Kanagawa Prefecture – Shohoku High School Basketball Gym
At this moment, the freshman scrimmage was in full swing.
Just as the game was reaching its climax, a sudden turn of events shook the atmosphere on court.
"Mitch! Are you okay?!"
"Mitch! Mitch!"
Shohoku's players rushed to surround Mitch Harris, who had fallen hard to the floor, his face twisted in agony.
"It hurts—my knee!" Mitch groaned, clutching at his left leg in pain.
Moments earlier, Charles Ackerman, Shohoku's towering center, had delivered a thunderous block that fired up Mitch's competitive drive. Eager to answer back, Mitch pushed the ball on the following possession, weaving through defenders with determination before taking on Charles head-to-head.
But as he launched into a sharp change of direction, Mitch's left knee gave way under the sudden torque. His balance broke, and he collapsed heavily onto the floor.
While his teammates anxiously gathered around Mitch, Cory Grant stood a few feet away—frozen.
His eyes glazed as though he were staring through a veil of time itself. Countless fragments of memory surged forward, flooding his mind. A brief pain pulsed through his head—then the haze cleared, and everything became vivid, as if a sealed painting had been unfurled before him.
Cory had awakened memories of a past life.
And his feelings were complicated.
In the world of Slam Dunk, basketball was inescapable. Cory always admired his namesake character, but becoming him was not part of his dream.
If anything, he had wished to be one of Shohoku's Five Tigers—even someone like the undersized point guard, Ricky Miller.
Unlike Shohoku's stars, Cory Grant was only an average player. Besides his reliable three-point shot, his contributions on the court were forgettable.
Three years in junior high, three more in Shohoku—six years in total—and still he had never earned a steady starting spot.
Was Cory lazy?
Not at all. He worked just as hard as anyone, maybe harder. Coach Thomas O'Connor of Takeishi High once said of Cory: "For three years he never slacked for a single day. Always working, always striving to improve."
Basketball simply didn't bend easily to the ordinary. Talent—both physical and instinctive—was king. Cory, with no standout physical gifts, was doomed to remain sixth man.
That was the cruelty of competitive sport.
"Cory! What are you standing there for? Call an ambulance!"
The sharp command jolted him back. It was Captain Daniel Irving, his voice edged with fear.
As a third-year veteran, this was Daniel's last chance at glory. The team's future had already seemed bleak—until the arrival of Mitch Harris, the Middle School Tournament MVP. His talent had lit a spark of hope. Now, within minutes, that hope collapsed with him.
"Yes, Captain!" Cory snapped back to reality and dashed to the nearest telephone booth.
It was 1992—mobiles weren't common. The ambulance arrived minutes later, sirens wailing, and whisked Mitch away to the hospital.
As the red lights vanished, an uneasy silence fell over Shohoku. Some freshmen already whispered about quitting.
Suddenly, a huge shadow loomed over Cory. Looking up, he saw Charles Ackerman's grim face above him.
"Do you…do you think Mitch will be okay?" Charles muttered, guilt dripping in every word. He blamed himself—after all, Mitch had only injured himself trying to break through Charles's defense.
"It's not your fault," Cory said softly, trying to comfort the big man. "After practice, I'm heading to the hospital to check on him. Want to come?"
Charles nodded firmly. "Yeah—together."
That day's game was cancelled. Training resumed half-heartedly, but an invisible weight pressed on every player.
Cory, however, knew the future of this story too well. Mitch's injury today wasn't the end. Hungry to return, Mitch would come back too soon—ignoring doctors' warnings—and the setback would become catastrophic. His knee would worsen, forcing him out of the County Tournament entirely.
Depressed and frustrated, Mitch would abandon basketball, sliding down a dark path until the day he dragged himself back with those famous words: Coach… I want to play basketball.
But Cory also knew there was still time to change things. If only he could convince Mitch not to repeat the same mistake, maybe Shohoku wouldn't bleed out players… maybe Mitch wouldn't lose two entire years.
Because without that lost time—how strong would Mitch Harris have been?
A player's power is built on three things: physicality, skill, and experience.
Physically, Mitch was supposed to keep growing stronger with age. Instead, double injuries and year-long rust robbed him of stamina he would desperately need.
Technically, skipping two years without touching a basketball dulled his dynamic driving skills. Instead of maturing day by day, his game regressed.
And experience? Missed tournaments and big-game reps meant missed chances to hone court sense and mental toughness.
Even so—when he returned—Mitch Harris was still leagues ahead of Cory Grant. That was talent. That was the painful gap reality never let him forget.
When training wrapped, Cory and Charles made their way to the hospital. Mitch was resting in a private room, evidence of his affluent background. He'd be stuck here a month.
When they walked in, Mitch looked up from a magazine.
"Cory? Charles? What are you guys doing here?" His surprise quickly shifted to a smile.
"We're here on behalf of the whole team." Cory placed a bag of fruit on the bedside table.
"It's nothing too serious," Mitch shrugged. "I'll be out in a few days."
"Don't kid yourself," Charles said carefully. "The doctor said your knee ligament is damaged. No strenuous training for a month."
"A month?!" Mitch sat upright, clearly panicked. "That's impossible. The County Tournament is in less than four weeks. If I stay away that long, we're doomed! I have to be discharged earlier."
Cory's gaze hardened as he pushed up his glasses. "No, Mitch. You must follow the doctor's orders."
"I know," Mitch muttered, but his darting eyes betrayed his impatience. "Still… I can't let the team lose because of me."
Cory leaned closer. "You don't want Coach Anderson to find out you returned to the court too soon, do you?"
Mitch froze. Just the thought of disappointing Coach Anderson made him restless.
Seeing his hesitation, Cory pressed further. "Mitch… let me tell you a story."
Mitch went silent, listening.
"I had a friend about our age. He was injured in a game. Eager to return, he ignored the doctor's orders. His knee shattered completely. He never played again. He couldn't even walk normally—spent his life in a wheelchair. Eventually…" Cory's voice cracked slightly, "…eventually, he ended his own life."
The air in the ward turned heavy.
Mitch's hands trembled. The thought of losing basketball forever—and worse—terrified him.
"Trust me, Mitch," Cory whispered. "If you wait, you'll still have your shot at the County Tournament—if we survive that long. And I swear to you…" He pulled off his glasses, eyes blazing with conviction. "…this team will not be eliminated before you return."
Just then—
Ding-dong!
A cold notification echoed in Cory's mind.