"Damn it!"
"Son of a bitch!"
After wrapping up my first day of workouts, the scouts' reactions pretty much broke down into three categories.
First, there were the guys who just walked straight out without even a backward glance.
David said we needed to keep tabs on them. If they showed up tomorrow, it meant they were interested. If not, they'd written me off completely.
Second, there were the ones who came up to David asking for his business card.
"Not bad at all."
"He's decent, but..."
You'd think these guys would be the most eager to recruit me, but David told me they were actually pretty useless.
NCAA recruiting happens way more under the table than people realize, so when scouts get this aggressive, they're really just fishing around to see what other teams are up to.
The phrase I heard most was "Not bad."
That's basically a polite way of saying they weren't impressed.
"..."
So naturally, I found myself watching the guys who were still hanging around in their seats.
The ones making phone calls or staring intensely at their phones and tablets—those were the scouts who were actually interested in me.
Bill Hauser, who I'd met briefly before the workout, was one of them.
University of San Diego is in Division 1's West Coast Conference, but honestly, you can't really call them a powerhouse. They've only made March Madness four times, and no player from there has had any kind of impressive NBA career.
Still, I understood the reality perfectly well.
They were my best shot.
"Good work, Hiroshi. I'll handle everything from here. Got it?"
"..."
What was I supposed to say?
All I could do was nod and shuffle off toward the showers. I'd given everything I had in today's workout, but I had no clue what they thought of me.
At this point, I'm getting curious.
Just how good are the guys who are supposed to be ballers here in America?
==
Beverly Hills, California. De Neve Drive. Hitch Basketball Courts.
David told me not to wander around outside after 8 PM.
It's not that the area's a war zone or anything, but I was basically walking around with a target on my back. Still, sitting cooped up in that crappy motel room was driving me crazy.
I couldn't watch TV, and staring at my phone was giving me a headache. Sure, I should've been cramming English vocabulary, but I was too stressed to focus on anything.
A bunch of different factors pushed me to head outside.
Yeah, I know. Pretty lame excuse.
"..."
I'd been walking straight in one direction for maybe 10 minutes, trying not to get lost, when I saw bright white lights coming from the top of a hill across from some gray apartment complex. I might've just walked past, but the sounds I heard made me stop dead in my tracks.
What should I do?
David was busy dealing with tomorrow's schedule. He probably didn't even know I'd disappeared from the motel yet. I had until at least 11 PM.
Once again making my own executive decision, I naturally changed direction.
The narrow uphill path I'd spotted earlier seemed to lead straight to that basketball court.
"Hmm—maybe we should be thinking about Division 3."
Like I said, American college basketball has 15 divisions total.
NCAA Division 1, 2, 3.
Right below that are NAIA Division 1, 2. Up to this point, it feels like they're ranked by skill level. The remaining six divisions are mostly similar in talent, but definitely lower than NAIA 2.
NCCAA 1, 2. NJCAA 1, 2, 3. CCCAA, USCAA, NWAACC, ACCA, and finally independent leagues. Obviously, independent leagues are the bottom of the barrel.
"Hey!"
"I'm going, I'm going!"
"Switch! Switch!"
Damn—this is one hell of a basketball court.
Clean floor, crisp lines, and the nets weren't completely torn to shreds either. Best of all, the bright lighting made it perfect for playing ball.
About 20 guys were either playing or watching games from the sidelines. What kind of level would this be? Even though it was just street ball, this would be my first 5-on-5 game in America.
So I decided to focus as hard as I could and watch every single move.
I mean, how good could street basketball really be?
"..."
Shit. This sucks.
A few minutes later, one thought crossed my mind.
If I brought my high school team to play these guys, what would happen? We'd probably win. We've got some pride.
But if you asked me if I was 100% confident we'd win, I'd have to say absolutely not.
Every single one of these guys was playing real basketball.
"Hey, Ronnie! Check out that guy over there!" one of them called out.
And among them, there were a few who really stood out.
Like this guard wearing a gray hoodie. He knew how to use screens properly, and his offensive skills and shooting seemed better than most high school varsity guards back home.
Actually, maybe even better than college players. There'd be countless guys who'd get their ankles broken by this kid.
"Think we could take him?" another player asked.
"Well, he doesn't look too bad," Ronnie replied.
Huh? What? Were they talking about me?
When I snapped back to reality, I realized they'd stopped playing and were all looking in my direction. I looked around, but there was nobody else around but me.
Through the chain-link fence, the shortest guy started walking toward me.
Should I run?
"Hey, what's up?" he called out.
"..."
But the situation was a bit too awkward for that.
He came right up to me and spoke again.
"Dude! I said, hey, what's up?"
"Uh... well, hello?"
"Hey, Ronnie! I don't think this guy speaks English," the short guy yelled back.
"Even better. Go get him, Little B," Ronnie responded.
Somehow, I felt a little insulted.
I couldn't really understand what they were saying, but I got the feeling they were looking down on me. Maybe I was overthinking it. Since we couldn't communicate properly, I was probably just feeling insecure.
Right then, the little guy pointed at the basketball and said:
"DO. YOU. WANT. TO. PLAY. THE. GAME?"
"Huh? Oh, what?"
"BASKETBALL! PLAY! WITH. US. OKAY?"
I got it, I got it, I was just caught off guard.
I checked my watch again—it was just past 8:30. I should be fine as long as I got back before 10, right? Plus, I was curious to see what I could do.
"Yes, yes! I want to play game."
"Haha! Hey, Ronnie! He says he wants to play. Ha! Open the door!" Little B called out.
The short guy went back, and this huge dude came over grinning and unlocked the chain and padlock on the court gate.
"Come on in," the big guy said.
He's telling me to come in, right?
I ducked my head and carefully walked inside, feeling the atmosphere change completely. So this is what American street basketball courts smell like?
"Don't you need to warm up?" someone asked.
"Huh?"
"DON'T YOU NEED TO WARM UP?"
Ah.
"It's okay. I can play now."
"Cool."
"Whoa!"
The big guy pushed my back, sending me into the court.
Then the other guys who'd been snickering handed me a basketball and started chattering away. Were they seriously wanting to play 5-on-5 right now?
"Two hundred dollars," Ronnie said.
"Huh? No, that's not... What?"
"Two hundred dollars, you damn Asian," he added, using both index fingers to stretch his eyes sideways in a mocking gesture.
"Damn son of a bitch," I muttered under my breath.
I wasn't really mad. Just cursing out of habit.
I knew that was a Western gesture mocking Asians. I'd been to a few international competitions as part of middle and high school teams, so I'd seen it before.
But wait, did he just say two hundred dollars?
"If you don't have money, you can put up your watch," Ronnie said, pointing at my wrist.
When he pointed at my wrist, I finally understood what this was all about. Either put up 200 dollars or give them my watch.
So this was a betting game?
"This is betting game?" I asked.
"WHAT?"
Maybe my pronunciation sucked, or maybe it just didn't make sense.
The guy seemed confused, but it didn't matter. He'd provoked me, and apparently saw me as some easy mark to hustle.
I had no intention of being anybody's sucker.
"Alright, you bastard. Let's do this," I said in Japanese, knowing he couldn't understand.
When I tossed the basketball back to him, he seemed to believe I'd accepted the bet. Was this going to be one-on-one?
"One on one," Ronnie confirmed.
This guy was maybe 5'11" at most.
A guy eight inches shorter than me was challenging me to one-on-one? And he was just some street ball player?
I had more than enough motivation.
"Alright, let's start the game," someone called out.
Whistle sounds
"Completely destroy that Asian's ass, Ronnie!" someone yelled from the sideline.
"Strip him down to nothing!" another voice added.
Damn bastards.
If only I could understand what they were saying, I'd feel a lot better about cursing them out.
"Huh?"
"..."
He had first possession.
As soon as he got the ball from me, he took one long step to the right and I got completely burned. After that, one dribble and two steps, and he laid it in softly.
"1-0. Too easy, man," Ronnie said with a smirk.
"I just let my guard down," I replied.
"What?"
"I let my guard down, you son of a bitch. I'm gonna slam this basketball right into your damn face, so you better know that," I said in perfect English, smiling the whole time.
It's definitely fun being able to curse while smiling.
Right. I just let my guard down. I won't go easy anymore.
"Huh?"
"..."
This time, instead of taking any steps, he just jumped straight up and shot. The net swished clean, and loud voices erupted from all around again.
Damn it.