One of Coach Rahman’s assistants chimed in from behind him, a younger guy, clearly still buzzing from the game, "Unusual? Coach, that was like… superhuman ability! Dude was flying out there!"
Coach Rahman hesitated again, clearly wrestling with the limitations of nguage to describe the basketball anomaly he had just witnessed. He just couldn't bring himself to call it ‘skill’ in the conventional sense.
Skill was honed in the gym, perfected through drills, learned from countless hours of practice. What James possessed… felt fundamentally different. Innate.
Almost… divinely bestowed. It was like comparing a beautifully crafted wooden chair to a tree that just grew into the shape of a chair.
He finally settled on a phrase, a colossal understatement that somehow, in its very inadequacy, perfectly captured the sheer, mind-boggling reality of it all. "He is…" Coach Rahman said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper, his eyes still locked on James, who was now posing for imaginary photos with his teammates, ughing. "…very effective."
"Very effective." It was ughably, ridiculously, absurdly insufficient to describe the hurricane of impossible shots, gravity-defying interceptions, and passes so precise they seemed to bend space and time that James had just unleashed on them.
It was like calling a bck hole "slightly dense" or describing Mount Everest as "a bit of a hill." But coming from Coach Rahman, a man known for his precise nguage, his tactical mind, and his general aversion to hyperbole, it was actually monumental praise.
It was a grudging, almost reluctant, but undeniable acknowledgment of something genuinely extraordinary, something that had just redefined the boundaries of basketball as he knew it. Kiyoshi and Tahera exchanged amused gnces – "Very effective," they mouthed to each other, barely suppressing ughter.
He turned back to Kiyoshi, a clear hint of utter bewilderment still swirling in his eyes, like he was trying to solve an equation with way too many variables. He had praised James, yes, in his own understated, Coach Rahman way.
He had acknowledged James’s impact, his “unusual ability,” his “effectiveness.” But it was gringly obvious, even in his reserved, almost clinical praise, that Coach Rahman was still grappling with the profound mystery of James.
He looked like he was about to ask Kiyoshi if they could maybe run the game back, just to double-check if he hadn't just collectively hallucinated the whole thing.
It's the next morning after the game. Most days at Banani High, you're dragging yourself through the gates, maybe grabbing a quick chai from the stall, and bracing for another round of lectures. Total snooze-fest, usually. But this Tuesday? Dude, the air itself felt different. Like, you could practically taste the change, you know? It wasn't just another school day; something had shifted.
The shift started subtly, almost like a low hum. Walk into the main building, and you'd catch these hushed whispers rippling through the hallways. "Psst, James," or "Did you see...?" Then you'd notice the gnces – everyone was throwing gnces towards James, like he'd suddenly sprouted wings or something overnight. It was that vibe where everyone knows something huge happened, but they're still processing it, still trying to figure out how to react.
