South Side Chicago, where basketball hoops were nailed to streetlight poles and boys grew up dribbling through cracked pavement, Charles Freeman was a name that echoed in gymnasiums and alley courts alike.
Tall, quick, and impossibly sharp, Charles wasn't just good, he was gifted. He had the kind of fluid grace coaches called "natural," but his success wasn't just talent. It was obsession. He ran wind sprints at dawn, shot free throws until his fingers bled, studied tape like a scientist decoding nature. From the moment he could hold a basketball, Charles Freeman dreamed of going pro. But even back then, there was one shadow always cast across his light: Eddie Carter.
If Charles was the blade, honed and sharp, Eddie was the flame—brilliant, unpredictable, unstoppable. They were born only weeks apart, lived three blocks from each other, and played on opposite courts until they were old enough to wear the same jersey. In high school, they became teammates and rivals.
