Nanaho stood in the quiet gymnasium of Kawako Private Junior High School, the cool wood beneath her sneakers slightly sticky from the day's humidity. Her eyes swept over the half-empty court, her heart steady but determined. This place—echoing with silence more than dribbles—was where it had all begun.
I hadn't been born with any talent for basketball. My shots rarely made it through the hoop, and my footwork had always been clumsy. But there was something about the game—the rhythm, the patterns, the sense of movement and flow—that completely enchanted me. I'd spend hours after school watching tapes on a beat-up laptop, pausing to jot diagrams and ideas in the margins of my notebook. It became clear to me early on: if I couldn't play, I would coach.
By the time I entered my second year, I'd already made my decision. I started a basketball team from scratch. Finding players wasn't the hard part—there were always kids curious or bored enough to give it a try. The real challenge was teaching the basics to a group who had never even touched a basketball before.
She stood at the front of the gym, whiteboard marker in hand, sweat collecting at her brow as the afternoon sun filtered through the high windows.
"The first thing we're learning is how to pass," Nanaho said, her voice firm.
The players—twelve of them—stood in pairs, awkward and uncertain. The first few passes bounced too low or flew too high. Some players flinched every time the ball came near. But she didn't yell. She demonstrated using videos and printed diagrams. Day by day, the arcs of the passes began to flatten. The ball started finding hands instead of the floor.
Two weeks passed, then three.
"Alright," Nanaho muttered to herself one practice afternoon. "Time to move on."
Next came dribbling.
It was a disaster.
The gym filled with the erratic thud-thud-clunk of basketballs slapping the wooden floor. Balls escaped and rolled across the court. Players chased after them, frustrated groans echoing off the walls. Nanaho paced between the lines, watching their hands, correcting stances, repositioning elbows.
"Keep your hand on top, not the side!" she called out, stepping between two players. "You're carrying it, not dribbling!"
Progress was slow—agonizingly so. But two months in, players stopped traveling. Layups came next. That, too, was a struggle.
"Use the backboard," she told them, guiding one of the smaller kids to the right side of the hoop. "One step, two step—off the glass."
The gym echoed with the squeak of shoes, the clank of missed shots, and Nanaho's persistent voice cutting through it all. It took time, motivation, and patient repetition, but one by one, they began to hit shots. Even the sound of the ball sinking through the net—a dull swish—became a small victory.
Finally, she introduced defensive formations and free throw drills. She printed out full-court diagrams, stuck them to the wall, and guided players with taped lines on the floor. The team began to move like a single body, not twelve disconnected limbs. There were still mistakes—plenty—but it was enough.
They were ready for their first game.
The air was sharp with anticipation on game day. Nanaho stood beside the bench as her players stretched on the court. Her clipboard rested against her chest, heartbeat steady beneath it.
Their opponents: Shoko Junior High. A powerhouse. And at the top of their lineup—Kogure Kobayashi, the scoring titleholder.
The game began with Shoko in full control.
Less than five minutes in, Nanaho could feel the momentum slip beyond reach. Her team fumbled passes, hesitated on defense, and clanked every shot off the rim. Shoko moved like a storm—fast breaks, clean layups, perfect spacing.
Before the game reached the second quarter, the score read: 43 - 0.
Nanaho stood, her hands clenched. Her players dragged themselves down the court, shoulders hunched, gasping for breath. They avoided her gaze as they passed the bench.
"Come on, guys! Run play number twelve!" she shouted, her voice strained.
There was a flicker of life. The players jogged into formation—a 3-2 setup. Two inside players moved in to set a double screen. The wings darted toward the paint, cutting hard. The pass came sharp and clean. One of the forwards received the ball near the rim and put it up.
The gym gasped.
Swish.
Cheers erupted from their bench. Nanaho raised her fist.
"That's the way, everyone! Keep it up! We can do this!" she called out, her voice rising above the crowd noise.
"The coach is right! We can still do this!" one of the players echoed.
But hope flickered only briefly.
By the end of the second quarter, the scoreboard glared back at them: 85 - 7.
Nanaho's heart squeezed. Her team stumbled back to the bench, faces pale, sweat dripping down necks and arms. The air felt thick with defeat.
"Come on, guys! The game isn't over! There are two quarters left! Do not give up!" she urged.
But the players didn't respond. One of them finally looked up, eyes glossy and defeated.
"Coach... no, Nanaho, this was fun and all, but I don't think we were ever capable of competing against these monsters in the first place. This match alone proves that we don't belong in this sport," he said, voice low.
"Don't say that! It's your first game ever! You can still improve!" Nanaho insisted, stepping forward.
"No, that guy Kogure made us look like fools. There's no place for us in this sport. We just don't have the talent. So please, just forfeit the match before we get humiliated any further," he pleaded.
Nanaho looked around, waiting for someone to speak up. None of them did. Their eyes dropped. Their chests barely rose with each breath.
She swallowed the lump in her throat and approached the officials.
"We forfeit," she muttered.
Even as the buzzer sounded and the gym fell quiet, she held back tears.
Outside, as her team filed onto the bus, Nanaho lingered at the court's edge, her fingers tightening around her clipboard.
"Hey, you there! Wait up!" a voice called from across the lot.
She turned, startled.
A boy jogged up, wiping sweat from his brow. His uniform read Shoko.
"My name is Yukio Hamaguchi, a player from Shoko Junior High," he said, catching his breath. "Even though there was no way for your team to win against us, I was really impressed with the plays you came up with. The plays they ran on the court caught me and my teammates by surprise, but because of their inexperience and lack of skill, we were able to stop them from scoring. If you had a better team, I'm sure we would have had a hard time winning the game."
"I'm not sure if I have what it takes to be a coach. Today just proved that. We lost badly, and that's that," Nanaho said quietly.
"What do you mean? Don't say that. It's not your fault that you lost. The players just can't keep up with the plays you create at their level. They can't execute them, but that doesn't mean the plays aren't good. So don't give up on your talent or on being a coach. You have a gift for it, and it will be recognized at the high school level one day," Yukio encouraged.
"You really think so?" she asked.
"Of course I do. I look forward to seeing you in the future."
Those words stuck with her.
Though her players slowly quit one by one, Nanaho didn't stop. Her practices grew quiet. Balls lay unused, and the whiteboard collected dust. But she kept researching, studying, improving. The dream stayed alive.
When it came time to choose her high school, she applied to Toshigawa Academy.
She walked into the gym on her first day and immediately froze.
"Wait, I know you," she said, surprised.
"Yeah, I recognized you too, but I didn't catch your name back then. Wait, don't tell me... you're Nanaho Fukazawa, the first-year who applied to be our coach, right?" Yukio asked.
"Yes, that's me," Nanaho said.
"That's great! We're lucky to have someone like you as our coach. This year, we'll be going to the Inter-High for sure!" Yukio grinned.
Nanaho's heart thudded as excitement bloomed in her chest.
"Come on, let me introduce you to the team."
The gym buzzed with motion. Footsteps echoed as more players filtered in, sweat glistening on their arms. Yukio led her to a group gathered near the benches.
"Oh, Yukio, you're back, and you brought someone with you," a voice said.
"Yes, Seiji, this is Nanaho Fukazawa, a first-year. She'll be our coach for the rest of her years here," Yukio said.
"Nice to meet all of you," Nanaho said, bowing deeply.
"My brother told me a lot about you and your capabilities, Nanaho. Based on what I've heard, you are an excellent choice for our coach. I'm counting on you. The whole team is yours to command. Lead us to victory."
"Yes, I'll try my best," Nanaho said, her voice trembling slightly.
"My name is Seiji Hamaguchi. I'm the captain of the team, and I'm sure you've already met my younger brother, Yukio. This is Hiroki Yukimura, the vice captain of the team. Junpei Urahara, a third-year."
"My name is Takahiro Morikawa. I'm a second-year."
"This newbie is Hayato Nakajima. He's a first-year like you. The kid's got talent, and he'll be playing point guard for us, so be sure to drill the plays into his brain," Seiji said.
"Right, I definitely will," Nanaho said with a small nod.
"I'm Jirou Suzuki, a second-year and the second guard. Nice to meet you, beautiful," Jirou said with a wink.
"Save whatever that is for outside of training, or we will have a problem," Seiji warned.
"Yes, Captain. I know, I know."
"The rest of us are still out jogging, but most of our main players are here. I'll be putting you in charge of our training for this week just to test its effectiveness," Seiji said.
Nanaho scanned the players. Seiji towered over her—easily above 190 cm. Yukio and Hiroki weren't far behind. Even Hayato and Jirou had confident builds and carried themselves like competitors.
This team... it's strong, she thought. I made the right choice.
Her clipboard felt heavy in her arms—not from burden, but from promise.