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"Winning is obviously fun."
Otherwise, what's the point of trying so hard?
Are we really going with that Kuroko-style philosophy of "as long as I enjoy the game, it's fine"?
If that's the case, just go play solitaire or something—why even bother playing basketball?
Basketball was never a one-man game.
And that doesn't just mean you need to play as a team or work together on the court.
Every team, no matter how small or obscure, has a loyal base of fans behind them.
Take the people of Cleveland, for example.
Their market is tiny, their city's not exactly modern, and compared to places like L.A. or New York, they're nobodies. Their owner used to write letters to David Stern just to complain because he didn't have the money to build a contender.
People call Cleveland "Cle-Village," mocking these small-town folk for dreaming too big, stuck in a 50-year championship drought.
The Cavaliers, naturally, had a hard time attracting star players. For half a century, they couldn't win a championship in any sport.
In 1989, one of Jordan's most iconic moments happened.
It was Game 5 of the first-round playoff series between the Bulls and the Cavaliers. The series was tied 2-2, and under the BO5 format, this was the decider.
With just 7 seconds left, the Cavaliers led 98–97.
Then came the shot.
Jordan blew past Craig Ehlo and hit a high-difficulty jumper over Larry Nance at the buzzer, giving the Bulls the win—and their first and only lead of the game.
That shot was forever etched into history as "The Shot."
And it shattered the hearts of everyone in Cleveland.
But even after that gut-punch, they stood back up. They kept showing up. For fifty years, they stuck with their team.
Until finally, after waiting half a lifetime, watching youth fade into old age, Cleveland got their chosen one.
In 2016, the drought ended. And when that game ended and LeBron screamed into the camera—"CLEVELAND, THIS IS FOR YOU!"—
Those old fans, who had waited through so much pain, wept.
In that moment, it was like time turned back, like it was all worth it.
So when someone says, "Basketball is just about having fun," they're full of crap. That's the real selfishness.
Even in leagues less glamorous than the NBA—even in the CBA—every team has thousands of fans, friends, and family behind them.
People who bought tickets, merchandise... that money doesn't grow on trees.
If you wear that jersey, you fight.
You want to play "happy basketball"? Go join Dwight Howard and his comedy tour.
Right now, Teikō is united.
They fight for themselves, for their team, for honor, and for the fans who've followed them from the qualifiers all the way to Kyoto.
Finals Day.
Fans from both teams shout at the top of their lungs, trying to drown out the other side and make sure their players hear only them.
Coach Shirogane Kōzō made a bold lineup change.
To channel all that emotion, he benched Tendou and the other first-years.
He let Yamanada Yūta and the former first-string squad start the game.
"We at Teikō aren't just about the first-years!"
A simple line, but it lit a fire in the hearts of the seniors.
From the very start, they fought tooth and nail. They gave everything.
It was a war. Every possession, every shot was a battle.
Even the benches exploded in cheers after every basket, with players waving towels, yelling encouragement.
Coach Shirogane watched closely, noting that even the usually rowdy first-years were focused and serious.
"This is your seniors' final lesson."
Technically, the first-years had long surpassed their upperclassmen. But in terms of spirit and will, something could still be passed on.
Coach Shirogane wanted these lucky, smooth-sailing rookies to understand that victory is earned through blood and sweat.
"Yossaaa!"
"Nice shot!"
"Clamp down on defense!"
These cliché phrases that Tendou once thought were cheesy suddenly felt full of power.
"Damn… this old man really knows how to stir emotions. Even I'm fired up."
As Tendou shed his warmups, his movements felt sharper than ever.
All the first-years were raring to go—like they wanted to devour their opponents whole.
Teikō played with unprecedented unity today. In the finals—the one game that mattered most—they hit their peak.
Even the lazy beast Murasakibara let out a howl after a dunk.
Seeing this, Coach Shirogane knew his mission was complete. He wouldn't need to worry about Teikō for the next two years.
Their opponents quickly lost their footing under Teikō's relentless wave of pressure.
In the second quarter alone, Teikō scored a monstrous 38 points, holding their opponents to just 10. A ridiculous +28 quarter.
In the second half, Coach Shirogane didn't ease up.
"It's the last game. No need to hold anything back."
And so it happened.
The greatest blowout in national finals history.
As the clock ticked down, the referee couldn't blow the final whistle fast enough.
Because on the scoreboard...
142–53.
An 89-point margin.
Just 11 shy of hitting triple digits.