Patrick Beverley had to stay awake. His mom was counting on him. He was eight years old, sitting in the passenger seat of her green Ford Tempo. She had pulled off the road, finding a vacant spot on a side street on the West Side of Chicago.

The sky was dark. Blue-black. Lisa Beverley had just finished her overnight shift. Third job of the day. She and Patrick didn't have much, so Lisa worked constantly: at a phone company, painting nails, babysitting. Every day, she'd keep from collapsing by telling herself: If I don't make it, we don't make it. I can't fail my son.

She turned off the engine, and Patrick climbed onto her lap. She hugged him tightly, his tiny body melting into the curves of hers. But he was worried. He could feel the tired on her. He didn't want the tired anywhere near her.

"OK, now you look at the clock," she told him. "When the clock says this number, you wake Mommy up, OK? I just need some sleep so we can make it home. Help Mommy drive, OK?"

Patrick nodded, watching her eyelids slowly roll to a close. "OK, Mommy." He began to stare at the clock, eyes open. Wide. Two white lights in a bleak, starless night.

Beverley is acutely aware that he might not have grown up to become one of the toughest, most relentless defenders in the NBA without those nights. That watching his mother hustle as she did is directly related to the way he hounds Kevin Durant, Russell Westbrook, James Harden up and down the court.