The ball that had just been dunked bounced off the rim, rolled across the floor, and stopped right at Dawson's feet.
Hooking it gently with his foot, Dawson replayed the scene in his mind.
Brown had exploded toward the hoop, his footwork a little choppy. He'd taken off about a meter inside the free-throw line, with plenty of power in his jump. Once in the air, his body stretched out smoothly—good sign. It meant his body control was solid.
But the actual dunk… it had that feeling of someone reaching at full extension just to get the ball in.
Dawson figured his wingspan probably wasn't great.
"Hey, who are you? Pass me the ball, please," Brown called out after landing.
The tone was casual, but at least there was a "please." For an eighteen-year-old, that was already decent manners.
"Dawson!"
From the sideline, Donovan's face lit up. He strode over quickly and pulled Dawson into a hug.
"Man, it's been… what, two, three years?"
Letting go, Donovan gave him an up-and-down look, his face full of the joy of reuniting with an old teammate.
He casually asked about Dawson's family—especially his mother. Donovan knew Dawson had grown up in a single-parent household with an older sister, and that his mom's health had never been great.
"She's doing well. My sister brought her out to L.A., and California sunshine's been good for her," Dawson replied, then asked after Donovan's family in return.
Specifically, his son—Little Billy.
In Dawson's senior year at Florida, Donovan often brought his four-year-old to the gym. Even back then, the kid could dribble with impressive form.
"Not great," Donovan admitted with a small shrug. "Still not enough talent."
Dawson chuckled. "Billy—man, your standards are too high."
The Donovan he remembered was always a tough coach. If you didn't execute his system the way he wanted, punishment was inevitable.
After catching up a bit more, Dawson took a moment to sincerely thank him.
The instant he'd seen Kwame Brown, he knew this was the opportunity he'd been waiting for.
Ever since the McDonald's All-American Game at Duke last month, Brown's hype had skyrocketed like a rocket launch. Some media outlets were already calling him the "No. 1 High School Player in America."
Getting the chance to train a guy like that? It would be a sparkling gem on Dawson's résumé.
This was a chance he couldn't afford to waste—and he was grateful to Donovan for setting it up.
"No need to thank me, Dawson. I've always known what you can do." Donovan waved it off, then added with a hint of regret, "Honestly, when you retired, I wanted you to stay on at Florida as my assistant coach. But you went back to Orlando and told me you'd already found a great job."
That season, Dawson's knee injury had all but ended his minutes on the court. Most of his value came off the court—helping Donovan in practices, leading by example. He'd basically been functioning as an assistant coach already.
Dawson gave a wry smile. Sometimes he wondered—if he'd stayed at Florida back then, maybe by now he'd have carved out a real name for himself in the NCAA coaching world.
But there's no rewinding time. No point dwelling on old regrets. The job at hand was good enough.
Donovan led him over for introductions.
"You should recognize this guy." Donovan nodded toward Kwame Brown, his eyes tinged with regret.
Years ago, when Brown had first started playing at Glynn Academy, someone had introduced him to Donovan. Donovan had kept tabs on him ever since, watching the kid grow into one of the hottest high school prospects in the country.
The real heartbreaker was that Donovan had fully intended to bring him to Florida. In fact, Brown had signed his letter of intent last November—but his draft stock had soared so high that he decided to go straight to the NBA instead.
"Of course."
Dawson smiled and extended a hand.
Brown studied him with mild curiosity, then politely returned the handshake.
Small hands, Dawson noticed instantly.
Sure, they were huge compared to an average person's, but for someone who stood 6'11" (2.11m), they were on the small side.
For a basketball player, big hands matter. With a wider grip, you can palm the ball better, develop a stronger feel for it, improve shot stability. For big men, longer fingers can even give you that extra split second to block or secure a rebound before your opponent.
Dawson had small hands himself—he knew how much extra work it took to develop elite ball-handling and shooting touch because of it.
Donovan went on to introduce four others.
First was another tall, broad-shouldered man with a cornrow fade—Kwame's older brother, Tabari Brown. His handshake was polite but his expression stayed cool.
Next was a balding white man named Dan Moore, the head coach at Glynn Academy. When he'd applied for the coaching job, he'd first spotted Tabari's talent—but what made him commit to the school was the younger kid following Tabari around. He'd told the school outright: if they wanted him, they had to get Kwame too. In a way, he'd been the very first to recognize Kwame's potential.
Then there was a kind-faced Black man in a gray suit—John Williams.
"Dawson, thanks for coming. Kwame's a good kid. He just needs your help," Williams said, looking at Brown with the kind of paternal warmth you'd expect from a mentor.
Donovan explained that Williams was a pastor, a teacher at Glynn, and the basketball team's advisor. He also worked as an assistant director at a local youth outreach program, specializing in helping troubled teens.
Dawson understood immediately why the man's eyes carried that kind of care.
Finally, there was a sharply dressed white man named Ryan Connors, hair neatly styled, suit expensive.
No doubt—an independent agent.
A friend of Dan Moore's, Connors primarily worked in the NCAA, though his biggest career moment came in '97 when he'd landed second-round pick DeJuan Wheat as a client. Wheat hadn't lasted in the NBA—only two seasons before washing out—but for an agent, getting a player into the league at all was an accomplishment.
Now Connors had another shot at the big time. His face all but glowed with pride.
When Donovan introduced him, he shot Dawson a look that said, This guy's the money man.
And Dawson got it.
Independent agents don't just sign players and wait for checks. They invest in them—covering travel, lodging, hiring trainers, arranging media exposure. Most prospects come from families that can't afford any of that.
But if the player goes undrafted, all that money is gone. That's why agents need both sharp eyes and luck.
Clearly, Connors had gotten lucky this time.
And if Dawson wanted this job, Connors was the one he had to win over.
The problem? In Connors' eyes, Dawson could already sense skepticism.
Maybe it was because of his low profile.
Or maybe… because of his skin color.