There was one possession where James drew three defenders (!) in the paint, looked like he was trapped, but instead of forcing it, he somehow threaded a bounce pass out to Faisal on the wing, who was so wide open he almost dropped it in surprise. Kiyoshi just watched, marker paused above the whiteboard. No yelling, no frantic gestures. Just observation.
It felt like a silent acknowledgment: Okay, maybe this kid knows what he's doing. Maybe they all do. He was trusting the system they were organically creating.
FWEEEEEEEEET! The final whistle blew, long and piercing, echoing through the suddenly cavernous-sounding gym. Instantly, the kinetic energy stopped. Shoulders slumped, hands went to hips, deep breaths were taken.
Sweat dripped onto the floor, forming little dark spots. But beneath the bone-deep tiredness, there was an undeniable current of exhiration. You saw it in the quick, exhausted high-fives, the shared grins between gasps for air. "Good run!"
"Way to work!"
"Alright! Bring it in! Center court, let's go!" Kiyoshi's voice resonated, pulling them together. They shuffled towards him, forming a loose circle, breathing heavily, the smell of sweat thick in the air. Kiyoshi stood in the middle, his eyes scanning each face, acknowledging the effort, the fatigue, the sheer determination etched there.
"Good work today," he stated, his voice firm but carrying genuine approval. "Real good work. That intensity? That focus?"
He nodded sharply. "Much better. The energy, the flow... felt like a cohesive unit out there, finally. Felt like Banani Basketball."
He paused, letting the weight of his words settle in the humid air. His gaze lingered for a fraction of a second on James – a quick, unreadable acknowledgment – before sweeping across the rest of the tired faces. "This feeling you have right now? Remember it."
Bottle it up." He leaned forward slightly, his voice dropping lower, becoming more intense, drawing them in. "This trust. This connection you're building – knowing where your teammate will be, hitting that pass, setting that screen... That is the foundation."
He straightened up, his eyes burning with purpose. "This isn't just for practice anymore. This standard? This is how we py.
Every drill, every scrimmage, every single minute of every game from now until the end. You understand me?" He locked eyes with several pyers. "Because this drive, this belief in each other, this system we're building right now?"
He looked around the circle one st time. "This is how we prepare to fight for, and how we intend to take, the Liberation Cup!"
A wave of sound erupted from the huddle – not just tired agreement, but a chorus of determined shouts, cps echoing off the walls, fists bumping hard. "YEAH!" "LET'S GO!" "CUP TIME!"
The lingering ghosts of skepticism and surprise? Utterly banished. Gone. Repced by something fierce and focused.
What stood there, breathing hard together under the harsh fluorescent lights, wasn't just a collection of pyers anymore. It was a team. Forged in sweat, united by a shared goal, and unexpectedly, almost accidentally, anchored by the quietest, most unassuming guy among them – the pyer they simply called "Monster," a nickname now carrying yers of respect, awe, and genuine team affection. The weight on James's shoulders felt immense, no doubt.
