played full-court basketball in forever. We were in a money tournament, where guys were playing hard for that $1,500 prize, so this wasn’t just a casual run. Everyone was out for blood.

  I did my best to rotate players, give people rest, and call timeouts when necessary. But here’s the thing—I am terrible at calling timeouts. Every time I called one, I got yelled at. No exaggeration. To this day, my assistant coach is way better at handling timeouts than I am.

  Needless to say, we lost. But that tournament taught me that we needed more organization, some actual plays, and a core system that every player understood. Up until then, we hadn’t really “coached” a team—we had just worked out, played open runs, and thrown together squads for games.

  Finding My Coaching Role

  After about three or four tournaments, I officially retired from playing. I stuck to coaching, focusing on running the business side—funding tournaments, getting gear, and setting up booths. We started entering Marvena tournaments, and those were some of the most fun we ever had. That year, the girls’ team, the boys’ team, and the main team all took third place. It felt like a breakthrough moment.

  But coaching? It was a blur. At one point, I had to sit in my car after a game because my head felt like it was going to explode. I never understood why coaching was considered hard—until I was in the pressure cooker. You’re yelling, adjusting, making split-second decisions, and trying to control chaos. Eventually, I realized that coaching isn’t about screaming—it’s about making good reads, guiding the team, and being the sixth player on the court.

  That tournament, we had three different coaches:

  ?Dawn coached the girls.

  ?Matt coached the boys.

  ?I handled the main team, which started with 22 players on day one before we trimmed it to 14.

  We also had Scotty, a professional shooter, on our squad, which was a huge advantage. If you have a guy who can knock down shots at a pro level, you always have a chance to win. Xavier Hollis was another key player, and that tournament was special because his father got to see everything we had built. It felt like a reunion, filled with people I hadn’t seen in years.

  Battle at the Lake: A Different Beast

  The Battle at the Lake tournament is a whole different type of challenge—played outdoors, in brutal heat, with a lot of real streetball hoopers. The first year, we took third place, but we quickly realized that outdoor play was not for everyone. The sun reflects off the court like a mirror, and by the third game, you’re just trying to survive. Every year, I end up buying sunglasses mid-tournament just to keep my eyes from feeling like they’re bleeding.

  Coaching that tournament was all about game management. We always had solid players, so my job was just to rotate guys in and out. If we won, great. If we lost, I just shrugged and kept it moving. But one issue I had was my five-and-five rotations—I’d always stack the best five players in the second group, leaving the first five at a disadvantage. Not ideal.

  The reality is, our teams were never fully planned. It was always, “Hey, bring some guys, let’s hoop.” I wasn’t making excuses—just stating facts. This whole thing was built around preparing Presley and Pierce, so whether we won or lost, the goal was always growth.

  Strategy & Basketball IQ

  If there’s one thing I’ve learned about coaching, it’s that most players don’t really understand basketball strategy. You can draw up the perfect play, but in the heat of the game, half the team will forget what they’re supposed to do.

  We ran a Box-and-Go defense, which is different from the traditional Box-and-One. Instead of just shutting down one player, our “Go” guy played free safety, roaming around, forcing turnovers, and speeding up the game. When executed right, it made us look like we were running multiple defenses at once—a 2-3 zone, a 1-2-2, or even a 1-3-1, depending on how it unfolded.

  Offensively, we had one signature play—our own version of Iso. Instead of a standard isolation, the point guard would pass to the left or right, and then the entire team would flow in the opposite direction, creating a triple screen for the point guard to relocate to the corner. Meanwhile, the ball handler could attack downhill, with three different scoring options created by off-ball screens.

  Another play I liked was Overload—a simple but deadly way to break a zone defense. We’d stack five players on one side of the court in specific spots (corner, wing, high post, low post, and top of the key), forcing the defense to either overcommit or leave someone open. It was effective, but again—kids’ basketball IQ wasn’t always high enough to execute consistently.

  What Coaching Has Taught Me

  At the end of the day, coaching has been a mix of chaos, strategy, and trial by fire. I’ve learned that:

  1.Managing is different from coaching. You can organize all you want, but coaching requires real-time adjustments.

  2.You can’t control everything. Sometimes, you just have to let the players play.

  3.Basketball IQ is built over time. You can’t just draw plays and expect everyone to get it—repetition is key.

  4.Timeouts are not my thing. No matter what, I always get yelled at.

  5.Winning is fun, but development matters more. The real goal is making sure the players get better each tournament.

  Coaching isn’t easy. It’s exhausting. But it’s also been one of the most rewarding things I’ve ever done.

  And no matter how many tournaments we win or lose, one thing will always be true—University of Buckets will keep hooping.

  We started participating in the Big Chipper tournaments, which were a big deal for us because of the intense competition. We typically played against a couple of our teams, the ones we really wanted to face, so it was always exciting. We were hyped to be in these tournaments, and at this point, we had a solid group of recruits, so we had a great team. We looked like we should win every game, but we didn’t always pull it off. That said, we definitely made an impression when we showed up. The energy was different—there was a distinct vibe in the air.

  We did pretty well in a few of those Chippers, and Alex and I got along well, so there was no tension between us. But that’s not the focus of the story. I want to talk about what I learned as a leader during one particular tournament. We were playing at Evergreen College, which was a huge deal because it wasn’t like the typical gyms we played at. The gym at Evergreen was about an hour and a half away, which was a lot closer compared to the usual two-and-a-half-hour drives we typically had for these tournaments.

  This tournament was one we were really excited about. We had a great team—lots of guys who had been showing up for training—and we were in the running to either win or finish second or third again. We were playing against Evergreen College’s team, and honestly, we were feeling pretty confident. We were at the point that year where we thought we were really that good, so we kind of played with that mentality. We had times when we’d dominate and beat teams by 50, but there were other times when we’d goof off, keep things close, and then beat teams by 20 at the end. This game, against Evergreen College, was one of those keep-them-close-until-we-pulled-away-by-20 situations.

  During the game, we did a lot of trash talk, as we always did, but we never took it too far. We were there to play, and we weren’t looking for a fight. We were just trying to have fun and keep the energy up. But things got weird during this game. It was strange because there were about four courts in use at the time, but when we were playing, it felt like no one else was there. The gym was mostly empty, and the only people around were the referees and a few players from Evergreen. One of the referees happened to be one of the coaches for Evergreen College, and another referee was one of their players. During the game, one of their players called our player a “bitch” or used a racial slur. They were going back and forth, and while I get that trash talk happens in competitive games, certain words shouldn’t be thrown around.

  My player, not wanting to escalate things, calmly explained to the player that they couldn’t say things like that, and he even went to the referee to make sure they took care of it. He told the referee, “You can’t let this go on. We’re just here having fun; it’s not that serious.” But instead of taking action, the referee seemed to defend the player’s words and let it slide. The situation got even more tense when a young white point guard from Evergreen College continued to taunt my player. At this point, we were winning, so there was no reason for them to be acting out this way. The whole thing just felt off, and it was frustrating that the referee wasn’t doing anything to handle it.

  Now, the situation took a turn when the referee called a break in the game. I’m not sure if it was a technical or a free throw, but it was a moment to stop the play and settle down. That’s when the referee made a comment along the lines of “I wish someone would act gangster, like there’s nobody gangster around here,” as if he was challenging us. That comment didn’t sit right with me, so I stepped up to make a point, saying, “We’re not children. Don’t talk to us like that. You can’t act like that here.” Before I could even finish my sentence, one of my players slapped the referee across the face so hard that the entire gym went silent.

  Now, in hindsight, I realize that this might have been my fault. I knew my players had my back, and if something went down, they were always ready to step in. This wasn’t just a game anymore—it was about respect. The moment my player slapped the referee, the tension was broken, and everything stopped. I quickly had my stepson grab the keys to my truck and head out, so the player could leave the campus and avoid any trouble. We didn’t want to escalate things further or risk anyone getting in trouble, but we also didn’t want to let that disrespect slide.

  The slap was loud—it felt like the largest and hardest slap I’d ever heard. But at the end of the day, this wasn’t my story to tell. The bigger lesson here was about leadership. As a coach, you can’t control everything. You have to be mindful of your surroundings and take responsibility for your actions. You have to lead your team, not just on the court but off it too, and ensure you do what you can to avoid turning a small issue into a much bigger problem.

  Next Round

  The last tournament we played in really marked a turning point for our team. Coming into this event, I knew we had to set clear expectations from the start. We were there to compete, yes, but more importantly, we were there to learn and grow as a unit. That’s why I laid down some simple but crucial rules before the games started. One of the most important was: if anyone took a bad shot—specifically if they drove to the rim and decided to shoot with two or three defenders on them while teammates were wide open—they would have to come out of the game. It was a non-negotiable rule because I knew we had the talent, but we needed to prioritize teamwork and smart decision-making over individual play.

  It’s a little-known fact, but the NBA shot clock was introduced in 1954 to address teams holding onto the ball for too long and slowing down the game. The 24-second shot clock completely changed the flow of basketball and turned the game into a faster-paced spectacle we know today. We were working on our own fast-paced rhythm that day, and setting clear rules was our way of making sure we didn’t fall into any bad habits.

  The first game was definitely a bit of a wake-up call for everyone. At first, the guys didn’t fully understand the gravity of the rule. There were still players trying to force shots, thinking they could handle the pressure on their own, and it led to some early mistakes. But by halftime, I could see the shift in their mindset. Everyone realized that the key to success wasn’t in taking over the game individually, but in moving the ball and trusting each other. We weren’t a team of superstars—we were a team of players who had to work together to make the best choices on the floor. From that point on, the understanding set in, and you could feel the change in the air.

  Did you know that Michael Jordan was famously cut from his high school basketball team? It’s one of the greatest motivators in sports history. His story is a testament to the power of persistence and believing in your growth, and it’s something I shared with the team as we tried to overcome our own setbacks. It’s not about being perfect; it’s about working together and getting better every single day.

  By the second game, there was a marked difference in how we played. We weren’t making the same mistakes as before. Players were making better decisions, passing the ball more effectively, and finding their teammates in open spots. The first mistake that got someone pulled from the game came within 10 seconds of the first rotation, and it was a quick lesson for everyone. The player who came in for someone else took a shot that didn’t fit into our game plan, and just like that, they were right back out. But instead of being frustrated or angry, it was clear that everyone understood: this was serious. If we were going to succeed, everyone had to follow the rules and stick to the game plan. It was a crucial turning point that set the tone for the rest of the tournament.

  A fun fact: The NBA’s first-ever draft pick was in 1947, when the Boston Celtics selected future Hall of Famer, Red Auerbach. The draft has come a long way since then, but the idea of selecting the right talent and making the right decisions is something we were focusing on that day—just like any GM making critical choices for their team’s success.

  That moment wasn’t just about enforcing discipline—it was about teaching the team the value of consistency and accountability. By the time we got into the second game, no one was being taken out for mistakes unless it was part of the regular rotation. There was a sense of calm and focus that came with understanding the rules, and that made a world of difference in our gameplay. Players were no longer trying to prove themselves with every play. Instead, they were working to make the best play, for themselves and their teammates.

  One of the coolest parts of the tournament came after the first game, during our smoke session between games. This wasn’t just a time to relax; it turned into one of the most important moments for the team. We had a real team meeting where we talked about the game, the mistakes, and what needed to change. Antonio, Xavier, and I took a moment to decompress, while Paul—who didn’t smoke because of heart problems—joined us to talk strategy and offer his insights. His perspective was valuable, and his presence helped keep the conversation grounded. It was a perfect mix: a relaxed atmosphere where we could all speak candidly about what was going wrong and what we could do better.

  Basketball has always been a game of strategy and mental toughness. Did you know that the first recorded game of basketball was played in 1891 by Dr. James Naismith in Springfield, Massachusetts? Naismith invented the game to keep his students active during the winter months. While we weren’t inventing the game, we were definitely working on our strategy to become better.

  Something unexpected happened during the smoke session that made it even more impactful: we found out that we had an extra hour to hang out at the gym before the second game. Our timing had been off, and we ended up with more downtime than we anticipated. Instead of just sitting around idly, we took advantage of the extra time to really lock in, rehash the first game, and refine our approach for the second one. It wasn’t just about resting up—it was about making sure we were all mentally prepared for what was coming next.

  By the time we hit the court for the second game, we had a renewed sense of focus. The players were energized, they knew what to expect, and they were all on the same page. We went into that game with an entirely different mentality, and it showed. We ended up winning by 20, and it wasn’t just a fluke. We dominated because we finally came together as a team, trusting each other and playing the right way. The ball was moving, players were getting open looks, and the defense was locked in. It was a complete turnaround from the first game, and it felt like all the hard work had finally paid off.

  One more fun fact: the biggest victory margin in NBA history was a 68-point win, achieved by the Cleveland Cavaliers over the Miami Heat in 1991. While we didn’t win by quite that much, the 20-point win felt monumental for us. It wasn’t just a physical win—it was an emotional victory, showing the power of teamwork and discipline.

  Antonio Brown, my assistant coach, deserves a shout-out for his role in this transformation. Antonio’s love for basketball and his insight into the game brought something special to the table. Even though he wasn’t playing anymore, he had a genuine passion for the game that helped keep everyone grounded and focused. His coaching during the tournament was invaluable—especially during the tense moments when I needed to step back and let him take the reins. Antonio helped calm the team down, keeping everyone level-headed when things got heated, and it was crucial in moments when tempers could’ve flared. He was more than just an assistant; he was a key figure in keeping the team unified.

  We also had some other cool elements that made this tournament stand out. For one, we finally got our hands on an embroidery machine, which allowed us to make hats and other team gear. It wasn’t something we initially planned for, but having that gear made everything feel more official. It gave the team a sense of identity and pride that we didn’t have before. Even little things like that helped bond us as a team, and that pride was evident in how we played.

  The team itself, even though they weren’t the tallest group on the court, had something special. They made up for any lack of size with speed, determination, and a willingness to play together. They weren’t a group of flashy players, but they had heart, and that heart is what kept us going. They understood that it wasn’t about any one player standing out—it was about playing as a unit, trusting each other, and executing the game plan.

  In the end, we didn’t win the tournament, but we won something more valuable: respect for each other and for the game. We walked off the court with our heads held high, not because we were the champions, but because we knew we had played the game the right way. We didn’t let individual egos get in the way of team success, and that’s something we could all be proud of. The growth we experienced, both on and off the court, is something I’ll never forget.

  This tournament wasn’t just another competition—it was a moment of transformation. It showed me, and the players, that the real victories aren’t always on the scoreboard. Sometimes, they come from the way you handle adversity, the way you grow as a team, and the way you learn to trust the process. And this team, despite not walking away with the trophy, truly showed what it meant to be winners.

  WHITNY???

  Whitny Crawley was an exceptional athlete from the very beginning. Standing out in both soccer and basketball, she possessed a rare combination of natural talent, height, and athleticism. Her ability to dominate the soccer field was evident even without extensive formal training. In basketball, she competed in AAU tournaments alongside top-tier talent, including future stars like Hailey Van Lith. She was the kind of player who could turn heads with her raw skill, yet her journey was shaped not just by her abilities but also by key decisions, circumstances, and challenges along the way.

  During her time in AAU basketball, Whitny’s father, Nate, played a significant role in her athletic path. Having grown up playing the game at a high level himself, he made a critical decision that would alter the course of her career. Instead of allowing Whitny to join a high-level Seattle-based AAU team with Hailey Van Lith—where she would have faced stronger competition and gained greater exposure—he chose to keep her in Wenatchee. His reasons were tied to loyalty to a local coach. However, the reality was that players from smaller programs rarely received the same attention as those competing in major basketball hubs like Seattle.

  At the time, Whitny was entering her prime years—those crucial seasons when college scouts begin to take notice. But without consistent exposure to high-level competition, she wasn’t getting the same opportunities as players in bigger markets. This decision became even more significant when she struggled to connect with certain coaches who didn’t fully support her development.

  One of her first challenges came in soccer, where she excelled due to her natural athleticism. At the time, the director of the program was acting as an interim coach while searching for a permanent replacement. He quickly recognized Whitny’s raw talent and took a liking to her. She was a key player, starting and playing 90% of every game.

  However, midway through the season, a coach from Whitny’s old city league—who was also a close family friend—applied for the head coaching position and was hired. While this might have seemed like a positive development, it created a difficult situation. The new coach’s daughter played the same position as Whitny, and jealousy over Whitny’s talent began to affect his decisions. Instead of playing them together or rotating them fairly, he chose to bench Whitny in favor of his daughter. Whitny, once a dominant force on the field, suddenly found herself playing only half or even just a quarter of the games.

  This situation is often referred to as “Daddy Ball”—a term used in youth sports to describe scenarios where a coach, who is also a parent, gives their own child preferential treatment, such as more playing time, key positions, or leadership roles, despite other players being more skilled or deserving. This experience shook Whitny’s confidence and left her questioning her love for the game.

  Whitny found fleeting solace on the basketball court, a sanctuary where her raw talent shone as brightly as her passion. By eight or nine, she played for organized city league, and by ten, she was sprinting up and down AAU courts, her height, talent, and athleticism belying a fierce competitive edge. For years, she thrived—drifting between AAU and 3-on-3 tournaments, her name often paired with Hailey Van Lith, a dynamic teammate whose love for the game mirrored her own. But in eighth grade, Hailey moved to the Cashmere District, and Whitny faced pressure to follow; recruiters circled, eager to mold her into a cog of Cashmere’s “super team.” Yet her family’s roots ran deeper than ambition—they couldn’t afford to replant them in wealthier soil.

  She persevered, carving highlights through three years of high school ball, her jersey dotted with several Player of the Game honors. But by senior year, the fire guttered out. Another adult had chipped at her love—this time, a coach whose indifference felt like a locked gym door. So Whitny walked away, her sneakers silent, her heart heavy with the quiet truth: talent alone couldn’t shield her from those who forgot the game was meant to be played, not pawned.

  By the time I met Dawn, Whitny’s mother, she had already fully immersed her three children—Whitny, Pierce, and Presley—in basketball. Dawn was the parent who took the reins when it came to her kids’ sports. While helping as a coach or substitute for Whitny’s basketball team, she took the lead in coaching Presley from the beginning, ensuring proper skills were taught early. Meanwhile, she made sure Pierce played on a team with coaching that matched or exceeded her basketball IQ. Though Dawn initially sought guidance for her children, she quietly hoped Whitny might reconsider giving the sport another chance. She knew her daughter still had talent, but after years of frustration, Whitny’s passion for the game had faded.

  At first, Whitny was hesitant. She tried out for a couple of AAU teams but didn’t fully commit. However, a turning point came when she joined Global Hoops, a competitive team based out of Sammamish and Issaquah. This moment was significant—not just for her but also for Presley. For the first time, the two sisters would be playing on the same team, wearing the same jerseys, and sharing the court.

  For Dawn, seeing her daughters play together was a dream come true. It was a rare opportunity—one that might never have happened if Whitny hadn’t decided to give basketball another chance. Watching them compete side by side wasn’t just about the sport; it was about strengthening their bond and making up for lost time.

  Whitny Crawley: A Journey of Talent, Politics, and Redemption

  Whitny Crawley’s story wasn’t just about basketball—it was about resilience, the harsh realities of politics in sports, and the system that often fails young athletes before they even get a real chance.

  By the time she hit her junior year of high school, Whitny had already proven she was more than capable of competing at a high level. Her natural athleticism, combined with her basketball IQ, made her stand out even in a small-town setting. But as anyone who has navigated high school athletics knows, talent alone isn’t always enough—especially when you’re dealing with coaches who think they have the power to dictate who deserves an opportunity and who doesn’t.

  That year should have been a defining moment in Whitny’s career. She performed at a high level, even earning awards for her play. But she didn’t even find out about them—because her coach never told her. That in itself was frustrating, but what really lit the fire was realizing that this wasn’t just oversight. It was intentional.

  The coach had already made up his mind about Whitny’s future, and in his eyes, there was no path for her beyond high school basketball. He wasn’t just dismissing her talent—he was actively making sure she wouldn’t get opportunities. And when I called the school, posing as a college recruiter interested in Whitny, the conversation confirmed everything I had suspected.

  The arrogance was unreal.

  The coach talked about Whitny as if she wasn’t even worthy of consideration, as if her career should be dead before it even had a chance to begin. He didn’t highlight her strengths. He didn’t advocate for her. He shut the door before she could even knock on it.

  And that’s when I realized just how broken the system really was.

  Because Whitny wasn’t the only kid this was happening to. Across the country, players were being pushed to the side, not because they lacked skill or work ethic, but because a coach wanted to control the narrative. If they weren’t the ones to “discover” the player, they didn’t want that player to succeed—because they wouldn’t get credit for it.

  That was some crazy, weird, ego-driven nonsense. And it was exactly the kind of thing that needed to stop.

  That moment helped spark the concept of University of Buckets.

  Too many kids were being told they would get an opportunity, only to have it snatched away. They were being judged not by their ability, but by the personal biases of coaches who were more concerned with maintaining their power than actually helping players succeed. And worst of all, any mistake they made from that point on was held against them like some kind of permanent record, like they were locked in a metaphorical prison cell.

  Whitny’s career may have come to an unexpected halt after her junior year, but her love for basketball never faded. Even after she stopped playing competitively, she still believed she knew the game better than most—including her younger sister, Presley.

  The One-on-One Showdown

  One day, after giving Presley some advice on how to improve, Whitny casually threw out a challenge:

  “You still have a lot to work on. I’d beat you one-on-one right now.”

  I just laughed and told her straight up, “Whitny, Presley may need to work on a lot of things, but she can beat you one-on-one.”

  Presley, being the respectful one, didn’t say much. But she had that quiet confidence, that glow in her eyes like, Oh, I know I can beat her now.

  So, they laced up and stepped outside to our legendary one-on-one court—the same driveway hoop where countless battles had been fought over the years. Usually, these games would be best-of-three, with both players refusing to back down. But this time? There was no need for a second game.

  Whitny hit a few early shots, using her experience to her advantage. But once Presley realized she was faster, stronger, and more skilled at this stage of her career, she shifted gears. Third. Fourth. Fifth. And just like that, she took complete control of the game.

  She won 11-5, and by the end, she was just having fun—keeping it light so Whitny wouldn’t get too mad about the beatdown.

  What we didn’t know at the time? Presley had actually beaten two people that day.

  Because little did we know, she was pregnant with Wrenn.

  Nobody had a clue yet, but Wrenn was already getting her first taste of basketball, right there in the driveway, before she even entered the world.

  Full Circle

  Whitny may not have gotten the opportunities she deserved, but she never let that stop her from supporting those around her. She always cheered on her brother and sister as they carved out their own basketball journeys. And now, her love for the game is living on through the next generation.

  Today, Whitny has found a new purpose. She has two beautiful children and a husband-to-be, living life to the fullest. And now, there’s already another Crawley ready to carry on the basketball legacy—keep an eye out for little Wrenn on the court soon. Because if there’s one thing we’ve learned, it’s that talent finds a way. And this time, no coach is standing in the way of what’s meant to be.

  Pierce Crawley’s Journey!!!

  Pierce Crawley was, without question, one of the foundational bricks of this story—a Rocky Balboa of basketball. His journey is rooted in grit, heart, and relentless dedication, fueled by an understanding of what it takes to become great both on and off the court. In 2020, he and his twin sister moved in with Dawn and me. We had set up a beautiful home to support their dreams of building basketball careers. But within a week of their arrival, COVID-19 hit, and everything changed.

  I wrestled with guilt during those early days. The plan had been to create an environment where they could train, compete, and transform. Instead, the world shut down. Pierce, who had dominated as a power forward and center in the past, was now facing a new reality. Despite scoring 50 points during his tournament run with his select team back in Washington, I knew his future as a guard needed to be carved out—especially since his height, while impressive for his age, wasn’t going to keep him at the top of the food chain as he grew older.

  By the time he arrived, he had already been playing with a talented team called Excel, traveling to Vegas and thriving. As an eighth-grader, he competed against ninth-graders, holding his own against players standing 6’3”, 6’4”, and even taller. His ability to process the game, make quick decisions, and use his body in the post was remarkable. However, the shift to guard was non-negotiable, and I knew the transformation wouldn’t be easy.

  In Burien, where we were living at the time, the initial days were about testing the waters. My knowledge of AAU basketball was rusty, and I had to learn quickly to provide the right opportunities for Pierce and Presley. COVID forced us indoors, but that didn’t stop us. The house turned into a training center—bands, compression tools, recovery equipment, and endless stair workouts became our norm. At Eastside Catholic’s track, Pierce pushed himself relentlessly, even as most people stayed home.

  While he was playing for Elite Prep during this time, the exposure game became my Achilles’ heel. I didn’t sign him up for games where he could dominate weaker opponents to inflate his stats. Instead, I chose the hard path, making sure he played against older, stronger players to understand what the next level required. Elite Prep was a wake-up call, where he competed against 18- and 19-year-olds who had serious skills. It wasn’t about scoring; it was about adapting, growing, and proving he belonged.

  The transition to guard was grueling. We focused on ball-handling, shooting mechanics, decision-making, and learning to get downhill quickly. Thankfully, Pierce already had a strong foundation as a shooter, with clean form and natural alignment. It was just a matter of confidence and repetition.

  The camaraderie at Excel made a huge difference. This wasn’t just a team; it was a family. Coach Matt fostered a supportive environment, treating Pierce as one of their own and even welcoming me as a sideline coach. It was a rare and special connection, one I’ll always be grateful for.

  But when Pierce returned to Elite Prep, the culture shock hit hard. Practices were chaotic. Players were selfish, focusing on personal stats instead of team success. Passes were deliberately bad, and the concept of winning felt like an afterthought. For Pierce, who valued the game as a team sport, it was confusing and disheartening. He couldn’t understand why the emphasis wasn’t on winning but on exposure, even if it meant losing to a better team while chasing individual glory.

  Pierce’s journey with Elite Prep was a mixed bag. It wasn’t the best situation by any stretch, but in a way, it was the perfect place for him to face challenges and grow. From the beginning, it was clear he was talented, but the politics of youth sports often painted a different picture. Despite the obstacles, I worked tirelessly to ensure he got something out of the experience, even when it felt like they were intentionally holding him back.

  For starters, the coaching staff seemed to lack a proper understanding of Pierce’s capabilities. One tournament really drove this home—they told him flat-out he couldn’t dribble the ball. I was stunned. This wasn’t a kid who lacked skill. Sure, his style wasn’t polished or fluid like someone who’d been doing it for years, but he was effective. His movements may have seemed a bit rigid or unorthodox to outsiders, but Pierce always got to his spots, made his shots, and made solid reads when given the chance. The problem was he wasn’t getting enough of those opportunities.

  We went back to the drawing board. We spent endless hours in the lab working on every aspect of his game. This was no casual effort—this was blood, sweat, and tears. Pierce’s days became a blur of early-morning practices, late-night training sessions, and heated conversations in the car. Those car rides became infamous between us. He loved the game so much and was so convinced of his way of thinking that we often clashed over concepts. He’d argue passionately about his decisions on the court, and I’d counter with hard truths and experience. Nine times out of ten—probably more—I won the debates. But it was never about winning or losing; it was about helping him understand the game at a deeper level.

  Pierce reminded me so much of myself at his age—hard-headed, impatient, and hungry for success now, not later. He believed that if he put in the work, the results should follow immediately. I understood his frustration because I’d been there too. So, we worked harder. If the world wasn’t going to see his worth, we’d make them see it. I pushed him, and he pushed himself. It was grueling, but the progress was undeniable. Pierce’s shots started falling consistently. He was hitting threes from everywhere—corner, wing, top of the key. I remember going to one of his practices and watching him make shot after shot. Out of eight or nine attempts, he only missed one or two. These weren’t easy, wide-open shots either; they were in-game scenarios, and he was locked in.

  Then came the moment that changed everything—though not in the way we expected. During that same practice, the coach stopped the entire session after one of Pierce’s makes. He turned to the group and said, “Raise your hand if you’re one of our three-point shooters.” Three or four kids hesitantly raised their hands, but not Pierce. He wasn’t about to play along. He knew where this was headed, and honestly, so did I. I sat there, head down, trying not to react as the coach delivered the punchline: “There are only two people on this team who can shoot threes.” And, of course, he named his own children.

  This was supposed to be an elite team, comprised of the best players in the state. Yet here was this coach, effectively telling every other kid, no matter how open they were or how skilled they might be, that they weren’t allowed to shoot. It was infuriating, but instead of letting it break us, it motivated us. Pierce and I doubled down. We dissected every aspect of his game. He started playing NBA 2K to improve his basketball IQ. I even joined him, despite being terrible at the game, just to keep him engaged. My strategy and understanding of the sport made up for my lack of skill, and it became a bonding experience for us during COVID.

  Then came the tournament that should have cemented his place. Pierce had the kind of performance that made jaws drop. He played starter minutes and lit up the scoreboard, scoring 15, 16, 17 points per game. He was confident, effective, and undeniably one of the best players on the court. But when the tournament footage was supposed to be uploaded online for college scouts, it mysteriously didn’t appear. Weeks turned into months, and still, no sign of the film. By the time we finally saw it, Pierce wasn’t even living at home anymore—he was in Florida.

  Here’s how that happened: during one of those tournaments, a scout from AIM High Prep noticed him and sent his information to their coaching staff. Shortly after, they offered Pierce a scholarship. It was a dream opportunity, but the timing was bittersweet. He was just starting to find his rhythm at Elite Prep, and we’d been working so hard to make it work. But staying would have meant continuing to deal with the politics and lack of opportunity. So, we took a leap of faith.

  AIM High was a whole new world. Based in Florida, the school regularly competed against top-tier programs like IMG Academy and Montverde. This was basketball at its highest level. At just 16 years old, Pierce was one of the youngest players on the team. Most of his teammates were 18 or 19, seasoned athletes with years of high-level experience. It was trial by fire, but it was also an incredible learning opportunity. He played against future college stars and learned what it truly meant to compete at that level.

  But it wasn’t all smooth sailing. Living away from home came with its challenges. The dorms weren’t well-equipped, and we had to send him an air fryer just so he could have proper meals. Even then, it felt like every small act of support from us was met with resistance from the school. On top of that, Pierce found himself caught in the middle of team drama. He befriended a player who had a contentious relationship with the coach, and somehow, Pierce ended up taking the blame for things he didn’t even say.

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  Still, there were bright spots. He got to play with and against some of the most talented players in the country, including a 7’4” teammate who was a marvel to watch. While AIM High struggled as a team, winning only a handful of games, the experience was invaluable. Pierce might not have dominated statistically, but he soaked up every lesson, preparing himself for the next chapter in his basketball journey.

  In hindsight, there are things we might have done differently. But at the time, we did what we thought was best for him, and even though it was a rocky road, every step shaped him into the player and person he is today.

  Pierce had an exceptional opportunity during COVID, as we managed to continue playing basketball despite the restrictions. This period became a turning point for his development as a guard. Night workouts with older, more skilled players challenged him to rise to their level, teaching him valuable lessons in toughness, footwork, and strategy. One standout player, nicknamed “Flow,” was particularly instrumental. Flow, a skilled and physical guard, played like a linebacker on the basketball court. He was relentless, and every matchup with him forced Pierce to dig deep, shuffle his feet faster, maintain balance, and learn how to counter an opponent’s strengths. These sessions became a nightly ritual, and Flow’s intensity helped sharpen Pierce’s offensive and defensive skills tremendously.

  What stood out during this time was how much support Pierce and Presley received from the group. These older, more athletic players pushed them to new heights, and by the time Pierce returned to playing with peers, he had a noticeable edge. His speed and awareness on the court were unmatched, and his defensive instincts had sharpened considerably.

  As things progressed, we faced a crossroads. Pierce returned to Washington, but he adamantly refused to go back to Aim High, leaving us scrambling to find the next step. Meanwhile, the University of Buckets was beginning to take shape. Our first organized tournament as a group was on the horizon, though we’d played in a few during COVID under the joking moniker “Pierce and the Kings.”

  We entered multiple teams in the tournament: a competitive division team filled with some of our strongest players and a recreation division team where Pierce would get significant minutes. The competitive team was stacked, and while Pierce suited up with them, he primarily stayed on the bench since the roster was deep, and his development was better served playing full games in the recreation division. In this group, Pierce started and played almost every minute, gaining invaluable experience and confidence.

  This tournament was a major milestone. Between the recreation division and the competitive division, we had three teams: the women’s team, the boys’ recreation team (with Pierce), and the competitive men’s team. All three teams performed admirably, earning third place in their respective divisions. It was an incredible showing for a program that had only recently come together.

  One of the key factors in making this tournament a success was the support we received from Marvena Kemp, Sean Kemp’s significant other. She played a huge role, helping us fill out the rosters, particularly for the women’s team. Her generosity extended to offering us a “buy two, get one free” deal on tournament entries, saving us money and allowing us to focus on getting the kids on the court.

  The logistics were a challenge, but we made it work. We couldn’t afford expensive jerseys, so we got creative. Using a vinyl cutter and heat press, we customized 38 jerseys in four days, ordering plain uniforms from SanMar and pressing numbers and designs ourselves. Half the teams wore white, and the other half wore black, but everyone had a jersey.

  Pierce’s recreation team exceeded expectations. The players were used to facing faster, more athletic opponents during practices, which made the tournament’s physical play feel manageable. As long as they moved, cut, and kept the tempo high, they dominated games. They consistently led by 18–20 points, making them one of the tournament’s highest-scoring teams. The competitive division team, while incredibly talented, also finished strong, averaging 120 points per game, though they fell short in a few key moments.

  On the way home from the tournament, the energy was electric. Pierce, Ty, and I were in the truck, while Jasmine, Dawn, and Presley rode together in another car. Everyone was excited, talking about the games and the future of our teams.

  However, our joy was short-lived. While transitioning from Highway 167 to 405, traffic came to a stop, as it often does. Unfortunately, the driver behind us didn’t see the slowdown. He slammed into the back of our truck, pushing us forward with such force that I briefly lost control, my foot hitting the gas as I blacked out momentarily. The collision was severe, and Pierce, sitting in the front passenger seat, took the brunt of it.

  The impact left Pierce with significant back pain, while Ty, who wasn’t wearing a seatbelt, bounced around but avoided serious injury. Both boys were shaken, and we had to visit a chiropractor for treatment. This was a devastating blow, especially for Pierce, who had just reached a point where he seemed ready to reclaim his full potential. Months of progress and hard work felt undone in an instant, as he struggled with the physical and emotional toll of the accident.

  This accident marked another hurdle in Pierce’s journey—a harsh reminder of how quickly things can change. Still, we remained determined to support him through his recovery and ensure that he could continue building on the foundation he’d worked so hard to create.

  So, we found ourselves back at the grindstone—not just for Pierce, but for me as well. After the accident, we had to go to the chiropractor and do the usual rounds of physical therapy. At this point, it was exhausting. For me, this was my fifth car accident. I was completely over it. I knew too much about the process, and I probably annoyed every chiropractor I encountered. Some days I tried to be funny, and other days I was just an outright asshole.

  Pierce, on the other hand, kept a surprisingly good attitude, as he always does. That said, he does have moments where his attitude shows—but only at home, where he feels safe. Outside the house, he’s smart enough to keep his frustrations hidden. Ty, however, took a different route. He decided he didn’t want to go to the chiropractor at all. For some reason, he refused to sign any paperwork, almost like he thought doing so would get him kicked out of the country or something. He just wanted to avoid the entire process.

  By this time, Presley and Pierce were back in school, while Ty had already finished high school. He was in limbo, trying to decide whether to go to college in September. By July, he was still hanging out at the house, and that’s when things got weird—he started trying to date Presley.

  Now, Presley’s not my biological daughter, but I treat her like one. Out of respect for the woman I’m with, I did my best to handle the situation respectfully while also keeping an eye on things. The last thing you want is kids under your roof engaging in adult behavior. This isn’t Presley’s story, but the dynamic between Ty and Presley definitely played a role in how Pierce interacted with Ty.

  At one point, Ty started acting like he was better than Pierce, especially on the basketball court. Ty had great skills at driving to the basket, but his jump shot needed serious work. I tried to help him, explaining that as a smaller guard, he needed to be able to shoot to stay competitive. Otherwise, bigger guards would just bully him on the court.

  Pierce, at that time, didn’t really enjoy playing one-on-one. Back in Wenatchee, he used to beat everyone he played against, so he found one-on-one games boring. But Ty’s attitude started to get under his skin. Ty claimed he could easily beat Pierce one-on-one, despite the fact that they’d already played a few times and Pierce had always won. Pierce usually kept those games close on purpose, using them as an opportunity to work on different parts of his game.

  But this time, it was different. When Ty made his claim in front of the house, Pierce finally saw red. For the first time, he wasn’t playing just to practice or have fun—he was playing to win.

  They squared off on the court, right in front of the house. Ty was confident, but Pierce came out with a level of intensity I hadn’t seen in a while. He didn’t just beat Ty—he annihilated him. The final score was 25 to 7, with Pierce draining twos and threes like it was nothing. It wasn’t even close.

  This wasn’t just a game; it was a statement. Pierce showed Ty—and himself—that despite his injury and time off, hard work and consistency could still pay off. For Ty, it was a wake-up call. If you don’t put in the work, no amount of natural talent will save you.

  That win marked a turning point for Pierce. It took about a year for him to fully recover from the accident, but this game was a reminder of what he was capable of. Despite the pain and the frustration, he kept pushing, and that fire within him was reignited.

  The Grind Resumes: Rebuilding Pierce

  When Ty left, we found ourselves on the next leg of the mission. The tricky part was figuring out how to navigate Pierce’s basketball future. His injury had sidelined him just as the season was starting, leaving him unable to play at his full strength. By the time summer came around, he was ready to give it his all again. The goal was clear: get back in shape, rebuild his body, and prepare for what lay ahead.

  This process demanded a heavy dose of humility. It was another stone on Pierce’s back, but he carried it with grace and determination, something he’s done many times in his life. Watching him persevere through adversity was truly inspiring.

  That’s when we stumbled upon The Run—the perfect outlet at just the right time. It gave him a space to work out and compete as he transitioned back into the game. We squeezed in a couple of tournaments over the summer, like the Big Chipper, but by fall, opportunities dwindled. Still, we found ways to keep him engaged, organizing games against his old teams and getting him back in the mix of competition.

  Breakfast Club: A Game-Changer

  As part of his comeback, we committed to a grueling routine. Every morning at 5 AM, we hit the YMCA or Boys and Girls Club for what we called the Breakfast Club. This daily grind changed everything. It wasn’t just about rebuilding his physical fitness; it was about mental focus, discipline, and learning to push himself harder than ever.

  The environment at Breakfast Club was electric. NBA and semi-pro players would randomly show up, adding a level of intensity and professionalism that elevated everyone’s game. These were players chasing their own dreams, so they played with passion, which gave Pierce a firsthand look at the speed, size, and skill required to reach the next level.

  We knew Pierce’s speed was already an asset, but we needed to make him more athletic. That meant endless drills—some traditional, some experimental—to improve his agility and explosiveness. The focus wasn’t just on his shot; it was on his ability to leverage his speed and athleticism to dominate the court.

  This period also marked the birth of University of Buckets. As we trained, we started posting more and more of our workouts online, showcasing not just Pierce but also other kids in the gym. What began as a small group of 4-6 kids on slow days grew into a crew of 10-12 kids on the best days. It became a community—a place where young players found joy, camaraderie, and a love for the game.

  Finding a Spark: Jay’s Impact

  One of the most pivotal moments during this time was meeting Jay. I can’t pinpoint exactly when or where he entered the picture, but when he did, he made a huge difference. Pierce and Jay formed a strong bond. Jay had this uncanny ability to lift Pierce’s spirits, even when his attitude was off.

  Jay wasn’t a cheerleader in the traditional sense, but he knew how to challenge Pierce in ways that brought out the best in him. Whether it was cracking jokes, pushing him during drills, or just being a steady presence, Jay’s influence helped Pierce find his way back to the game.

  Through the drills, the runs, and the friendships, Pierce grew not just as a player but as a person. He took every challenge head-on, from building his speed and athleticism to working on his agility and strength. Like Luka Don?i?, Pierce’s game relied on his ability to move effectively and read the court. But with each session, he got closer to his goal of getting back over the rim and dominating once again.

  The Run as Pierce’s Outlet

  For Pierce, The Run wasn’t just a basketball event—it became a pivotal outlet for his growth as a player and person. Held every Sunday from 1 to 4 PM at Franklin High School in Seattle, The Run was organized by my cousin, Joseph Jesse. More than an open gym session, it was a community of highly skilled players who came together to push each other in a competitive but supportive environment. The event was known for its intensity, with over 100 players attending on certain days, creating an electrifying atmosphere.

  This wasn’t a casual meetup. It was a high-energy, fast-paced environment where basketball felt like controlled chaos. Picture a major city intersection without traffic lights—players had to adapt quickly, communicate effectively, and make sharp decisions to thrive. Yet, what stood out was the mutual respect among players. Despite the fierce competition, conflicts were rare. The shared purpose of getting better united everyone in the gym.

  A Family Affair

  Pierce’s participation in The Run wasn’t an isolated activity—it was intertwined with our family’s broader commitment to basketball and discipline. Every weekday morning, from 5 to 7:30 AM, we hosted the Monday Through Friday Breakfast Club. These sessions were foundational to our routine, and they extended beyond just our family. Many players who joined us at The Run were also part of these morning workouts, creating a deeper bond within our basketball circle.

  One particularly memorable morning, we decided to host a special team breakfast. It wasn’t just about the food; it was about building camaraderie and reinforcing the sense of community that had developed through The Run and the Breakfast Club. These moments became the glue that held our group together, fostering relationships that extended beyond the court.

  The Challenges of Growth

  When Pierce first began attending The Run, he wasn’t an immediate standout. Often, he was assigned to the weaker of the two teams we brought to the gym. While our stronger team dominated games, the second team was seen as developmental—a group for players who needed more experience and polish.

  When Pierce played on the top team, his role was limited. He wasn’t relied upon as a leader or a creator; instead, he was a complementary piece, someone teammates trusted to hit open shots but didn’t look to for game-changing plays. For Pierce, this was both a challenge and an opportunity. He approached every game with quiet determination, using these moments to build trust and prove himself.

  A Defining Sunday at The Run

  One Sunday stands out as a turning point in Pierce’s journey. The gym was packed that day, with over 100 players spread across three courts. The games followed a King-of-the-Court format: win, and you stay on the court; lose, and you face a long wait before playing again.

  That day, Pierce wasn’t selected to play on the stronger team. Instead of being discouraged, he decided to form his own squad. His team consisted of younger, smaller players who weren’t considered threats by the other participants. With Pierce playing both point guard and center—a role that required him to lead and adapt in real-time—they were the underdogs of the day.

  What happened next was nothing short of extraordinary. Pierce’s team defied expectations, defeating every other squad, including the powerhouse “super teams” stacked with older, more experienced players. Pierce’s performance was a masterclass in leadership and strategy. He scored efficiently, set up his teammates for easy baskets, and maintained his composure under pressure.

  By the end of the day, the respect he earned was undeniable. Players who once overlooked him now wanted him on their team. This wasn’t just a good performance—it was a moment of transformation, marking Pierce as a player who could lead, compete, and thrive in high-stakes situations.

  A Breakout Performance

  Another milestone in Pierce’s development came during a high-stakes tournament game. Coming off the bench with his team trailing by 13 points, Pierce entered the game with something to prove. What followed was one of the most remarkable performances of his young career.

  In just under five minutes, Pierce scored 26 points, showcasing his ability to hit from deep, attack the rim, and dominate the midrange. By halftime, his total had climbed to 35 points, and by the end of his 12-minute stint, he had racked up an astonishing 42 points. This wasn’t just a scoring outburst—it was a statement. Pierce had elevated his game to a level where he could single-handedly shift the momentum of a game.

  The Athletic Development Phase

  While Pierce’s shooting had reached an elite level, there was still one area where he needed improvement: athleticism. Specifically, we focused on developing his explosiveness, making him a more dynamic threat around the rim.

  This phase of training was both challenging and rewarding. One day, I stumbled upon an unconventional training method that seemed almost too good to be true. Initially, I approached it with skepticism, but the results were undeniable. Within weeks, Pierce’s explosiveness had improved dramatically, allowing him to finish stronger at the basket and compete more effectively against taller, more athletic opponents. This discovery became a cornerstone of his physical development.

  The Impact of The Run

  The Run wasn’t just about basketball—it was about growth, resilience, and community. It provided Pierce with a platform to develop his skills, build relationships, and gain confidence. The lessons he learned on those Sunday afternoons extended far beyond the court.

  Through hard work, perseverance, and the support of his teammates and family, Pierce transformed from a role player into a leader. His journey at The Run and beyond is a testament to the power of dedication, adaptability, and the importance of seizing opportunities.

  Getting Over the Rim and the Epic Ending

  Pierce and Jay had formed an incredible bond on the court, one that was undeniable. Their partnership became something special to witness, especially with a crucial tournament looming on the horizon. Both players had set their sights on dunking the basketball, a skill that could secure them a much-needed scholarship. Jay, standing around 6’6” or 6’7”, and Pierce, an inch or two shorter, needed that vertical leap to make a difference. This was their senior year, their last shot at achieving this goal, and they were determined to make it happen.

  They had both tried various vertical jump programs, but none of them seemed to deliver the dramatic results they were hoping for. Sure, the programs offered solid ideas, but after 180+ days of hard work, they might see only a six-inch increase in their vertical. That wasn’t nearly enough. They weren’t excited, and the progress didn’t make sense. Though they diligently practiced different drills to improve their jumping ability, they hadn’t figured out the key to unlocking that explosive leap.

  It was during this time that I stumbled upon a method—one I developed in my own head. I’d been trying to push my own limits for years, being a tall player at 6’8” with bad knees like many older athletes. Dunking wasn’t easy for me either, but I knew I had to figure it out. I remembered a weight-lifting technique where you place a weight on your hip, then push it up. I realized I could apply this principle to jumping. Typically, when you do this exercise, you’re on a bench with your feet elevated and shoulders pressed down. But I wondered: What if I used that muscle activation technique to improve my jumping ability?

  This idea centered on flexing the gluteus maximus repeatedly to activate the muscle that drives your jump. In basketball, with all the space and speed, it’s not always possible to get into a deep squat position for an ideal jump. So, I figured out that engaging the glutes could help activate explosive power without needing to bend too deeply. The idea was to push your body into a state of explosion using your hips.

  It seemed bizarre at first, but I decided to try it. While in the shower, I started flexing my glutes—just trying to get my body used to that motion. Initially, I did about 200-300 reps, but as time passed, I ramped it up to 500, and then even 1,000 reps in a single day. By the time I reached 1,000 reps, I decided to test my jump. I had already been dunking the ball with 12 inches of cushion under my feet, which gave me an easy lift. But I knew I only needed 12 more inches to dunk without the cushion.

  When I tried jumping, the results were shocking. I got 16 more inches of lift than expected. I wasn’t pushing myself harder, but my body felt like I was jumping with ease, as if I hadn’t exerted any effort. It was a massive improvement in such a short period, and I was astonished by how effortless it felt.

  The other kids, curious about my success, asked what I had done. When I told them, they laughed, thinking it was a joke. But I encouraged both Pierce and Jay to give it a try, believing it could be a game-changer. At first, they were hesitant, but after some time, they decided to follow through. They began doing the same glute flexing routine on their own, and soon, it became part of their training regimen. This was no longer about just improving their verticals with generic drills; it was about mastering the art of flight.

  Pierce, in particular, took this method seriously. No matter how unconventional the drill was, he was committed. He didn’t shy away from the challenge and was always looking for ways to push himself. A few days later, when Jay wasn’t around, Pierce finally nailed his first real dunk. It was an exciting moment, and we all celebrated because this was a major milestone for him. He had been working on this for years, and it felt like the puzzle pieces were finally coming together.

  When Jay returned, we were back in the gym, ready for another session. By then, Pierce had been consistently practicing the new method, and it showed. As we hit the YMCA in Bellevue, it was clear that both of them had stepped up their game. Jay was close, making some really impressive dunks, but Pierce had gone into full beast mode. His jumps were explosive—he was dunking off one foot, off two feet, and it didn’t matter how he took off. He was clearing the rim with ease, and it was clear he had mastered the art of flight.

  It was surreal to watch. Pierce, who had always been a strong player with exceptional skills, had finally achieved the dunking ability he had worked so hard for. He wasn’t just dunking the ball—he was soaring over the rim like a true professional. It was the final piece of the puzzle. He had always been able to shoot, pass, and do so much on the court, but this was the physical expression of everything he had worked for. It wasn’t just about dunking—it was about proving to himself that he had mastered his body and could do the impossible.

  Pierce had dunked once before, back when he was 15, but that was a much simpler, more basic dunk. It was cool, but it wasn’t what he wanted. Now, as a senior, he was finally dunking the way he had always dreamed—smooth, powerful, and with style. It was more than just a flashy move; it was the culmination of years of hard work, self-discipline, and a deep understanding of the mechanics behind every jump.

  The best part? This method was something they could practice on their own time. It didn’t require an expensive gym membership or fancy equipment—just consistent effort and dedication. Pierce and Jay both knew that this was a game-changer for them. The training session at the YMCA in Bellevue was the final proof that their hard work had paid off.

  As Pierce walked off the court, he looked at me with a smile. He didn’t just dunk the ball—he had overcome a huge hurdle in his basketball journey, and it was clear that the method had made all the difference. Now, he was ready for whatever the future held, and I knew this moment would stick with him for the rest of his life.

  OK, so I’m going to admit, I’m not the best storyteller—sometimes I leave out details that I shouldn’t. But let me try and set the record straight. First off, Pierce’s name, “Larry Bird Junior”—that’s a big one. It’s not just a nickname; it’s part of his identity now. And the way it came about is honestly one of the coolest things in his journey, but I wasn’t the one who made it happen. I was there, though. I saw it unfold, and it was one of those moments where you just know it’s going to stick with him for a long time.

  We were at the Battle of the Lake, one of those big tournaments that we always look forward to, and this is a part of the story we’re going to dive into much deeper in a later chapter. The Battle of the Lake has so many layers—it’s been such a formative experience. But for now, let me give you the overview.

  At the tournament, they had a three-point contest. It’s a big deal because the best shooters from the event get a chance to win some prize money and, of course, the bragging rights. It’s a fun contest but it gets pretty intense. So, Pierce, being the basketball junkie he is, says, “I want to enter the three-point contest.” And I’m like, “Sure, go ahead, do your thing.” We had a booth at the event, promoting University of Buckets and all the gear and products we had, so I was focused on that, trying to engage with people, build the brand, and make sure we didn’t miss anything.

  We were wrapping up, getting ready to pack up and leave because we had a game to get to later that day. At that point, Pierce was still figuring things out. He was on the prep team at the time, but he was kind of frustrated because it wasn’t the prep team yet—it was the second or third-string summer ball team, not exactly where he wanted to be. But we’ll get into that later, especially the whole epic summer ball trip. That’s another piece of this journey, and I can’t wait to tell you more about that, too.

  Anyway, the most important thing happening right there and then was that Pierce was in the three-point contest. The kid could shoot—no doubt about that. He’s always been that way, even back then. So when he got out there, I wasn’t surprised that he was sinking shot after shot. It was like a normal day for him at the gym—hitting threes, no problem. And by the time he made it to the final round of the contest, the crowd was absolutely hyped. They were all watching him, waiting to see if he could pull off the win.

  Then it happened. The DJ started announcing, “Larry Bird Junior! Larry Bird Junior!” over the speakers, and you could hear it echoing around the court. It kept going—“Larry Bird Junior! Larry Bird Junior!”—and I had to do a double-take. The crowd was loving it. It was crazy, but in a good way. I looked over at Pierce, and I saw something change in his face. He was not happy. He looked at me, and I could see it—he was frustrated. “No,” he said, “No, you can’t call me LBJ. That’s LeBron James’ name. That’s not me.”

  Now, at that moment, I couldn’t help myself. I laughed and said, “Pierce, it’s not even about LeBron James. The DJ isn’t calling you LBJ like LeBron. He’s calling you Larry Bird Junior. That’s your name now, kid. You’re the second coming of Larry Bird.”

  But Pierce wasn’t buying it at first. He wasn’t into the idea of being compared to LeBron, even though I wasn’t saying it like that. He thought I was pushing it with the LBJ reference, and I understood where he was coming from—he wanted to build his own identity. But I saw something bigger in it.

  We talked privately after that. I told him, “Look, I get it, but let me break it down for you. This could actually be a great opportunity. Think about it: LeBron James is one of the biggest names in basketball. His initials—LBJ—are synonymous with greatness. But you can be LBJ in your own right—Larry Bird Junior. The second coming. You get to take that LBJ and make it your own, spin it into something that works for you. It’s a marketing goldmine, and trust me, it makes sense for the algorithms, too. It’ll get you noticed.”

  He was a little hesitant, but after a moment, he started to come around. He realized that while he didn’t want to copy LeBron, using the initials “LBJ” in a way that highlighted his own potential was actually pretty brilliant. And that was when “Larry Bird Junior” officially became his brand. It wasn’t just about the DJ announcing it anymore—it was part of who he was.

  I watched Pierce start to embrace the idea. It wasn’t just a joke anymore. It wasn’t just a fun moment at the Battle of the Lake. It became a real, solidified part of his identity as a player. And honestly, it couldn’t have come at a better time. It was like the universe was aligning, giving him a perfect brand, a perfect name that captured his essence as a player and the potential he had moving forward.

  For me, it was a humbling experience. I’ve always been a huge fan of Larry Bird. To hear someone say, “Larry Bird Junior,” and know it was directed at my kid? It was a moment I’ll never forget. And to have Pierce, at that age, be able to take that moment and own it—well, that’s when I knew he was destined for something special.

  So, “Larry Bird Junior” wasn’t just a name. It was a statement. It was a symbol of everything Pierce had worked for, everything he was becoming, and everything he would continue to push toward as he grew as a player. It was perfect timing, and it marked a huge turning point for him.

  And as for me? Well, I was just grateful to be there to witness it. This was the moment when Pierce really started to come into his own, and when the world started to take notice. From that point on, every time someone shouted “Larry Bird Junior,” I knew we were just getting started.

  LBJ: The Second Coming and the Birth of Faith

  At the height of Pierce’s basketball journey, his brand LBJ: The Second Coming emerged as an extension of his talent, ambition, and creativity. At the time, I was frustrated with the high costs of ordering custom apparel for King of Trades, our construction company. Hoodies, T-shirts, and other items for the crew to look professional on job sites would cost me close to $1,000 for even small orders. That kind of expense simply wasn’t sustainable, so we decided to take matters into our own hands.

  We already owned a heat press, and with that foundation, we invested in a vinyl cutter. It was the perfect solution. Not only could we now create branded apparel for King of Trades, but it also gave us the tools to explore other creative ventures. Pierce, or LBJ, immediately took an interest. He had always wanted to experiment with the heat press, and now that we had the vinyl cutter, he was eager to see what we could create. That’s when we realized: we weren’t just solving a business problem—we were building something much bigger.

  From the start, Pierce embraced the opportunity with a sense of ownership and determination. Not only did he help us design apparel for King of Trades, but he also launched his own clothing line: LBJ: The Second Coming. At that time, Pierce was one of the top basketball players in the area, and his talent gave him every reason to put himself out there. His brand wasn’t just about clothing—it was about showcasing who he was and sharing his identity with the world.

  Pierce spent countless hours refining his brand and working on apparel. He didn’t just create designs; he handled almost every aspect of the process. He taught himself how to use the vinyl cutter and the software that came with it, becoming the go-to person for every order. People always seemed to need things at the last minute, and Pierce would step up, often working late into the night, even if he had school the next day. His dedication went far beyond his own brand. He took on most of the orders for King of Trades, ensuring we could keep up with demand while learning invaluable skills along the way.

  What made LBJ: The Second Coming special was the creativity and thought Pierce poured into it. Over time, he created more than 35 unique designs, each with its own color concept and seasonal theme. He had designs for Halloween, Christmas, and other holidays, along with fresh looks for every season. Each collection felt new and exciting, and his ability to innovate kept his brand growing.

  One of his proudest moments came during Isaiah Thomas’s summer tournament, where Pierce set up a vendor booth for his brand. LBJ: The Second Coming was a hit, outselling many other vendors. In fact, we ran out of certain colors and designs and had to make additional shirts to meet the demand. That kind of success didn’t happen by accident—it was a testament to Pierce’s hard work and understanding of what people wanted.

  Even during quieter times, Pierce found ways to keep the momentum going. I remember one particular event—a vendor spot we decided to try out on a whim. It was a bad choice; there was hardly anyone there. But Pierce didn’t let that discourage him. He jumped on Snapchat, made it seem like the event was buzzing with activity, and ended up selling 10–15 shirts and other apparel online. He even sold a handful of items in person. That day, Pierce showed how resourceful and determined he could be, turning a disappointing situation into a small victory.

  The journey of LBJ: The Second Coming wasn’t just about selling clothes—it mirrored Pierce’s basketball journey. As his career evolved, so did his brand. Along the way, he mastered new skills, including operating an embroidery machine. True to form, Pierce taught himself how to fix, maintain, and use the machine with precision. He became the only one who truly understood how to operate it, continuing his tradition of learning and perfecting every challenge he took on.

  Then came a shift I hadn’t expected. Over time, Pierce rebranded his line, transitioning from LBJ: The Second Coming to something new: FAITH. When I asked him about the change, he explained that it stemmed from his growing relationship with the Bible and a deeper understanding of the importance of faith. But I think it also came from something more personal—his belief in his own path, in trusting God, and in staying grounded amidst the noise of the world.

  FAITH represents more than just apparel; it’s a mindset and a mission. Pierce hasn’t left LBJ: The Second Coming behind—it’s still part of his story. But FAITH has taken center stage, embodying his growth as a person and as a creator. He continues to put the same passion into his brand as he did when he first started, whether it’s staying up late to fulfill orders, creating new designs, or perfecting his craft.

  Pierce’s journey, both on and off the court, is one of resilience, creativity, and determination. From LBJ: The Second Coming to FAITH, he has shown that no challenge is too great and no dream is out of reach. His story is a reminder to believe in yourself, trust the process, and, above all, have faith.

  The Story of LBJ and the Portland Tournament

  At the middle of summer, our basketball journey was in full swing, with a core group of four or five standout high school players who often got called to join AAU teams for tournaments. This time, the call was for a tournament in Portland. We were prepared, having done intense workouts, including drills to help players like Pierce (LBJ) jump over the rim. Even though our team was a patchwork of talent with minimal camaraderie, we were ready to compete against some top-level teams.

  However, things felt off from the start. The practice location was an hour and a half away in Everett, which made it tough to gel as a unit. Adding to the chaos, we had to bring our own jerseys since the team didn’t have any. Despite all this, we were focused on one thing—getting Pierce on the court.

  When we arrived, we had no idea of the schedule or our competition. Our first game was against Rotary, a powerhouse team known as a hybrid All-Star squad combining talent from Portland and Seattle. Everyone expected them to demolish us. We were an unstructured group with only one big man in the middle, making us vulnerable against organized teams.

  A Rocky Start, But LBJ Shines

  Pierce didn’t start in the game, which was baffling. The rest of the players I brought started, but Pierce was benched. Rotary quickly built a 12- to 13-point lead, but everything changed when Pierce was subbed in. He immediately made an impact, showcasing his skills and decision-making. The defining moment came when Rotary’s star player, Jacob Coffie, attempted a dunk. Pierce challenged him at the apex of his jump and blocked the shot. Though the referees called a foul, it was clear to everyone in the gym that Pierce was special.

  From that moment, the game shifted. The ball was put in Pierce’s hands, and Rotary had to play real basketball. Even though we were down by 17 or 18 points, Pierce’s performance electrified the court. By the end of the game, he had turned heads, including the Rotary coach, who discussed potential future scrimmages with us.

  A Tough Decision

  Despite Pierce’s stellar performance, we were out of contention to face other strong teams due to our loss to Rotary. I suggested we leave since the competition left in the tournament didn’t seem worth the effort. But Pierce wanted to stay, eager to play more games with peers his age after spending so much time competing against older players. Reluctantly, I agreed, even as I harbored doubts.

  The next game was against a much weaker team—a squad of undersized players. Frustratingly, Pierce didn’t start again. This time, the other kids on our team refused to play until Pierce was subbed in. Once on the court, he did what he always did: he dominated. But then, disaster struck.

  The Injury

  Pierce made a pass that was intercepted. As the opponent raced to the basket, Pierce chased him down and pinned the shot against the backboard. In the ensuing chaos, another player came down awkwardly, and Pierce’s leg got trapped. He landed badly, breaking his tibia and fibula in one devastating moment.

  I was in shock. Blood and broken bones have always made me queasy, but seeing Pierce lying on the ground, unable to move, I pushed through my panic and ran to him. His leg was severely twisted, and I did my best to keep him still while someone called for an ambulance. People kept asking where his parents were, and in my frustration, I snapped, shouting, “I’m his stepdad!”

  When I called his mom, Dawn, she was frantic. Being in the medical field, she was giving me instructions over the phone, but I could barely process what she was saying. It felt like everything was spiraling out of control.

  The Hospital Ordeal

  At the hospital, Pierce was surprisingly calm, even cracking jokes. The nurses told me they’d given him fentanyl, which explained his relaxed demeanor. I was still in panic mode, especially when they mentioned giving him ketamine to align his bones. This process was grueling. They struggled to get the machine working, and Pierce endured multiple attempts to position the bones correctly. The procedure dragged on for hours.

  Meanwhile, I was juggling phone calls, dealing with hospital staff, and trying to console Dawn, who was still on the phone, worried sick. Pierce, though high from the medication, remained positive, showing a strength and resilience that humbled me.

  Aftermath

  Once the procedure was done, Pierce was stabilized, but the journey was far from over. He would need surgery back in Seattle to fully repair his leg. As I sat in the car outside the hospital, I was overwhelmed with guilt. I felt responsible for everything—for pushing him to stay, for not pulling him out sooner. Even now, I can’t shake the feeling that I failed him that day.

  Got it! I’ll continue from where you left off, keeping all your details intact and maintaining the flow of your narration.

  That whole week leading up to the surgery was rough. Pierce was stuck on the couch, barely moving, just trying to get comfortable. The pain would come and go, but there wasn’t much he could do besides keep his leg elevated, take his meds, and wait. Every little movement was a struggle, and even shifting positions took effort. The oxycodone helped, but it wasn’t a fix—it just made things a little more bearable.

  By the time Thursday, April 20th, rolled around, we were just ready to get the surgery over with. The doctors had already made it clear—this wasn’t going to be a quick recovery. There was no coming back for basketball anytime soon. After going over everything with the surgeon, it was clear we were looking at a one- to two-year process, and that was if everything went right. The focus now was just making sure his leg healed properly.

  Getting through that day was just another waiting game. The hospital process was slow, just like before, but at least this time, we weren’t dealing with a broken-down x-ray machine or delays in getting him treated. The biggest thing now was making sure everything went smoothly so there wouldn’t be any setbacks.

  Once the surgery was finally done, the doctors told us it had gone as expected, which was a relief. But that was just step one. Now came the real challenge—recovery, rehab, and figuring out what life looked like in the meantime.

  The first couple of physical therapy sessions were rough. His leg was still swollen, and just getting through the initial stretches was a process. The doctors had made it clear—this wasn’t going to be a quick comeback. At this point, basketball wasn’t even on the table. The conversation had shifted completely. This wasn’t about getting back for the next season or even the one after that; this was about making sure his leg healed right so that, down the road, he could have a real shot at playing again. The reality was, we were looking at a one- to two-year process, minimum. That’s what the doctors had said, and there was no way around it.

  That didn’t make it any easier, though. For someone like Pierce, who had always been focused on getting better and competing, this was a whole new challenge. Not just physically, but mentally. It’s one thing to push through rehab when you know you’ll be back soon—it’s another to go through it knowing that the game you love is completely out of reach for now. That was the part that hit the hardest. There was no shortcut, no way to speed things up. Just time, patience, and a whole lot of work.

  Dawn made sure his appointments were lined up, which helped keep things moving in the right direction. Since she was working at Swedish, we had access to physical therapy without long delays, which was huge. But even with that, it was slow. Each session focused on mobility first, then strengthening, but there were limits to what he could do. His leg had to be handled carefully—too much too soon could set him back even further.

  At home, it was mostly couch rest, broken up by stretches and small movements to keep things from locking up. He had a routine: ice, elevation, physical therapy exercises, and just enough walking to prevent stiffness. The pain was still there, so oxycodone was in the mix, but we kept a close eye on it. It was necessary, but we weren’t going to let it become another problem.

  School was another issue. Skyline wasn’t far, but there was no way he could get back and forth in his condition. Even if we figured out transportation, moving around campus would’ve been impossible. So remote learning became the only real option. The school was understanding for the most part, but like anything else, there were hoops to jump through. Nothing about this process was simple.

  Through it all, I kept thinking about how quickly everything had changed. Before, it was about getting better, getting stronger, playing against tougher competition. Now, it was about something completely different—just making sure he could walk right, heal right, and hopefully, one day, get back to where he wanted to be. That was the focus now. The game wasn’t going anywhere, but it was going to be a long road back.

  Pierce Crawley was determined that this would not be the end of his basketball journey—not now, not like this. At the time, I didn’t fully know him, at least not in the way I do now. He had already been through so much, and yet, what stood out most was how unshaken he remained. I hadn’t expected him to shift his mindset so quickly, but in reality, he never really wavered. Most kids in his situation—sidelined at a crucial point in their career—would have thought about quitting more than anything. Imagine dedicating your life to the game, only to suddenly find yourself unable to play at all. It’s a mental battle as much as it is a physical one, and not everyone makes it through.

  We explored options, even reaching out to Skyline High School to see if there was a possibility of him playing a portion of the season. But realistically, it was a long shot. Given the severity of his injury and the coach’s expectations, he would either have to be fully available for the entire year—just like any other player—or not play at all. It felt unfair, especially considering that even at half-strength, Pierce would likely be the best player on their team.

  Despite the frustration, we ultimately chose the smartest path, the one that was already written on the wall: take a step back. Let the body heal. Focus on school. Enjoy life outside of the relentless competition. It wasn’t an easy decision, but it was the right one.

  Then came one of the hardest transitions—his sister, Presley, was moving on to Gillette College, and Pierce was stuck at home, waiting. That kind of pause in momentum can break a player, but instead, he channeled his energy into something new—his Faith brand.

  Pierce took full ownership of the business, going beyond just designing apparel. We got an embroidery machine, and while most people would have let it sit there collecting dust, he was the one who made it work. He got in there, figured out the mechanics, and even had a tech specialist come out to teach him how to master the process. Now, we have a fully operational machine—and it’s all because of him. More than anything, this is his business. I help when it comes to bringing in clients, but everything else? That’s all Pierce.

  What’s even more impressive is how he handles himself professionally. Watching him interact with clients through text feeds, you wouldn’t even think he’s 19. He communicates like an adult—clear, respectful, and business-minded. He understands pricing, deadlines, and quality control, making sure everything he puts out meets a certain standard. Seeing him take ownership, problem-solve, and operate like a professional has been incredible.

  At the same time, his goal is clear: he wants to be on the varsity team this year. He’s not looking to just ease back in—he wants to compete at the highest level from day one. He knows that at the NAIA level, especially in California, the style of play is fast, physical, and filled with highly skilled players who were overlooked by bigger schools. NAIA basketball has produced pros, and for Pierce, this is a proving ground.

  Our version of the Breakfast Club never stopped—just me and him, in the gym every single morning. He usually makes it back at least once or twice after that, whether it’s lifting, getting in the pool, or putting up extra shots. The bottom line is that we’re locked in, preparing for what’s next.

  His daily training is structured around developing his first step explosiveness, lateral quickness, and endurance—the three areas that will allow him to dominate as a two-way guard. We’ve been breaking down film of NAIA guards, overseas pros, and even NBA players who play with a similar style, focusing on decision-making in transition, off-ball movement, and defensive positioning.

  The toughest part of coming back from an injury isn’t just the rehab—it’s balancing the time you need to work and the time you need to rest. Both are equally important, and how you handle them determines everything. Strengthening the small muscles, the tendons, the stabilizers—these details are what will allow him to cut hard, move fast, and play an entire season at full speed without setbacks. We’ve also been working on range shooting and extending his scoring package, ensuring that when he steps on the court, he’s not just coming back—he’s coming back better.

  The best part? There’s a path for him to play varsity this year. With his size, IQ, and work ethic, he’s more than capable of making an immediate impact. He understands that guard play at the collegiate level is all about pace and control, and he’s been working tirelessly to master that. His ability to defend multiple positions, create off the dribble, and knock down open looks makes him an asset to any team.

  Pierce is one hell of a kid, and I couldn’t be more excited for what’s ahead. He’s already come so far, and he’s not stopping now. Keep an eye out—his goal is the NBA, and he’s got the mindset and work ethic to chase it. Shout out to him for aiming high, putting in the work, and proving that setbacks are just setups for comebacks.

  Joseph Jessie and “The Run”

  Joseph Jessie—who we call JoJo—is my cousin. He’s always been a basketball advocate, and we’ve always had what you might call a competitive edge, but we were never really rivals. Even though we both played a lot of basketball and are similar in age, we never did much together on the court. Unfortunately, our parents—his mom and my dad—didn’t get along too well because of the past, so we didn’t spend much time together growing up.

  Despite that, we eventually found our way back to each other after years of handling our own personal struggles. Over time, we helped each other get through those challenges. This story isn’t just about Joseph playing basketball—it’s about everything that led to The Run and how it became an essential part of the University of Buckets.

  Quad City Flames & Bringing JoJo In

  The beginning of Joseph’s story in this part of our journey actually starts with the Quad City Flames, a semi-pro basketball team. I played on the team—not necessarily because I was trying to go pro, but because I wanted to gather intel on the AAU basketball scene: where to go, who to know, how to navigate it all for the kids I was working with.

  One day, my aunt called me and said Joseph needed a little mental uplifting. We all hit points in our lives where we need that boost, and I’ve always believed that small moments of support can change the course of someone’s life. So, I decided to do something about it.

  At the time, my friend was the coach of the Flames, so I had him call Joseph and invite him to the team. I told him not to mention my name—I wanted JoJo to feel like he had really been recruited, not just thrown a favor. When Joseph showed up to practice, he was shocked to see me there.

  At first, it was tough for him. He was stepping back into competitive basketball after playing mostly rec ball, and it was a major adjustment. But I kept telling the coach, “I’m telling you, once Joseph gets in his bag, he’s a problem. He’s got that dog in him.”

  Now, I’ll be real—my knees are terrible. There were plenty of practices where I barely did anything other than talk shit to the coach from the sideline. This was one of those days. I sat back and watched as Joseph figured it out. We talked about patience—how he wasn’t going to out-run these younger, faster guys, but he didn’t need to. He just had to slow the game down and play his way.

  And then, it clicked.

  Joseph absolutely shut practice down.

  He started hitting shots in defenders’ faces. One of the guys was trash-talking him, saying, “You ain’t nothing,” like they always did in these physical, no-foul scrimmages. JoJo answered by lighting him up—shot after shot, getting to the basket with ease, locking up on defense. He even started taking the ball from guys who normally took it from him.

  Then, he pulled up from deep and drilled a three. Coach immediately shut practice down.

  That’s who Joseph Jessie is. Humble. Quiet. A little stupid at times (let’s be real), but when it’s time to go, he’s a dog within a dog.

  How “The Run” Started

  Fast forward—Joseph calls me up at a weird time for the University of Buckets. We were in this in-between stage where we had some guys, but not enough competition, and we needed a place to practice and recruit more players.

  JoJo tells me, “Hey, I’ve got this big thing coming up… but don’t tell anyone yet, ‘cause it might not even happen.”

  I’m like, What? A tournament? What is this?

  He says, “Nah, just an open gym… but like, an open gym for everyone.”

  I ask, “Alright, bet. What time? How many courts?”

  He hits me with: “We’re taking over the whole Franklin. Three full courts.”

  I was hyped. My cousin had pulled something off, and I was just waiting for it to be real. I told my guys that we might have an opportunity to all play together and asked who would be available on the weekends.

  But The Run didn’t just become a place for us to get better. It became a culture.

  How We Took Over The Run

  Every time we showed up, I made sure the University of Buckets was stacked. I didn’t just bring one team—I brought three.

  ?Our main squad

  ?A second squad (guys who could’ve been on the main squad)

  ?A third squad (random players + me and Presley Crawley so she could compete with the guys)

  Early on, people hated us. Not because we were talking crazy or causing problems, but because we were the only team that came in organized. Everyone else was just hooping, but we were out there moving with a purpose.

  We weren’t running set plays—we were just constantly in motion. The best way to describe it? Think Golden State Warriors-style offense—constant movement, off-ball screens, backdoor cuts, spacing, and read-and-react basketball. We communicated, and we trusted each other. No one was standing around waiting for an iso. It was all instinctual, all rhythm-based.

  If one person drove, another filled their spot. If the ball went up, everyone crashed the glass. It was all about keeping the defense on their heels—no wasted movement, no unnecessary dribbles, just efficient basketball.

  And yeah, it was an open gym, but for us, it was practice.

  Sometimes, I’d even pull my phone out and record plays just to show guys what they were doing wrong and what they needed to fix. I wasn’t coaching a team—I was coaching everybody. But I made sure to spend extra time with my squads, helping them understand defensive rotations, how to hedge a screen, how to play off their defender’s hip, and how to manipulate help defense without the ball.

  It didn’t take long before we were beating everybody.

  Now, if you were good, you wanted to be a part of the University of Buckets. And the crazy part? We had already been posting a ton online, so by the time we started dominating The Run, people already knew who we were. It looked like we had been out here grinding for years, but really, we were just moving differently—early morning workouts, training sessions, and now this weekly open gym.

  But let’s be real—most guys weren’t getting up at 5 AM to travel an hour for workouts. That’s why The Run became our home.

  And we made it fun.

  Before long, teams had to stack their rosters just to compete with us. We forced people to create their own super-teams just to take us down. It was wild—people who never played together before were linking up just to stop the University of Buckets.

  Most weekends, we ran 92% of the games at The Run. But the best part? As competition grew, more people figured out how to beat us.

  The Cocky Phase (That I Needed to Work On)

  Now, I won’t lie—during this time, I was way too cocky.

  But can you blame me?

  I had built a program that was exceeding my expectations. We had some of the most talented players in the state, and nobody had heard of them before. We were like the Bad News Bears—you just didn’t know if we were gonna beat the brakes off you or beat the brakes off ourselves.

  But the biggest success?

  We recruited 75% of our players from The Run.

  That’s what made it legendary.

  …to prepare if they wanted to play against us.

  Other squads started bringing more organized players. Some even brought entire AAU teams just to try and take us down. But that was the beauty of The Run—it pushed everyone to be better. It wasn’t just a random open gym anymore. It had become a proving ground.

  The DJ, The Push-Up Rule, and The Culture of Accountability

  One of the most hilarious and unexpected additions to The Run was the DJ. He wasn’t just playing music—he was setting the tone, making announcements, and keeping the energy up. But the best thing he did?

  The 25 Push-Up Rule.

  Anytime someone airballed, whether in a game or just shooting around, he’d yell “25 PUSH-UPS!” The entire gym would turn and look, and the guilty hooper had no choice but to drop and get them done. It started as a joke, but it became a rule.

  At first, people were annoyed, but then they realized it actually made them focus more. No one wanted to be that guy who had to stop the game and do push-ups in front of everyone. And let’s be real—this was all because of how much I was on my guys about being disciplined. The DJ figured if I was pushing my players that hard, why not make everyone accountable?

  Joseph thought it was hilarious. And just like that, “25 for an airball” became a staple of The Run.

  The Summer Takeover & The Jamal Crawford Conflict

  Summer basketball in Seattle is crazy. There’s an insane amount of talent in the city, and at its peak, The Run had up to 250 people showing up at Franklin High School. That meant wall-to-wall competition—dunks, highlights, and battles that looked like they belonged on ESPN.

  But the wildest part? We unintentionally ruffled some feathers.

  Jamal Crawford and his crew had been running open gyms at Franklin for years, and we didn’t even realize we were taking up their usual time slot. It wasn’t a direct beef or anything, but word got around that our run was pulling players away from their runs.

  People were coming up to us saying,

  “Yo, this run is legit. The energy here is different.”

  We didn’t expect it, but it was proof that what we built had real weight.

  Survival of the Fittest – The Run’s Competitive Edge

  With so many hoopers showing up, the rule was simple:

  If you lost, you were waiting at least 2-3 hours to get back on the court—if you even got back on at all.

  That made every single game a war. If you got on, you fought to stay on. If you weren’t conditioned, you got exposed fast. And if you didn’t come with a full squad, you were probably getting run off the floor.

  The competition was unmatched, and at one point, I honestly thought this was as good as it could ever get.

  The Outdoor Struggle & The Unexpected Culture Clash

  Then—disaster.

  Franklin High School shut us down, and we were forced to move outdoors. The problem? Indoor hoopers don’t like playing outside.

  Seattle hoopers are used to elite gym runs. Playing on cement? No thank you. The turnout dropped drastically, and for the first time, I thought The Run might be over.

  But then, we showed up and saw something hilarious.

  Before our run, a whole Mexican basketball community had their own run at the same court. And when I say they did it differently, I mean they did it WAY better than us.

  ?They had food—tacos, quesadillas, elote (Mexican street corn).

  ?They had beer, music, and an entire party atmosphere.

  ?They played as a family, bringing their kids, wives, and full crews to watch and enjoy.

  Meanwhile, we were struggling just to get people to play. It was humbling—and honestly, it was hilarious to see how different their approach was.

  The Return to Rainier Community Center – The Run Hits Its Peak

  After a long two months outside, we finally locked in a permanent spot at Rainier Community Center—a historic gym where legends like Jamal Crawford, Nate Robinson, and other Seattle hoopers grew up playing.

  The moment we moved back indoors, The Run exploded again.

  Even though Rainier had fewer courts than Franklin, it didn’t matter. The competition, the intensity, the culture—it was all back. People weren’t just coming to play. They were coming to prove something.

  And once again, The University of Buckets dominated.

  The Run Became More Than Basketball – It Became a Brotherhood

  The craziest part about The Run wasn’t just the games or the competition. It was the community we built.

  If you hadn’t been there in a while, people asked where you were.

  If you had a rough game, someone was there to lift you up.

  If you needed an escape, The Run was your therapy.

  For a lot of guys, this wasn’t just an open gym—it was a support system.

  And while there were moments where things could’ve gone left—fights, guns in the gym, all the usual tension that comes with streetball—we always found a way to keep the peace and keep the game first.

  The Legacy of The Run & University of Buckets

  At the heart of it all was Joseph Jessie—my cousin, my brother in this game, the true leader behind The Run.

  What started as an idea turned into one of the most competitive and respected runs in Seattle.

  It gave guys a chance to compete.

  It gave young players a chance to learn.

  It gave us a platform to build something bigger.

  And whether it was the DJ calling out airballs, the insane level of competition, or just the late-night talks with JoJo about how far we had come, The Run was a moment in time we’ll never forget.

  Seattle basketball needed The Run.

  And in a way, we all needed it too.

  Chapter X: The Biggest Run Yet

  By this time, The Run had already started making waves, with Ball Is Life featuring it here and there. But my cousin Joseph took it to another level. He brought in Hezi God multiple times, drawing massive crowds who couldn’t believe one of the best 1v1 players in the world was right there in Seattle. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to witness that firsthand—Pierce had broken his legs, so I spent a lot of time at home with him. But from everything I heard, it was legendary.

  That being said, the biggest event I was there for was one of the craziest and most unforgettable days in The Run’s history. This is the moment that, in my opinion, solidified its place in Seattle basketball culture.

  The Cam Wilder Effect

  One day, my cousin called me up and said, “Hey, I got this guy coming in. You don’t wanna miss this.”

  I had no clue who he was talking about at first, but it turned out to be Cam Wilder—one of those Ball Is Life YouTube hoopers with a massive following. He even had his own AAU team that he sponsored and coached. I let Presley and Pierce know immediately, and luckily, this all happened during Presley’s break from college, so they were able to be there.

  We showed up early, hoping to sell some University of Buckets gear, but that didn’t really pan out. Still, we were there to help out, and as we waited for Cam to arrive, my cousin called me again:

  “Yo, come with me. You’re gonna help bring him inside.”

  Now, I wasn’t the only one on security duty. My guy Marvin—who I don’t always see eye to eye with, but I respect—was also there. We were both taller, understood spacing and movement, and had experience with this kind of thing. So, together, we became the lead security for getting Cam Wilder and his crew from outside to inside the gym.

  Sounds easy, right?

  Not at all.

  There were over a thousand people outside. Fans screaming, pushing, and trying to snap pictures with Cam and his squad. It was absolute chaos. By the time we finally got them inside, I was exhausted.

  But I also realized something: we had just done something that had never been done in Seattle.

  We shut the event down in a way no one had ever seen. The energy was unreal.

  Seattle Shows Out

  Now, onto the games.

  Our Run guys—players who had been grinding in the gym with us, hooping with University of Buckets—stepped up in a big way. They didn’t just compete.

  They ran Cam Wilder’s squad off the court.

  It was a straight-up beatdown. And honestly, while that was great to see, I realized something was missing. Cam and his team had a brand behind them. A platform. They could take that footage, spin it however they wanted, and keep growing their audience.

  We?

  We didn’t have anything like that.

  That was the moment I knew we needed our own Seattle-based basketball platform, something that could showcase our talent and keep the spotlight on our players. That’s when Zone 206 was born.

  Fighting for the Future

  This event wasn’t just a win for The Run—it was a huge moment for my cousin. The city had tried to shut it down. They barely approved it, limiting capacity and restricting how we could use the space. But despite all that, he pulled it off.

  And now?

  We were having real conversations with the city about funding these events, improving security, and—most importantly—getting paid for our time and effort in organizing them.

  This is what happens when you keep grinding, when you believe in what you’re building. My cousin went from working for someone else to running his own training business, hosting The Run, and organizing massive events.

  And that’s the bigger lesson: if you love what you do and put in the work, you can build the life you want. Own a home. Drive a nice car. Take care of your family. And most importantly—prove to the world that you don’t need a “traditional job” to succeed.

  Just keep working.

  Michael Shinaul Jr.: The Breakthrough

  Michael Shinaul Jr. came to me through Xavier and The Run. Or maybe he found his way to me some other way. Honestly, it didn’t matter where he started—the only thing that mattered was that he showed up and put in the work.

  He was one of the few players who committed to Breakfast Club, a training group that met early in the morning, long before most people even thought about touching a basketball. He had a dream—playing overseas. He had athleticism, he had drive, but he lacked one critical skill: shooting.

  At 6’4” or 6’5”, Michael had been playing out of position his entire high school career. In Washington, like in a lot of places, high school coaches prioritize wins over player development, and since most teams lack height, taller players get forced into power forward or center roles, even if their skill set is better suited for a guard.

  Michael got stuck in that system. He was used to playing inside, rebounding, and finishing around the basket, but if he wanted to make it as a professional, he had to become a guard. And the first step? He had to learn how to shoot.

  The Curry Effect: Unlocking the Shot

  I had been studying Stephen Curry’s shot for a while at this point. The way he fires the ball off his fingertips with almost no wasted motion—it’s as if he’s shooting out of a cannon. His release is so fast, it barely looks like he loads up.

  Most shooters snap their wrist down hard at the end of their shot. That’s the standard way of shooting—wrist snap, follow-through, elbow in. But Curry does something different. His wrist doesn’t force the motion, it reacts to the shot. It’s like the wrist is just along for the ride.

  I had to figure out how that worked. And I did.

  The key wasn’t in the wrist—it was in the arm motion. If you watch Curry closely, his arm extends at a 45-degree angle toward the rim, like a catapult launching forward. The energy isn’t coming from the wrist snapping down—it’s coming from the entire arm firing forward in one smooth motion.

  I had been testing it on my own shot, and to my surprise, it worked. Not only was it faster, but it was also more natural. With my shoulder issues, this method actually took pressure off my arm and made long-distance shooting easier.

  Michael was the perfect test case.

  Building a Shooter from Scratch

  Michael’s shot was broken. Not kind of broken—completely broken. He had no real rhythm, no confidence, and most importantly, no results. If you left him open, you could bet money he was going to miss.

  So we got to work.

  The first thing I told him was to forget everything he thought he knew about shooting.

  I had him stand still, no dribbling, no movement, and focus on just one thing: fire his arm at the rim.

  ?No flicking the wrist.

  ?No forcing the shot.

  ?Just fire the arm at 45 degrees toward the rim and let the wrist react naturally.

  At first, it felt weird to him. He was so used to trying to control the shot that letting his arm do the work felt unnatural. But the results? Immediate.

  Shots that used to hit the backboard or barely touch the rim were now falling straight in. His backspin improved. His follow-through looked cleaner. Most importantly, his confidence skyrocketed.

  Once he started making shots in practice, we took it to the next level—game situations.

  The Transformation

  For weeks, we drilled:

  ?Catch-and-shoot reps—firing with no hesitation.

  ?One-dribble pull-ups—maintaining rhythm off the bounce.

  ?Live 3-on-3 games—forcing him to trust the new mechanics under pressure.

  The shift was undeniable.

  Michael went from “leave him open” to “guard the shooter” in just a few months.

  Where he used to make one three-pointer in a pickup game, he was now hitting seven, eight, sometimes nine threes in a single run.

  He wasn’t just making shots—he believed in his shot.

  That was the biggest win.

  Dunking on Me – Michael’s Journey

  Michael Shinaul Jr. wasn’t just another player who showed up at Breakfast Club—he was the definition of commitment. What separated him from others was his relentless desire to improve and his uncanny athleticism that translated to explosive plays on the court. He could elevate to the rim like few others, his vertical leap showcasing a skill set that could leave defenders in awe. But despite all that, there was one thing missing in his game: the ability to dunk on someone.

  Dunking in itself is an impressive feat for any basketball player. But dunking over a defender, especially in a high-pressure game, takes more than just leaping ability—it requires timing, confidence, and the mental fortitude to attack the rim, even when a defender is closing in. Michael had the physical tools to pull it off, but what he lacked was the confidence to make contact, a critical part of any dunk in live-game situations.

  Michael’s athleticism was never in question. On many occasions, he could break through the defense, charging toward the hoop with the intention of throwing down a dunk. The problem, however, was the fear of contact. Basketball is a contact sport, and anyone who’s played knows that dunking on someone requires not only physical strength but mental toughness—something Michael had yet to develop. He wasn’t used to someone challenging his rise to the rim, and when that challenge came, Michael would hesitate, unable to finish the dunk. He could get to the rim, but he wasn’t able to rise above and finish over a defender. He was great at avoiding contact, but when it came to facing a defender directly, he was out of his element.

  But that’s where we came in.

  The Dunk Drill: Conquering the Fear

  It was clear that Michael needed to overcome his hesitation when it came to contact. He was already working hard on his athleticism, but now it was time to shift the focus to his mental game.

  The first step was simple, yet fundamental: jumping over chairs. I know it sounds trivial, but it was an essential drill to break down the mental barriers he had. The goal wasn’t just about getting from point A to point B, but about working on his timing, body control, and learning to leap at different angles while building muscle memory. At first, Michael struggled to clear the chairs, as he hesitated to fully commit to the jump. His body was in prime condition, but his mind wasn’t fully engaged.

  He had a tendency to overthink, to not trust his own athleticism, and to pull back just before the jump, unsure of what the result might be. But after several attempts—and a lot of patience—he began to realize that he wasn’t going to hurt himself if he committed fully. This part of the process was about overcoming mental blocks. He was learning how to trust the mechanics of his jump, and more importantly, how to trust himself.

  This drill set the tone for the more challenging aspects of his training. Jumping over objects was one thing, but now it was time for Michael to face a bigger challenge: contact. In basketball, avoiding contact is sometimes impossible, especially when you’re trying to finish strong at the rim. It was time for him to get comfortable with defenders under the basket, and that’s where the “Dunk on Me” drill came into play.

  The “Dunk on Me” Drill: The Art of Contact and Timing

  The “Dunk on Me” drill is a valuable tool for any player looking to improve their ability to finish at the rim under pressure. This drill is straightforward but incredibly effective in teaching players how to handle physical challenges in a game. In this drill, one player would start at the three-point line and sprint toward the rim with the intent of dunking. The defender, placed behind the basket, would challenge the dunker at the rim without committing a foul. The goal was to force the dunker to finish strong even while feeling the pressure of the defender closing in.

  This drill taught Michael how to control his body, how to read defenders, and how to manipulate angles. At first, Michael struggled, and his performance in the drill was inconsistent. Timing was everything, and Michael was slow to react to defenders’ movements. He didn’t yet know how to maneuver in mid-air, adjust his body to avoid a block, or force the defender into a foul.

  But that’s the beauty of this drill: even if you fail, you still learn. Michael wasn’t dunking on me during practice, but he was learning how to time his jump, how to use his off-hand to shield the ball, and how to absorb contact and still maintain focus. That was the first step in developing the confidence he needed to finish over defenders in a game. The drill wasn’t about succeeding right away; it was about repetition and growth.

  As we continued to work on this drill, Michael started to show significant improvements. He went from being hesitant to being decisive. He learned that in order to finish at the rim, he couldn’t avoid the defender—he had to embrace the contact and use his leverage, timing, and strength to finish. His attack mode was finally in full gear. And just like that, Michael was dunking on defenders in live game situations—something he hadn’t done before.

  Turning the Corner: Michael’s Rise

  Michael’s transformation was remarkable. From a player who hesitated at the rim to one who aggressively attacked defenders, he became a different player. His newfound confidence was evident not just in his dunking but in every aspect of his game. He became more aware of how to use angles when driving to the basket, how to adjust his body in mid-air, and how to protect the ball while finishing through contact.

  Before all this training, there was criticism. People questioned his decisions on the court and labeled him as a player who wasn’t mentally prepared for the grind of competitive basketball. That changed quickly after he took on the challenge. He went from being the subject of criticism to one of the most dynamic players on the court, the one who could change the course of a game with a single dunk or explosive move.

  Michael’s Decision: Leaving the Court

  However, after spending significant time with the Vets and playing competitive basketball for a while, Michael made a bold decision: he was done with basketball. It wasn’t an easy choice, but after a lot of reflection, he realized that the sport no longer served his passion in the way it once did. Michael still played basketball for fun, participating in random chipper tournaments against us and occasionally joining for pickup games, but the commitment to competitive basketball had faded.

  Michael made the decision to step away from playing for a team and stop working for someone else. His newfound freedom gave him the space to explore his interests further. After some time, he discovered photography—something he had always been drawn to but never fully pursued. Just as he had approached basketball with dedication, he now approached photography with the same level of focus.

  Finding Success in Photography

  Michael found photography to be a natural fit, drawing on the same principles that made him a great basketball player: focus, precision, and patience. He dove deep into the craft, teaching himself and honing his skills over time. His basketball background, filled with lessons about vision, angles, and creativity, translated perfectly into his new career.

  Today, Michael is an independent photographer, excelling at capturing moments, stories, and emotions through his lens. He travels extensively, photographing professional athletes, celebrities, and events all over the world. His work has gained recognition, and he continues to build a name for himself in the photography industry.

  Michael’s journey is a testament to the fact that success doesn’t always follow a linear path. Basketball helped shape the foundation of his mindset, but it was his willingness to transition and embrace something new that allowed him to flourish. He may not have pursued a traditional path in basketball, but his story is one of resilience, adaptability, and finding your own way.

  JAMES EDWARDS – Junior Gifted!!

  James Edwards was one of those kids who really tested me—he represented the chance to guide someone to the pinnacle of basketball, to the NBA. With his father having played for the Chicago Bulls and the Pistons, there was already a legacy in his blood. We just had to figure out how to put the package together and make it presentable.

  When James first came to me, he stood around 6-foot-11 and weighed somewhere between 200 and 211 pounds. Athleticism flowed through him like electricity, yet he lacked a certain polish. On the court, his mobility was his greatest asset—he moved around in space with ease—but his post moves were still raw, unrefined, and not as polished as one would expect from a big man destined for greatness.

  Having him on the team was a game-changer. His presence attracted other talented players, and before long our rosters swelled to 18 to 22 players at every tournament. It wasn’t just a numbers game; it was the “James effect” in full swing, drawing in talent and elevating our collective capability and skill set.

  I remember the first time he approached me. It was at the Battle of the Lake, and I saw him hanging back, clearly underutilized on his previous team. I called out to him, “Hey, if you wanna come play with us,” knowing I could help him reach the level he dreamed of. That day marked the beginning of a rigorous process—one that started at the YMCA in Sammamish.

  I met with his mom before our first training session. She was understandably apprehensive, wanting to know exactly what I planned to do with her son. The gym was filled with the sound of bouncing basketballs and squeaking sneakers as we ran through drills. I was more nervous than she was, every moment heavy with the weight of opportunity. We focused on everything from ball-handling and conditioning to developing his post moves, all with the intent of transforming his raw talent into a refined skill set.

  Every drill, every play, and every moment in that gym was a step toward something bigger—toward the University of Buckets. And when I say “University of Buckets,” I mean Pierce and Presley Crawley—the true inspirations behind everything we’re building. Their legacy isn’t just why we started this whole endeavor; it’s also the foundation upon which we continue to build our empire, a legacy designed not only to help one kid but to uplift every young player facing the same challenges.

  And so, in that bustling gym and on every packed court, as we dribbled, passed, and shot our way through endless drills, the promise of something greater loomed on the horizon—a promise fueled by raw talent, relentless work, and a community united by the love of the game.

  After that first workout, I sat down with his mom, and she was really nice about everything. She told me how excited she was about what we worked on that day. I had him do a lot of guard work—even though he wasn’t as big as some might expect at his weight—because I knew that playing on the wing would give him a more sustainable career path. We focused on making sure that not only could he shoot the ball from outside, but he could also put it on the ground. We worked on using angles and spacing so he could dribble past defenders and find his way to the basket.

  From that first day forward, things were on and popping. It was super fun having them in the gym, especially in those early days. Attendance surged—from one or two players to about eight or nine showing up at 5 o’clock in the morning. It became clear that if you weren’t there, someone else would be waiting, hungry for the chance to improve. A wide variety of players started showing up during that time. One day, Xavier even made an appearance—a day that turned out to be one of the most memorable sessions.

  We had already talked about Michael Shinaul Junior, and I’ll share more about Xavier later, since he’s become one of the main pieces in this story beyond just the kids. That day, when Xavier finally arrived at the gym, we decided to help Michael learn how to dunk the ball on someone. We played a game we called “Dunk on Me or Not Dunk on Me.” One player would position himself at the three-point line, while another stood underneath or just a couple of feet behind the basket. The idea was simple: one would take off toward the rim while the other tried to block the dunk. Sometimes it was a back-and-forth, other times each would work on different aspects—offense and defense—simultaneously.

  James, being super tall, took a few runs at it for fun. He was more focused on defense and on capturing some random film for later review. But Xavier was the only one who could even come close to getting high enough to dunk on James. The funny part was that by the time Xavier got his turn, James had already blocked a few shots. Knowing that the others hadn’t jumped that high, Xavier saw his opportunity and sneaked in a dunk—and it was all captured on film. If you head over to the University of Buckets page and scroll through the long reel of random clips, there’s one there that proves exactly what happened that day.

  Xavier, a left-handed dynamo with long, athletic limbs, jumped over James and dunked on him—leaving everyone, including James himself, in utter shock. But the excitement didn’t stop there. After that jaw-dropping moment, Xavier went up for the dunk several more times, trying to repeat his feat. Yet each time, James, with remarkable ease, blocked every single attempt. His defensive prowess was on full display, and it was a powerful reminder of the level of talent on that court.

  Every detail of that morning—the echo of bouncing basketballs, the squeak of sneakers on the gym floor, and the roar of excitement—wove itself into the fabric of our journey. The gym was more than just a place to work out; it was a living, breathing classroom where raw talent met hard work, and every drill was a step toward something greater. And while this chapter isn’t over yet, every moment, every dunk, and every lesson was another piece of the University of Buckets story we were building—one inspired by legends like Pierce and Presley Crawley and dedicated to lifting every kid who walked through that door.

  James became one of the biggest catalysts for the Reckless Club as we pushed forward with our training. We mixed up our routines with a variety of drills, but one of our favorites was “King of the Court.” Whenever we had a good turnout, it was a blast to watch. Especially when James was on the floor alongside other guys with pro aspirations—you could see just how fiercely he competed, always pushing himself to refine his craft.

  One of the challenges of launching a new program is that, even when the results speak for themselves, some kids don’t always share that same drive. They have their own thought processes, and often everyone expects that you’ll eventually charge money for training. But our mission was different—we were committed to doing this 100% for free, helping kids out rather than taking advantage of their parents’ resources to get them where they want to be.

  Part of that mission was also building a brand. Just like everyone else in our program, James Edwards had his own identity—he earned the nickname “Big Game James.” Back then, we only had a vinyl cutter and a heat press, but that didn’t stop us. We designed some really cool logos and put them on T-shirts and hoodies that made him look amazing. We did charge some folks who had the means, because the gear cost money, but we always made it affordable. It was all part of the vision—to help everyone grow their brand without breaking the bank.

  The funny thing about James was that he loved the clothes we made for him, yet he was never too keen on posting pictures or promoting his brand. In my mind, if you’re putting in the work on the court, why not share it and build your reputation off the back of that hard work? I won’t lie—I clashed with him about it a few times. Despite our back-and-forth, we ended up posting plenty of content: some about his brand, but mostly showcasing his skills on the court.

  The highlights were always a treat. We made sure to capture him knocking down multiple shots in a row and, of course, those epic dunks. Every piece of footage was a testament to the progress he was making, and it also reinforced the power of the brand we were building behind his name. Soon enough, the hard work started paying off. Posts began popping up on Instagram from people asking about James and his availability to play. We held off on any offers because we truly believed he had what it took to make it to the NBA—he just needed to polish up the rest of his skill set.

  I often compared my approach with James to a training strategy similar to Mike Tyson’s early days, where Tyson’s trainer pushed him to become the ultimate fighter by filling in the gaps in his game. I saw that same potential in James. I’d seen many kids rushing to the finish line without refining all their skills, and I was determined that James wouldn’t be one of them. Every drill, every game of King of the Court, and every piece of branded content was another step toward not just building a player, but building a legacy.