Cory Grant faced down Tommy Godwin's defense, calm and collected.
He dribbled smoothly between his legs, the ball snapping crisply against the asphalt. A quick crossover followed, shifting Tommy's balance just enough.
Cory seized the opening, exploded past, and streaked for the rim.
"Oh no!" Tommy staggered, nearly falling. By the time he turned, Cory was already gone.
Henry Kimura stepped up to help, but Cory faked a pass toward Ken Matsen. Henry bit, pausing for just a moment. That was all Cory needed—he sliced into the paint and laid it in cleanly.
"Nice one, Cory! Didn't know you had that in you!" Mr. Russo clapped from the perimeter, eyes gleaming. He loved seeing younger players shine.
Meanwhile, Tommy froze. The last play hadn't been luck. Cory had beaten him again—deliberately, with skill.
We were supposed to be struggling together, Tommy thought bitterly. When did you get so far ahead of me?
The frustration tore at him, shaking his confidence. His play collapsed. Mistakes piled up.
Cory pounced, shredding Tommy's defense possession after possession. Russo contributed with sharp pull-up jumpers, and Matsen bullied the inside with brute force.
They won the first game comfortably.
In the next round, another Crestwood squad rotated in. They were weaker, and though Cory's team edged them only narrowly, it was still a win.
By the third game, however, Greg Matthews returned rested, leading his squad fresh. This time, Cory's team faltered. Ken Matsen's stamina had drained, his legs stiffening under age and weight. They fell and finally rested, leaning against the trees to cool down.
By mid-afternoon, Greg decided to call it. "It's late. We've got to get back to the basketball club."
Cory nodded in understanding. Everyone was drained, especially Matsen, who collapsed back against the bark, too tired to speak.
Before leaving, Tommy Godwin looked at Cory with burning determination.
"Cory—I'll double my training. Next time, I won't lose to you!"
Cory smiled faintly. "I'll be looking forward to it."
The older men were just as satisfied. Matsen wiped his brow, smiling weakly. "It's been years since I've played this hard. That felt good."
Russo chuckled. "And playing with these kids makes me feel twenty years younger."
It wasn't just a game. It was reliving youth—while passing something on.
Later, Cory glanced at his panel. His Pull-Up Jump Shot had reached 27% proficiency.
Russo, as promised, stepped forward. "Alright, Cory. Time for your lesson. Watch carefully—I'll run it in slow motion."
Cory's heart leapt. "Thank you, Manager!"
Russo walked the ball to the three-point line, dribbled forward, then stuck his foot down hard. His movement froze—shoes screeching against concrete. In the same instant, he rose smoothly into a jumper. The ball arced, kissed the sky, and swished clean through the net.
[Pull-Up Jump Shot: 40%]
Because Russo had slowed down deliberately, Cory absorbed more detail—the footwork, rhythm, and release.
A pull-up jumper looked simple. But Russo explained it piece by piece:
"Plant your feet firm. Bend your knees on the stop. Use your heel first, then forefoot, then knees and thighs to halt momentum. Keep balance before your rise. When shooting, don't overpower it—light push, light wrist snap, flick your fingers. Smooth. All in one rhythm."
Cory nodded furiously, absorbing every word. His progress ticked upward again.
But he knew—explanations alone weren't enough. Practice is the only truth.
"Alright," Russo tossed him the ball. "Your turn. Stop and shoot."
Cory sprinted forward, caught the pass, slammed his foot down—SKRRCH! Shoes squealed, dust flew. He rose into his shot—
CLANG.
Too hard. The ball ricocheted off the backboard.
"Easy, Cory," Russo corrected. "Your stop's too wide, it's throwing off your balance. Smooth out your arms, wrist, and fingers—flow with your body."
Cory tried again. This time, progress came slower, each correction smaller. But Russo's guidance kept him steady. His form tightened. The arc smoothed. One make, then another.
Swish.
Five in a row.
By now, Cory's panel buzzed. His Pull-Up Jump Shot had surpassed 85%.
"Excellent!" Russo's eyes lit with surprise. "I didn't expect you to pick this up so fast. Then again… maybe you really are a genius."
"Not yet," Cory said honestly, smiling through sweat-soaked clothes. "But I will be."
Russo nodded. "Next—we add the dribble. That's harder."
This time, Russo defended lightly. Cory drove forward, executed a crossover, then slammed on the brakes. He rose for the pull-up.
CLANG. Another miss.
Russo chuckled. "When pulling up off the dribble, sink lower before gathering the ball. That way you rise faster."
Step by step, detail by detail, Russo corrected, each pointer nudging Cory forward. His learning bar filled steadily.
By the time the sun tilted high above—Cory's pull-up jumper had become a real weapon.
And just before 3 p.m.—
Ding!
A notification rang softly in his mind.
ANY ONE LIKE MY STORY 🙂