Ryonan held a slim 78–74 lead—and possession—with under a minute left.
Asahi Matsushita slowly dribbled across half-court, deliberately bleeding the clock. His intentions were clear: delay, delay, delay.
Nick Okamoto pressed nervously, but Matsushita swung the ball away clean, and Ryonan's players began crisp rotations, working the ball around to eat precious seconds.
Shohoku scrambled, frustration rising—they couldn't touch the ball.
With 10 seconds left on the shot clock, Matsushita accelerated suddenly. His burst left Okamoto behind by two full steps. Yusaku Ozawa fed him instantly, and Asahi streaked toward the rim.
Charles Ackerman rotated late, fooled by a fake pass. In a blink, Matsushita finished the layup.
78–74. Forty-two seconds left. Ryonan up by four.
Shohoku rushed. There was no time now for patient play. Okamoto crossed half-court, called Charles for a pick-and-roll.
Charles sealed, Okamoto drove, drew the help defense from Oribe Sasaki, and kicked out to Justin Tanaka—wide open.
But hesitation gripped Tanaka. The weight of the moment froze his arms. His heartbeat thundered. If I miss, we're finished…
"Shoot it!" his teammates screamed.
Flustered, Tanaka jumped anyway—but by then Sasaki had recovered. Tanaka panicked, lofting the shot higher.
CLANG! The ball struck the backboard and caromed wildly toward out of bounds.
At the sideline, Daniel Irving hurled himself horizontally, body nearly parallel to the floor. He scraped the ball in desperation, flinging it forward.
THUD! He crashed down hard, clutching his stomach—but his eyes flicked upward in relief.
Cory Grant had it.
Cory pivoted instantly, rising for a quick jumper. He stopped sharply, one body-length of space between him and Ozawa, and let it fly.
Swish!
Two points. 76–78. Shohoku trailed by only two. 28 seconds remained.
Cory exhaled hard—relief, grit, determination. His teammates' eyes blazed. We're still alive.
Ryonan, calm as ever, slowed the pace again. Pass after pass, precious seconds drained away. Finally, Ryoji Ikegami received the ball. Cory lunged desperately, smacking at his arm.
BEEP! "Red #11, foul!"
Ikegami strode nervously to the line. This had been Cory's intention: target the weakest nerve.
He dribbled, shot—
CLANG! Off the backboard. Miss.
Second attempt—deep breath, release—
CLANG AGAIN! It rattled away.
The rebound caromed wildly—Ackerman roared. "RRAGH!" Muscling both Toyo Inoue and Sasaki, he ripped the ball down with brute might.
Shohoku ball, 13 seconds left.
"DEFENSE!" Coach Tian bellowed.
Okamoto rushed forward but instantly faced suffocating pressure. Matsushita harassed him, forcing the pass. He lobbed into Charles—but Barking Sasaki and Toyo Inoue collapsed on him.
Trapped.
Charles rose, ball cocked like he might force a dunk—but his lips curled in the hint of a smile.
Instead he rocketed the ball to the right corner.
There, Cory Grant—open in the sweet spot, one body-length free from Ozawa thanks to frantic off-ball screens.
He rose.
Ozawa launched upward to contest, hand reaching—
But Cory froze.
Waited.
And only when Ozawa descended helplessly did Cory spring, leaning into him as contact drew the whistle.
BEEP! Foul, three free throws!
The gym exploded.
Cory, off-balance, still flicked the shot, wrist curling.
The ball floated high, impossibly soft—
Teammates screamed. Ryonan frozen. Time hung still.
This was it—the shot to decide everything.