NEW YORK -- The black asphalt is cracked, the rims have no nets and the backboards don't have a neatly painted square to aim for. The painted lines are faded away like the sun behind grey rain clouds that seem to provide little hope for the people in this neighborhood of New York. Surrounding this court is a high black chain link fence. Directly behind the court is another black-painted fence. The tall apartment buildings that surround the court are dull, clay-colored buildings and there are bars covering the windows -- limiting the dreams of kids who grow up in the projects.

This is where Kansas State's All-American point guard Markquis Nowell grew up, and this is where he learned how to play basketball.

Nowell is an overcomer. When he was born -- on Christmas day -- his mother's umbilical cord was wrapped around his neck. Twice. He nearly didn't make it. When he was a senior in high school, he was supposed to play at the prestigious Montverde Academy, but it fell through, which forced Nowell back to playing high school ball in New York. But a serious injury required emergency surgery, only limiting his college basketball options further.

Nowell was blessed to have about 13 schools express interest in him to play college basketball. Big schools, too. Minnesota, Indiana, VCU, Florida State and Georgetown all recruited him to varying degrees, but his 5-foot-8 frame greatly limited the opportunities to play basketball at a high level -- or so decision-makers in the sport often seemed to express.

That's not how Nowell's father Marcus Sr. and brother Marcus operated, though. They knew that Markquis would always be challenged by his height. Markquis' brother is the tallest of the group, and he stands about 6-feet "on a good day," he laughs. Markquis' father is a slender built 5-foot-7 and Markquis' mother is only an inch or two above the 5-foot threshold. Markquis would never be tall.

Every day before school, during school and after school, Markquis found a way to play. He and his brother Marcus slept on the Subway until the last stop where they'd climb the steps from underground to a court on the corner of 145th street and Lenox. Across the bridge that sits adjacent to the court is the Bronx, and in the summer on a clear enough night the lights from Yankee Stadium can probably be seen from the court as they illuminate the night sky like the Artic lights.

It was on this court that Nowell learned how to shoot. His father encouraged -- forced might be a better word -- him to always take two steps back. Further and further. Until Markquis wasn't shooting the ball anymore, but rather chucking it in the direction of the rim. This is the same court that Markquis, his father and his brother came to on a 102-degree summer day.

Markquis' summer AAU team had just lost a game earlier in the day by two points. Markquis had a chance to tie the game with two free throws near the end of the game. But he missed both attempts. The trio stopped at the court on the corner where Markquis was barked at to learn a free throw routine by his father. At the time it was three dribbles with his right before wrapping the ball around his waist while taking a moment to pause. Then, a deep breath before releasing. He made two. His dad said, now make 100.

Life wasn't easy for Markquis growing up. It was hard. Growing up on 109th and Lexington brought challenges. It wasn't a safe spot in the city. It was the "projects." He had a friend get shot in the head and die after leaving for college. His brother Marcus occasionally fell victim to the temptations that can throw life away, though he doesn't have a criminal record. But Markquis never did any of those things. He wasn't allowed to. His brother wouldn't let him, and his father kept him sheltered, away from many troubling encounters except for once when Markquis was pushed by a group of friends and fell to the ground where a shard of glass pierced his leg nearly making it deep enough to not walk again.

"There's no vibrancy and color," his brother Marcus said standing on one of Markquis' childhood courts as the rain pattered against the cracked, uneven asphalt court. "There's nothing. You get trapped in the everyday routine where you are waking up, doing the same thing. So it's hard to be a dreamer in a court like this."

And that's why for the first time in years Markquis made his first trip back to New York this week for the second weekend of the NCAA Tournament where K-State plays No. 7 Michigan State in the Sweet 16 on Thursday night at Madison Square Garden and potentially the winner of No. 4 Tennessee and No. 9 Florida Atlantic on Saturday night at "The Mecca."

Marcus is intellectual. He's smart. He's well-spoken and a deep thinker. His role models in life include Walt Disney and Steve Jobs because they had a "reality distortion." People scoffed at Jobs when he said he wanted to put a laptop in people's pockets. Now, you might be reading this on the laptop that Jobs aimed to put in people's blue jeans. The reality distortion Jobs and Disney have, Marcus might have too.

He's been telling Markquis that he was the best point guard in New York for years. When he started his career at Arkansas Little Rock, he was the best point guard in the country. He manifested the success that Markquis had this season when he earned All-America honors from several outlets after averaging over 17 points and about 8.0 assists per game in his final season of college eligibility.

"I feel like I have overcome a lot of odds," Markquis says, "Being at a mid-major school a couple of fo years ago, not knowing what my future may hold, but just sticking that out, grinding, just trusting my work."

Self-dubbed "Mr. New York City," Markquis is soft-spoken. He's quiet. Both his brother and father said that he didn't talk as a kid, including while once getting cramps in both of his calves at a game because his LeBron James model shoes were a bit too tight. He'd outgrown them. But he didn't say anything. But on the court, Markquis' play is loud. He's flashy. He pulls up for 3-pointers well beyond the arc -- a shot his dad had him make 100 of, 50 on each side of the court -- he throws alley-oop passes that get slammed through the rim by teammates who are gifted enough to play above it.

The nickname caught flack in New York's basketball community back in the day. Why did a 5-foot-something undersized guard deserve ---- that --- nickname? The confidence, toughness and brazenness to carry that nickname around are unique.

"The environment that you're in, that you grow up in, I mean you have to be tough and hard-nosed or you won't get to play on the toughest basketball courts. That's how I grew up."

For a time, Markquis didn't get to play on the toughest basketball courts. He was cut from the Gauchos, a well-known New York area AAU organization whose gym sits in the Bronx. Banners with the names of famous alumni hang from the Gaucho's gymnasium ceiling. Entryway walls feature framed jerseys, including Kemba Walker, one of Markquis' favorite players growing up.

Despite being cut, Markquis' family never told him that he failed. Instead, they said that they would get a call. Eventually, it came after Markquis lit up the Gauchos while playing for a rival team. Markquis was under the impression that he was playing his way up to the Gauchos, and he eventually did. But after making it to the club, he didn't play, which led to his father pulling him away from the team.

Markquis never had handlers growing up as so many other high-level basketball players do. Instead, his father and brother handled it all. When Markquis wasn't getting lots of interest from college coaches, his brother emailed them all. The way Markquis was brought along was different. And it made it easy to dislike.

"Me and Marcus," Markquis' father said, "Was so guided with 'Quis that I think the backlash we got through people was negative. Because of the fact that we was handling 'Quis."

Markquis, though, didn't have to worry about much. He would sleep in the backseat of the car on the way to AAU events, eat after games and play basketball. That's all it really was for him growing up. His mother kept him intently focused on schoolwork while he remained locked in on basketball.

"If you ask anybody in the world, literally anybody that knows Markquis on a more personal level, 'What is one way you would describe him or some words that you would use to describe Markquis Nowell,'" Marcus said. "I can promise you 10 times out of 10, they're going to say the word 'hardworking.' He's literally the hardest working person I know -- by far."

The cracked concrete turned to squeaky clean hardwood floors long ago for Markquis Nowell. No longer does he worry about turning an ankle because he stepped in a deep, wide crack on the outdoor court near his old New York home. On Tuesday, he returned home and on Thursday he plays at Madison Square Garden -- the world's most famous arena -- for the first time in his life.

"It's going to be fun," he said on Wednesday, "I mean, you hear all the great stories about the historic performances of all-time NBA player and the greats. I'm looking forward to be in this atmosphere and stepping on the court."

His father and brother have different theories about how Markquis is going to play vs. Michigan State. His dad thinks that he'll go into kill mode from the opening buzzer. His brother thinks it's more likely that he puts on a show with deep 3-pointers and flashy assists that energize the Garden. Maybe he proves one right or wrong, or both.

But it's never been about proving people wrong for Markquis Nowell. Instead, it's been about proving himself right.

"I wouldn't say I proved a lot of people wrong, I proved myself right," Markquis said. "I knew that I would be a high major guard if I just worked hard and had the right circle around me, and now that I'm here, it's a blessing."

Playing at Madison Square Garden proves that a rose can grow from the cracked concrete courts that occupy New York.