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| The Broken Promise |
Terence had the talent, the promise, and the chance to rise—until pride pulled him back to the streets. One broken promise nearly cost him everything. But when grace shows up in unexpected places, even a cracked court can become holy ground.—scroll down to begin.
Terence Brooks hated the nickname “Teabag,” but it stuck from childhood when Spider, Machetti, and Ice teased him until he wore it like a badge. They were his boys once, more like brothers than friends.
But life had shifted.
When Terence’s father died two years ago, and his mother disappeared into her own world, it was his grandfather, James Brooks, who took him in. A praying man. A steady man. A man who pulled Terence out of the old neighborhood and moved him across town to give him a chance at something better.
Basketball became Terence’s world. At sixteen, he had real skills, the kind that had scouts whispering. His grandfather reminded him daily: “God’s given you a gift, boy. Don’t waste it chasing shadows.”
Terence’s phone buzzed on Friday night. Spider’s voice came through the speaker, loud and mocking.
“Yo, Teabag, you still alive? We hittin’ a spot tonight. Don’t be soft. Roll with us.”
Terence hesitated. He already knew what his grandfather would say. “Nah, I can’t.”
Spider laughed. Then Machetti cut in, sharp: “Man, you think you better than us now? Just ‘cause you dribblin’ a ball? Prove you still one of us.”
The words dug deep. Pride clawed at him.
When Terence told his grandfather about the call, James’ eyes hardened. “Leave that life alone, Terence. You hear me? Those boys ain’t your future. Promise me.”
“I promise,” Terence muttered.
But later, when the house was still and his grandfather’s snores drifted down the hall, the old pull of the streets grew louder. The need to prove himself drowned out the promise. Terence slipped out into the night.
Spider’s beat-up car idled at the corner, bass shaking the windows. Terence climbed in, greeted with nods and smirks.
They tore through the streets, laughter and cursing filling the car. At a red light, a ragged man shuffled across the crosswalk — layers of rags hanging from his frame, beard wild, but eyes startlingly clear.
“Get out the street, old fool!” Ice shouted, tossing a cup out the window.
Spider honked. Machetti yelled something cruel.
Terence stayed quiet. His eyes met the man’s for a moment, and a chill danced along his spine. The man didn’t flinch, didn’t even glance away. Instead, his gaze locked on Terence’s like he saw straight through the skin and into his soul.
Then Terence heard it — not with his ears, but somewhere deeper, like wind whispering through his bones: Go back home.
He blinked. “Y’all hear that?”
“Hear what?” Spider scoffed, gunning the engine as the light turned green.
Terence turned his head, watching the man fade into the shadows behind them. But the voice echoed still: Go back home.
He shivered.
But he ignored it.
Twenty minutes later, Spider killed the headlights in front of a mansion tucked behind iron gates.
“Cutty G’s crib,” Machetti whispered, eyes gleaming. “Rap star’s on tour. We about to eat.”
Terence’s chest tightened. “Nobody said nothin’ about breakin’ in.”
Spider slapped him on the back. “Don’t sweat it, Teabag. Quick grab. You in or you out?”
The promise to his grandfather thundered in his memory. Pride kept him rooted.
“I’m in,” he muttered.
Spider’s crowbar popped the door. Inside, shadows swallowed the halls. Every creak of the floorboards felt like a shout in Terence’s ears.
Then—footsteps. Slow. Steady. Like someone was waiting.
A man stepped from the dark. Not panicked. Not surprised. His eyes locked on Terence, calm and steady. Something about him felt familiar—not in face, but in presence. Like déjà vu soaked in silence.
“You boys picked the wrong house,” he said evenly. His phone was in his hand. “Police are on their way.”
Spider cursed. Machetti bolted. Ice stumbled after him.
Terence froze. The man’s gaze burned into him. And in the dim light, Terence saw it: the faintest smile. Not mocking. Knowing.
Then sirens wailed. Red and blue lights washed the walls. Squad cars boxed them in.
They walked outside to the police waiting for them.
Hands grabbed Terence. Metal cuffs clamped around his wrists. His heart pounded so hard he thought it would break his ribs.
The holding cell stank of sweat and fear. Spider joked to cover his nerves. Machetti cursed the cops. Ice stared at the floor.
But Terence shook, staring at the cracked tiles, replaying the man’s gaze in his mind. And behind it, the whisper from the red light: Go back home.
I should’ve listened. God, why didn’t I listen?
Hours crawled until the door clanged open. A guard shoved another man inside. Ragged clothes, weathered face. Terence’s heart lurched—it was the same homeless man from the street.
Spider snorted. “Yo, old fool, you followin’ us?”
The man didn’t answer. He slid onto the bench beside Terence, calm, unmoved. His lips barely moved, but Terence heard him—clear as a bell in his chest.
“The warning was given. The path is yours now. But He’s still watching.”
Terence couldn’t speak. His friends laughed. But he didn’t.
Not anymore.
Morning came, gray and still. The cell door opened, and a guard called Terence's name.
He stepped into the hallway, heart thudding. His grandfather stood just beyond the processing desk, eyes heavy with both sorrow and prayer.
They didn’t speak at first. Just a long, searching silence. Then James gave a quiet nod. A signal: let’s go home.
The car ride was wordless. Tires humming, the city passing by like a faded memory. Only when they reached the porch did James finally speak.
Terence sank onto the steps, the morning sun barely breaking the horizon. His voice cracked.
“Grandpa, I’m sorry. I promised you. I promised, and I—”
James raised a hand. His voice was steady, sharp as truth.
“That man you saw at the light. And again in that cell. Son, he wasn’t just some drifter. He was your warning. Your way out. God sent him, and you ignored it — twice.”
Tears blurred Terence’s eyes. “How was he an angel? He looked like nothing—just a homeless man.”
“No,” James said firmly. “The Word says angels come in ways we don’t expect. And God spared you. Cutty G isn’t pressing charges. That’s mercy, not luck.”
Terence’s voice cracked. “But I messed up everything. Basketball… scouts… my future…”
James gripped his shoulder. “God’s not finished with you, boy. But don’t waste this scar. Let it remind you every time pride whispers. Let it be the limp you walk with. The one that reminds you who you are.”
Days later, Terence was back on the court. The ball thudded against the hardwood, sneakers squeaked, but it all felt different now. Every shot carried the memory of cold steel cuffs, his grandfather’s quiet strength, and the man’s eyes in that dark hallway.
During a break, Terence sat at the edge of the court, towel draped around his neck, breathing hard. He looked up at the ceiling, eyes stinging.
“I should’ve been done,” he whispered. “But You didn’t give up on me. Not when I ran. Not when I fell.”
He pressed his hand over his heart.
“Thank You for giving me another shot. Help me use it right.”
He stood, picked up the ball again. The court looked the same, but he wasn’t. He carried a scar—invisible, but real. A scar that whispered of mercy undeserved, of grace quietly given, and of a God who sends angels in rags to pull lost boys home.
And sometimes, just at the edge of the court, Terence would see a shadow move or feel eyes watching—and he’d smile, not in fear, but in faith.
Because now he knew: God had always been there. And He still was.
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