Scouts Couldn’t Believe Their Eyes—Grant Nelson Went OFF at the Draft Combine
The hum of anticipation inside Chicago’s Wintrust Arena felt like static before a lightning strike. Scouts from all 30 NBA teams lined the court, clipboards tight in hand, jaws already clenched with the weight of their decisions. But nothing could’ve prepared them for what was about to unfold. The name “Grant Nelson” had circulated in hushed circles, a 6’11” forward out of Alabama by way of North Dakota State, known for flashes of brilliance and raw athleticism. But at the 2025 NBA Draft Combine, Grant didn’t flash. He detonated.
It started during the vertical leap test. Players had been bouncing off the mat all day, putting up solid numbers—42 inches here, 43 there. But when Grant stepped up, the chatter paused. He looked loose, almost disinterested. Then he exploded skyward—45.5 inches. Gasps rippled through the gym. One scout from Golden State muttered, “That can’t be right,” and leaned closer to his digital tracker. But the numbers held. Nelson had just posted the second-highest vertical of the combine.
Then came the agility drills, and his movements were like liquid metal—silky, fast, efficient. At nearly seven feet tall, Grant moved like a guard. His lane agility time shattered expectations: 10.5 seconds. He was faster than half the point guards in the gym.
But the real spectacle began during the 5-on-5 scrimmage. The moment he stepped onto the hardwood, the energy shifted. In the first minute, he blocked a shot at the rim, sprinted the floor, caught a lob in transition, and hammered it down with such force that even veterans in the room stood up. “No way,” whispered a Denver scout, scribbling furiously in his notepad. “No freakin’ way.”
By halftime, Nelson had racked up 16 points, 8 rebounds, 3 blocks, and 2 assists—all without forcing a single shot. His jumper was falling—catch-and-shoot threes from the corner, a Dirk-style fade from the elbow, and even a pull-up off a spin move that sent a defender sprawling. His footwork was precise, his timing impeccable.
And then there was the moment. With under two minutes left in the game, Nelson switched onto a shifty 6’3″ point guard projected to go top-15. On an island, with scouts licking their pens, Nelson mirrored every twitch of the guard’s hips. When the kid tried to drive, Grant poked the ball loose, snatched it, and launched a behind-the-back dime 40 feet upcourt for a transition dunk. The gym lost its mind. Phones whipped out. A Spurs exec stood up and said aloud, “He just made himself millions.”
After the game, Grant sat alone on the bench, sweat cascading off his forehead, towel draped loosely over his shoulders. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t talking. Just staring ahead—focused, hungry, silent.
Scouts didn’t leave with questions that day. They left with answers. One exec, as he walked out, whispered to his assistant, “That kid’s going in the lottery. If not, someone’s getting the steal of the decade.”
And Grant Nelson? He wasn’t just on the map anymore. He had redrawn it.
