Austin Goosby Shines at EYBL Memphis: A Star is Forged
The fluorescent lights of the Memphis Sports & Event Center burned down on Court 3 like the summer sun, but inside the gym, it was one name—Austin Goosby—that lit up the atmosphere.
At 6-foot-5 and deceptively fluid, Goosby wasn’t just another high school standout playing in Nike’s Elite Youth Basketball League. He was the heartbeat of the tournament, a blur of motion and precision, orchestrating fast breaks with symphonic tempo and igniting the crowd with highlight-reel slams that echoed beyond the hardwood.
Over the four-day showcase, Goosby averaged 24.8 points, 7.1 assists, and 6.3 rebounds per game, all while shooting a blistering 56% from the field. But stats didn’t capture the electricity in the gym every time he touched the ball. Against top-ranked Team United, he dropped 34 points—15 in the fourth quarter alone—including a buzzer-beating fadeaway that left scouts from Duke, Kentucky, and Kansas whispering frantically into their phones.
“Goosby doesn’t just play the game,” said Marcus Fields, a veteran Nike scout. “He rewrites it in real-time.”
What made Goosby’s EYBL Memphis run even more captivating was his control. He played like a seasoned pro, not a 17-year-old from Little Rock trying to earn stars next to his name. He saw passing lanes before they opened, dissected traps with a lethal crossover, and defended with quiet tenacity. At one point during the semifinal, he chased down a fast break, pinning a layup to the glass with the grace of a hawk in flight. The gym roared. He jogged back, face calm, fingers pointing upward.
Yet the fire behind his performances wasn’t fame—it was legacy. A fictional detail whispered in interviews: his father, Alan Goosby, a local Memphis legend who tore his ACL days before an NBA Summer League debut, sat courtside every game, silently cheering. Austin, raised on old VHS tapes and garage workouts, had promised him Memphis would be his.
And so it was. On the final day, with the MVP trophy clutched in hand, Goosby stood at center court, drenched in sweat and praise. Reporters swarmed. Cameras clicked. But he turned first to the stands—eyes locking with his father’s—raising the trophy not as a prize, but a symbol: of work, of roots, of rising.
Austin Goosby had arrived. And Memphis? It would remember him.
