"Captain, what's the problem?" one of the senior players asked.
Daniel Irving rubbed his chin, eyes narrowing. "Ackerman's scoring is completely limited under the basket."
The others looked at him in confusion. He continued:
"Charles lacks refined post-moves. He's relying fully on size and strength. His range is short. We can trap him under the rim and force him into inefficiency."
Turning to Owen Suzuki, the 220-pound forward, Daniel ordered firmly:
"Owen—stick to him. No matter what, don't leave the paint. Everyone else plays man-to-man."
"Yes, Captain!"
Timeout ended. Play resumed.
On the seniors' possession, Daniel himself slipped into an open lane. This time, he didn't waste the look. Rising confidently, he buried the jumper.
"YEAH!" Daniel pumped his fists, rallying his squad.
Freshman ball.
Charles trotted up the court, surprised to find his matchup had switched—now the massive Owen Suzuki waited under the rim like a wall.
Charles barely flinched. At first glance, Owen's massive frame looked slow-footed and a liability.
The play started as usual—Nick Okamoto ran the pick-and-roll with Charles. Breaking free, Nick penetrated… but Owen never moved. He stayed glued under the rim.
NBA rules forbid camping inside with the defensive three-second violation. But under FIBA rules—and Shohoku followed FIBA—defenders could plant themselves deep as long as they wanted.
Charles rolled inside, lowered shoulder to body. The weight difference roared loud. Beating down on Owen felt like leaning into a boulder—immovable.
Charles tried again from a different angle, but space was too tight. Owen's girth clogged every line. With the three-second count flashing in his mind, Charles forced up a hook shot—awkward, clumsy.
BANG! The ball careened off the rim. Owen's wide body sealed Charles off, snatching the rebound easy.
The seniors exploded down-court. Owen's long throw forward found Mark Ito, who streaked past helpless freshmen for a layup.
"Nice bucket!" the seniors cheered.
Momentum shifted—seniors' morale reignited.
Possession after possession, Charles demanded the ball. He wanted revenge. But Owen stayed planted, absorbing contact with his low center of gravity and massive frame.
Charles kept trying—back-downs, hooks, force-drives. His efficiency plummeted. One make, four misses. He looked frustrated, his rhythm breaking down with each trip.
Watching silently from the wing, Cory Grant clenched his jaw. He understood clearly now:
This was exactly why powerhouse schools like Harbor (Kainan) and Shoyo had never recruited Charles during his rookie days. His game was incomplete. His mentality easily trapped into brute-force repetition.
The deficit began to shrink. The seniors pressed the advantage, cutting the lead closer with each possession.
Finally, Cory stepped forward. He motioned to Nick. "Give me the ball."
Nick, understanding immediately, swung it his way.
Outside the arc, Cory squared up. Across from him—Isaac Takahashi crouched low, speed bursting in his legs.
"Come on," Isaac hissed.
Cory moved deliberately, probing. One test dribble. Isaac twitched—and Cory pounced. Smooth crossover. Space created. Burst off the first step.
Shoes squealed. Cory hit the brakes. Isaac skidded forward half a step—just enough.
Rising in total balance, Cory flicked his wrist.
Swish! White net snapped.
The freshmen exhaled. Cory jogged back, face calm, heart thrumming with confidence.
Daniel Irving stood slack for a second, impressed. "Cory Grant's offense… it's sharper than I thought."
On the sideline, Coach Anderson's round face actually twitched in surprise. "…I didn't expect that boy to have such skill."
But his eyes soon dulled again. To him, Cory was still limited—his build weaker, his raw talent lower. Even Ackerman and Mitch Harris barely earned his attention. To Coach Anderson, only extraordinary natural talent deserved investment. That meant rookies like Harvey Sakurai and Lucas Rivers later on… but never Cory.
And so, the boy who bled hours alone had no coach but himself, no guidance except trial, error, and his strange "panel."
On court again, Cory received another pass—same setup. Drag step, crossover, sudden stop. His pull-up jumper sliced through clean again.
The freshmen roared.
Daniel Irving raised his hand quickly. "Takahashi—switch. I'll take Cory myself."
If Cory Grant wasn't stopped, he'd blow the game open all over again.