Dearest Mini Session,

They say the real world starts in the fall, but my heart doesn’t truly beat until the humidity rises and the gym doors swing open in late April.

I know what people call you. They call you a “warm-up.” They say you’re just a showcase, a temporary stop after the “real” season ends. But they don’t see you the way I do. To me, you are pure, unvarnished hope. You are the sound of rubber soles chirping against a pristine hardwood floor and the sight of a jersey that hasn’t yet felt the weight of a losing streak.

I love the way you don’t care about the rafters or the rings. You’re about the grind of a new grinder trying to prove he belongs and the veteran diving for a loose ball just to show he’s still got it. There’s a certain magic in the chaos—the raw energy of a fast break that shouldn’t work, the roar of a crowd that appreciates a hustle play as much as a grinder dunk, and the beautiful uncertainty of it all.

While the rest of the world is out golfing, I’m right here, captivated by your 40-minute sprints and your neon-bright potential. You aren’t polished, and you aren’t perfect, but you are honest. You give everyone a clean slate and a chance to dream before the winter chill sets in.

They can keep their October openers and their April playoffs. Give me a Wednesday evening in a sweaty gym with a scoreboard that’s just getting started.

Yours always,

Tirado