“You’ll never beat me. You’ll never beat anyone.”

These were the words that sent me on the path to basketball mastery and a life-changing experience.

With some encouragement by my friend, I started practicing at Foothill Elementary school’s courts. I played with more experienced players, and being my first time, I made many mistakes, turning over the ball multiple times and missing every shot I attempted, which hurt my team. I played another game and again I lost severely. In addition to not knowing how to correctly play the game, I stand at 5-3, which puts me at a huge physical disadvantage.

Was this really the right thing to do? Couldn’t I just concede and admit that I really couldn’t beat anyone at basketball? Maybe I should just study more for the SAT.

But after that day of defeat, I went home embarrassed and frustrated; it wasn’t my fault I was a good foot shorter than everyone else. As the anger simmered down and my head cleared, I focused on a lingering desire to prove those who had doubted me wrong. I was going to be a respected basketball player, and I was going to beat them in a game and I vowed that I would wipe that condescending smirk off that guy’s face: “You’ll never beat anyone.” Those words stuck.

It was hard at first. Twenty shots only yielded one basket, and that one was probably from sheer luck. The first month was extremely frustrating — everyone else I played with was able to score with ease, dribbling deftly and launching the ball in a perfect arc, while I was still struggling to clumsily toss balls against the backboard. Some people laughed and said I looked like a grandma, and for those first few days, I sure felt like one.

I kept practicing. I spent hours on weekends at Foothill, playing pickup games with friends and people I barely knew, sometimes shooting by myself for more than three hours after they had left. Picture that lone kid in that one movie who’s practicing by himself, silhouetted against the setting sun, hand on his hips and panting hard, dripping sweat, while the “Rocky” theme song blasts in the background. That was me.

Whenever I grew frustrated watching my shots miss the hoop time after time again, the thought of those words would push me forward. “You’ll never beat me.” Another shot deflected off the rim. “You’ll never beat anyone.” A perfect swish. They stayed as a constant reminder of my goal.

Things started looking up when I was introduced to some players who went to the SHS courts every day. They took me under their wing, and they taught me their tricks: how to properly shoot, with one hand stabilizing the ball and the other flinging it forward with a flick of the wrist; how to make layups and to juke people out with a confounding crossover.

I learned how to use my lack of height to my advantage. By focusing on crossovers, continuously moving and playing defense extremely close up, I started improving in games.

And then the day came. It was the day that would decide everything, whether or not my effort had paid off, whether or not I had wasted my time. I found myself at a court with the people who had once teased me. With them was that kid who had said I would never win, back in the beginning of summer.

I was nervous, my palms sweaty, and for a second I was almost convinced that I should leave right then and there, save myself the shame.

But when I felt the ball in my grip and heard the satisfying thunk of my dribble, I found a familiar rhythm. Dribble, shoot, steal; dribble, shoot, steal.

We won by the score of 11-10. And it felt better than acing the SAT.