I remember standing in that mall, scrolling through my phone when the news broke about UA pulling out. It was just last week, or maybe two weeks ago—time gets funny when you're dealing with something as life-altering as cancer diagnosis. That moment felt strangely symbolic, standing there surrounded by normalcy while my world was turning upside down. The timing couldn't have been more ironic, really. Here I was, a professional athlete at the peak of my career, suddenly facing a battle far removed from the basketball courts I'd called home for over a decade.

When the doctors first told me I had stage three colon cancer, my immediate thought wasn't about survival—it was about whether I'd ever feel the polished hardwood beneath my sneakers again. The statistics weren't exactly comforting either. According to recent studies I dove into during those sleepless hospital nights, colorectal cancer affects approximately 150,000 Americans annually, with survival rates hovering around 65% for my specific stage. But numbers don't capture the reality of chemotherapy sessions that leave you too weak to stand, let alone practice free throws. There were days when simply walking from my bed to the bathroom felt like running suicides during preseason training.

What surprised me most was how similar the mental approach to cancer treatment felt to preparing for a big game. The same discipline that had me waking at 5 AM for shooting practice now had me meticulously tracking medication schedules and hydration levels. My training in visualization—something I'd used to imagine game-winning shots—became my tool for picturing healthy cells overwhelming cancerous ones. I'd lie there during chemo sessions, eyes closed, imagining my body as a well-oiled machine systematically eliminating invaders, much like how we'd break down opponents' defenses during film sessions.

The physical toll was something else entirely. I lost nearly 30 pounds during the first two months of treatment, watching my athletic physique wither away in hospital room mirrors. My muscle mass decreased by approximately 40% according to the body composition scans, and there were days when holding a basketball felt like lifting weights. But here's the thing about being an athlete—we're wired differently. The same stubbornness that made me fight for rebounds against seven-foot centers now fueled my determination to walk the hospital corridors, then eventually shuffle around the block, then finally—gloriously—make my way back to the practice facility.

I'll never forget the first time I touched a basketball after months of treatment. My hands trembled, and not from weakness but from emotion. That orange leather sphere represented everything I'd fought for, everything cancer had threatened to take from me. Those initial shooting sessions were humbling—my form was off, my legs felt like jelly, and my breathing couldn't keep up with simple drills. But each missed shot felt like a small victory because it meant I was there, present, fighting back in the arena I understood best.

The support system made all the difference. My teammates would visit, bringing stories from the court and silly memes that made me laugh until my incision sites ached. My coaches adapted my rehabilitation with the same strategic thinking they'd use for playoff games, breaking down my recovery into manageable quarters rather than an overwhelming whole. Even the equipment managers kept my locker untouched, a silent promise that my place on the team awaited my return.

Now, looking back at that mall moment—hearing about business decisions while facing life-and-death ones—I realize how perspective shifts when you stare mortality in the face. The endorsement deals, the statistics, the wins and losses—they all matter, but differently. When I finally stepped back onto the court for my first official game post-recovery, the roar of the crowd didn't sound like approval but like celebration of human resilience. That first basket I scored? It wasn't about points on a board but about declaring that cancer hadn't won. The journey changed my relationship with basketball fundamentally—it's no longer just a game but a testament to second chances, to fighting through pain, to the beautiful ordinary moments like hearing about sponsorship changes while doing something as simple as standing in a mall.