“Three seconds left on the clock!” she whispered, dribbling between her legs, mimicking her hero’s famous moves. “Martinez takes the shot for the championship!” She spun past an imaginary defender and released the ball. It arced through the air and swished perfectly through the rusted hoop her mom had installed on her tenth birthday.
She cheered for herself, but the excitement was short-lived. A wave of dizziness hit, and she clutched her knees, breathing heavily. Lately, she’d been feeling more tired than usual, and strange bruises had appeared on her arms and legs. But she didn’t want to worry her mom, who already worked long hours at a diner and grocery store to support their little family.
“Mija, come in for breakfast!” her mother, Elena, called from the doorway.
“Five more minutes!” Sarah pleaded, eager to master a new move.
“Three minutes,” her mom bargained, smiling. “I made your favorite—banana smiley pancakes.”
Sarah ran inside, her stomach growling. As she sat at the small kitchen table, her mother slid a plate in front of her. “So, remember how you’ve been dreaming of seeing a real Lakers game?”
Sarah stopped mid-bite, eyes wide. “Mom, no way!”
Elena chuckled. “Way. My boss’s son works at the Rocket Mortgage Fieldhouse. He got us tickets for next month’s game.”
Sarah shrieked, nearly knocking over her chair. “I don’t care if we’re in the last row! We’re going to see LeBron play!”
Her mother smiled, but a flicker of worry crossed her face. “There is one thing, though. You have a doctor’s appointment this afternoon. Just a check-up.”
Sarah nodded quickly, barely listening. All she could think about was the game.
That afternoon, Sarah swung her legs back and forth on the examination table as Dr. Thompson, her longtime pediatrician, asked routine questions. “Feeling more tired than usual? Any unexplained bruises?”
She hesitated before answering. “Maybe a little. But I’ve been practicing really hard! We’re going to see the Lakers next month, and I want to be ready if I get to show LeBron my crossover.”
Dr. Thompson smiled, but his expression turned serious as he reviewed her test results. “I want to run a few more tests, just to be sure.”
Sarah barely noticed the concern in his voice. She was too busy imagining the roar of the crowd, the dazzling lights, and LeBron James himself soaring through the air for a dunk.
What she didn’t know was that this doctor’s visit would change everything.
The next morning, Elena received the call that shattered her world.
“Mrs. Martinez,” Dr. Thompson’s voice was gentle but firm, “Sarah’s bloodwork shows some concerning patterns. We need you to come in. Without Sarah.”
Elena clutched the phone, her heart pounding. “What are you saying?”
“We believe it’s leukemia.”
The world blurred around her. Her daughter, her bright, basketball-loving daughter, had cancer.
Later that evening, Elena sat Sarah down at the kitchen table. “Mija,” she said softly, holding Sarah’s hand, “the doctor called. You… you have something called leukemia. It’s a kind of cancer.”
The word felt like a punch to Sarah’s chest. She tried to stay calm. “But people get better from cancer, right?”
Elena nodded quickly. “Yes, baby. There are treatments. And we’re going to fight this. Together.”
Sarah squeezed her mom’s hand, then looked up at the LeBron poster on the wall. “Like a comeback in the fourth quarter,” she whispered.
Sarah’s treatment started immediately. The medicine made her tired. Her hair started falling out. But she didn’t stop playing basketball. She began teaching other kids in the hospital how to shoot hoops in the recreation room. It made her feel stronger.
Meanwhile, her best friend Maria started a social media campaign called #SarahsLastShot, hoping to get LeBron’s attention. It quickly went viral. Thousands of people shared Sarah’s story, sending messages of support. But a week before the game, Dr. Thompson delivered devastating news.
“Sarah,” he said gently, “your immune system is too weak. You can’t go to the game. It’s too risky.”
Sarah was heartbroken. That night, she posted a message online: Sometimes life changes your game plan. I can’t see the Lakers play, but I’m still fighting. And that makes me feel like a champion anyway.
What she didn’t know was that her message had reached someone in Los Angeles.
A few days later, a hospital staff member wheeled Sarah into the recreation room. The doors swung open—and standing in the middle of the room, holding a basketball, was LeBron James.
“Hey, Sarah,” he said with his signature smile. “Sorry about the Wi-Fi the other day. Thought I’d deliver my message in person.”
Tears welled in Sarah’s eyes. “You’re really here?”
LeBron nodded. “I heard about your fadeaway. Show me what you got.”
With Maria’s help, Sarah stood, took a deep breath, and released the ball. Swish.
The room exploded with cheers. LeBron grinned. “Not bad. But I noticed something about your form…”
For the next hour, LeBron James coached Sarah one-on-one, helping her perfect her shot. Then he made an announcement. “We’re starting a program called Sarah’s Shooters to put basketball hoops in children’s hospitals across the country. And we want you to help design it.”
Sarah gasped. “Really?”
“Really,” LeBron said, handing her a clipboard engraved with Assistant Coach Sarah Martinez.
She hugged it to her chest. Then she did something she’d never thought she’d do—she hugged LeBron James. And he hugged her right back.
A year later, Sarah stood before a crowd at the opening of the first Sarah’s Shooters basketball court. Her curls had grown back. Around her neck, she wore two charms: one with her father’s picture, and another shaped like a basketball, a gift from LeBron.
“Basketball gave me hope when I was sick,” she said into the microphone. “Now, I want to share that hope with other kids. Because champions aren’t just made by the games they win, but by the lives they touch.”
The audience erupted in applause. LeBron, standing beside her, smiled. “That,” he said, “is what makes you a real champion.”
Sarah grinned, picked up a basketball, and took her shot.
Swish.
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