Jackson's Basketball Journey

Every time that Jackson scores, he hears the distinct snap of a ball bouncing on cracked concrete, and the voice of his mother saying, “Don’t let them decide your worth.”

The towering basketball player, muscles coiled, leaps towards the hoop, the ball a mere extension of his powerful arm, about to score the winning goal in a stadium packed with roaring fans. The scene is electric, with sweat glistening on his brow and determination etched on his face. The lighting is dramatic, casting long shadows across the court, reminiscent of a high-stakes sports film.

Jackson hears echoes of the dynamic energy of Ernie Barnes, former basketball player turned artist. Barnes, who said that he painted people with their eyes closed because he thought humans were blind to one another's suffering.

As an artist, Barnes painted the The Sugar Shack.

The Sugar Shack, which captures a lively night at a Black music hall in mid-20th century, segregated North Carolina. Inspired by Barnes’s memory of sneaking into the Durham Armory as a preteen in 1952, the painting vibrates with movement and emotion, as dancers and musicians lose themselves in the joy of the moment. Barnes’s signature style of elongated, fluid figures set in motion brings the scene to life with unmatched vitality.

Within the art, Jackson finds his inspiration for being the best that he can be.

He tastes the raw emotions in the spirits of artwork captured by Kehinde Wiley's Masterpieces of athletic prowess and human spirit.

His 'Metaphorical Interpretation' views, in which he sees basketball as a metaphor for the art form of the game itself, noting the creativity and coordination of players working together.

In his painting "After La Négresse, 1872," Kehinde uses a basketball player to highlight the connection between the sports industry and the history of enslavement, challenging the idea that professional athletics is a true path to liberation.

🏀 The player's Backstory on a Court beneath the rain.

Jackson was born in a crumbling apartment complex on the edge of a city where invisibility was the order of the day. Where the streetlights flickered like broken dreams never realized, and the sound of sirens was more familiar than bedtime stories. His middle name is Malik, meaning “king,” though he often felt more like a pawn in someone else’s game.

His mother worked double shifts at the hospital, her hands calloused from care, her voice soft but firm. His father had vanished into the fog of incarceration when Malik was five, leaving behind a single photograph and a pair of worn-out sneakers. Malik kept them both under his bed, relics of a vanished kingdom.

School was a battlefield. Teachers underestimated him, classmates mocked his silence, and the only place he felt rhythm was on the cracked asphalt of the local court. There, beneath a rusted hoop and graffiti-stained walls, he found his sanctuary. The ball was his language, the bounce his heartbeat. He played in the rain, in the cold, in the dark - until his fingers bled and his legs trembled.

But talent alone wasn’t enough. He was cut from his high school team twice. Coaches said he was “too raw,” “too emotional,” “too unpredictable.” He almost gave up - until one night, his mother came home with a bruised wrist and whispered, “Don’t let them decide your worth.”

That winter, Malik trained in silence. He ran hills at dawn, studied game tapes at midnight, and practiced free throws until the moon dipped below the skyline. He began to see the court not just as a place to play...but as a place to rewrite his story.

A scout finally noticed him during a local tournament where he dropped 42 points and hugged every teammate like they were family. From there, the doors opened...but slowly. Junior college. Then a scholarship. Then the draft.

When he finally stepped onto the NBA court, he wore his father’s sneakers, not the custom ones. He looked up at the rafters and whispered:

“This is for every kid who was told they were not enough.”

Now, he’s not just a player. He’s a symbol. He funds scholarships for kids from his neighborhood. He speaks at juvenile centers. He plays with fire, but walks with grace.

For inspiration, his wall is covered by pictures of many basketball greats...But his favorite of all, is a portrait of Barack Obama, painted by Kehinde Wiley...

“Because he made the impossible look inevitable.”

Malik sees in Obama not just a president, but a symbol of grace under pressure, of intellect wielded with empathy, of a man who carried the weight of history without letting it crush his spirit. Born to a fractured lineage, raised between cultures, Obama carved a path through doubt and division with words that healed and actions that mattered.

To Malik, the photo is a mirror and a map. It reminds him that dignity is not weakness, that eloquence can be armor, and that being Black in America means rewriting the narrative every day. Obama’s journey - from community organizer to commander-in-chief - is proof that legacy is not inherited, but earned.

When Malik feels the sting of prejudice or the fatigue of relentless effort, he looks at that photo and remembers:

"If he could walk into rooms where no one looked like him and still speak like he belonged, then I can leap into arenas where no one expects me and still rise".

"Still be ME".

He whispers.