Los Angeles | 2009
Leo's POV
We had won the first match with relative ease. Our opponents were a rag-tag bunch of school players who relied on raw athletic talent with barely any coordination. I was confident we'd win the next match, too. We were resting in the shade, with our next game in an hour, and I was trying to keep my energy up. David, on the other hand, was doing the opposite.
"Goddammit, David, I told you not to stuff yourself on chips," Bradley said, his voice sharp with annoyance. "We still have a game to play. You can eat whatever you want after that."
I looked over. David was practically buried in a pile of junk food, hogging three family-sized bags of chips and a bottle of Mountain Dew. He was sweating just as profusely as he had been on the court.
"I know, I know, man, chill!" David said through a mouthful of crumbs, holding out a bag. "Just getting my energy back. You guys should have some too."
The sheer stupidity of it made my blood boil. "Bro, you really have a pea-sized brain, don't you?" I snapped, the anger making my voice tight. "We talked about this. Replenish, don't stuff your face. Now you've chugged a whole bottle of soda. What do you think is going to happen? If you miss a rebound because you're about to pee your pants, I swear I'm gonna beat your ass into the ground."
"Alright, alright! I ain't touching no more food. Happy?" he said, pushing the bags away. He then grinned, a taunting light in his eyes. "Just you wait and see, you midget. When we play next, I'm gonna out-score you."
Even though I knew he was joking, him calling me midget set off the fuse. "Oh, shut up, you overgrown sack of potatoes!" I shot back. "I'll show you what scoring actually means when the match starts."
"Oh yeah? Let's settle it on the court then!" David declared.
"Guys, seriously," Bradley interjected, trying to sound like a sage team captain. "I am not passing the ball to either of you if your internal competition compromises our game."
I just laughed, turning on him. "Oh, get off it, Brad. We both know you're going to try and outscore both of us. Bloody sharpshooter."
Bradley tried to hold his serious expression, but a corner of his mouth twitched. Then David started laughing, a deep, rumbling sound. Seeing him crack, both Brad and I lost it, all three of us bursting into a fit of laughter that left us breathless.
Yeah. We were so going to win this.
…
The ref's whistle cut through the hazy afternoon air. David, using every inch of his ridiculous wingspan, easily won the jump ball, tipping it perfectly toward Bradley. He was already in motion, catching it on a dead sprint. The Rhinos, our opponents, were caught flat-footed. Bradley sliced through their unprepared defense for an easy fast-break layup, scoring the first points of the game before they even knew what hit them.
Too easy, I thought, a surge of arrogant confidence hitting me. I got a good look at their center as they set up to inbound. The team was called the Rhinos, and this dude was the reason why. He wasn't just tall; he was wide, built like a vending machine with legs. My first thought was slow. My second was I'm going to cook this guy all day.
I was dead wrong.
Their guard drove the lane, and as David stepped up to contest, he dished the ball to the big man. The center caught it and, with a burst of explosive speed that made no sense for his size, hit a quick spin move that left David completely flat-footed for an easy two points. He was fat, but he was fast. This just got interesting.
The rest of the first quarter was a street fight. Their defense was a solid wall of physicality, all body checks and bumping on cuts. They clogged the lane, making it impossible for me to execute my fast slashes to the rim. I tried to drive baseline on my man, but their center shifted over, a massive obstacle that forced me into a clumsy, contested pass that Bradley barely saved from going out of bounds. We couldn't get anything easy. Bradley managed to hit a tough jumper, and David got a putback, but the Rhinos were just as relentless, answering every one of our baskets. The quarter ended with them hitting a lucky, off-balance shot at the buzzer, and just like that, we were trailing.
During the short break, Bradley pulled us in, his face calm and analytical. "They're trying to bully us in the paint. We're not going to beat them at their own game. We're going to out-think them." He looked at me, then David. "We're going to run them into the ground. From now on, it's all passing. Pass, pass, pass. Make them move side to side, chase us all over the court. We drain their energy, then we attack the rim. Got it?"
It was a smart plan, but for me, it was frustrating as hell. I want the ball in my hands to make a play, not to immediately give it up. But I nodded. Bradley was the strategist, and I trusted him.
The second quarter was a masterclass in his strategy, and a personal test of my patience. The ball whipped from sideline to sideline, a constant blur of motion forcing their big, heavy-footed players to chase. It was working—I could see their center gasping for air, his hands on his knees after just a few possessions. But it meant most of our scoring opportunities were coming from mid-range shots and smart cuts, not the one-on-one drives where I do my best work. More than once, I saw a seam to attack, but I'd hear Bradley's voice—"Swing it, Leo!"—and I'd force myself to make the pass, biting back my frustration.
Meanwhile, David was at war under the basket. He was doing a great job on the boards, but their center was playing dirty. On one rebound, David had perfect position, but as he went up, I saw the Rhino center use his hip to shove him in mid-air. It was a discreet, ugly foul that sent David stumbling when he landed. He looked at the ref, exasperated, but the ref just yelled, "Play on!" I felt my temper flare on his behalf, but there was nothing to do but get back on defense.
Bradley orchestrated the offense, hitting his shots and getting David the ball on a couple of brilliant passes that led to easy buckets. I managed to score on a quick cut, but my role had changed from an attacker to a cog in Bradley's machine. The buzzer blared, signaling the end of a grueling half. We were only down by two, but it felt like we were fighting uphill in the mud. This wasn't just about skill anymore. It was about who was going to break first.
End of First Half: Knights 18, Rhinos 20
Bradley took a long chug from his water bottle, wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his arm. His eyes were distant, replaying the entire first half in his head. "Okay," he said, breaking the silence. "So, we're in a bit of a pickle. Our strategy is working, but it's not working fast enough. These guys tire out, but then the quarter ends and they get a breather. We need to be more aggressive on offense. The defense is as good as it's going to get for now."
I agreed with him completely. "Dude, if you can get me the ball inside the paint, I can drive it to the basket," I said, leaning forward. "Besides, I think I have more energy than you two right now because I barely got to play my game in the last half."
Brad eyed me, his mind clearly weighing the variables. "Leo, the thing is, I can probably get you the ball in the paint, but the pass will have to be fast and powerful," he said. "A bullet. We haven't practiced that kind of timing before. It could lead to turnovers that might lose us the game."
I understood his logic, but my fighting spirit was screaming for a chance. "Look, man, if we keep playing the way we are, we might win, but it'll be a close, grinding fight to the end," I argued. "On the other hand, your passes and my drives give us another weapon to use against that big rhino in the middle. Let's just try it. If it fails, we can shelve it."
"Yeah, give it a chance, Brad," David voiced his support, for which I was grateful. "We're good enough to recover from a setback. I think."
Brad let out a long, frustrated sigh but finally nodded. "Alright," he said, his eyes locking onto mine. "We'll do it your way. But if we turn the ball over on that play
more than thrice, we're going back to the regular strategy. Deal?"
"Hell yeah, boy, that's the way!" I pumped my fist in excitement. This was huge. Bradley listening to us on gameplay strategy was rare; he never let anyone else dictate plays. It was selfish on his part, sure, but you can't really argue with a guy who always gets you the win. This felt different, though.
The third quarter started with the ball in the Rhinos' possession. Their center, using his huge figure, immediately made his way right under the paint. He used his frame to nudge David back, creating space, and scored an easy basket. It was a statement: they were going to keep playing bully ball.
Now it was our turn. Adrenaline surged through me as we went in with the new strategy. I evaded my man with a quick first step and slashed into the paint, glancing at Bradley for the pass.
I was stunned. My entire vision was suddenly covered by the basketball coming toward me like a bullet. It was impossibly fast. I was unable to react in time; the ball hit me square in the chest and bounced away, right into the hands of the opponent's shooting guard. I looked over at Bradley, shocked, and saw a resigned look on his face, as if he'd expected this. The opponent scored an easy two points on the turnover.
My heart hammered with frustration. We tried it again on the next possession. I made the cut, I was open, but the ball was just too fast for me to catch. Turnover. They scored again. The third time, I fumbled it out of bounds. The offensive errors were all mine. I was getting frustrated, blaming myself for my overconfidence. By the time the quarter ended, we had managed a few baskets, but our new strategy was a bust, and we were still trailing.
I walked to the bench, feeling ashamed. "My fault, Brad. I'm sorry," I apologized. "I was too overconfident."
"It's alright," he said, handing me a towel. "We'll recover."
"Dude," David stepped in, looking at me. "Stop trying to see it and catch it. Just get to the spot and keep your hands out. Anticipate the pass. Trust that he'll get it there."
I was unsure, but David encouraged me more. "It's a minor setback, man. We're trying this for the first time. You can't be perfect. Just try to be better."
I looked at Bradley, who gave a small, confident smile. "We're going to continue trying to perfect the pass," he said, and that was that.
When the fourth quarter started, I was reinvigorated. The shame was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp focus. We ran the play. I made my cut into the paint, but this time, I did what David said. I took a quick glance at where Brad was, then raised my hands as if to receive the ball, my eyes already focused on the basket. I was running blind, on pure trust.
Suddenly—THUMP. A hard, stinging impact slammed into my palms. The ball. I hadn't even seen it coming. It bounced once on the ground, but this time it wasn't an out-of-control fumble. It was right there. Muscle memory took over. I gathered it in one fluid motion and went up for a fast layup. It dropped through the net.
A primal yell of triumph ripped out of my chest. I turned to see David and Bradley overjoyed, both with their fists in the air. We were back.
After that, it was a slaughter. The Rhinos, now starting to get disorganized and tired, had no answer for our two-pronged attack. We'd lull them to sleep with the continuous passing strategy, whipping the ball around the perimeter until their big guys were heaving for breath. And then, when they least expected it—BAM—Brad would fire a bullet pass to me for a layup. When they collapsed the paint to stop me, he'd just step back and drain a cold-blooded three-pointer. He hit two of them back-to-back, each one a dagger that seemed to drain the fight out of them.
The final minute was a blur. I scored again and again, the ball appearing in my hands as if by magic. The Rhinos were broken, their solid defense now a frantic, sloppy mess. The final buzzer was the sweetest sound I'd ever heard. The Knights had won. We had been beaten down, we had failed, and then we had fought our way back.
Final Score: Knights 44, Rhinos 39
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POWERSTONESSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!
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