Los Angeles | 2009
Bradley's POV
We were in the car on our way back, a quiet, heavy silence filling the space between us. I was dropping off Leo and David.
Defeat. It left a bitter feeling in my mouth, a taste I wanted to scrape off my tongue. For months, I had falsely coddled myself into believing that I could overcome any and all obstacles through sheer force of will. My hubris was on full display today. We had dominated the group stage, only to be outplayed by a former rival.
Caleb beat me. Square. It was plain to see that he took far more from losing against us months ago than I did from winning against him. Niki was right "Winning is one thing, but out of losing I always learned more" Caleb had learned. He was more prepared, and while I might have beaten him mentally before, he had returned physically dominant. A physicality I couldn't match just yet.
I looked over at my friends, their shoulders slumped with exhaustion. I tried to force a sad but reassuring smile. "Well, at least we made it to the playoffs. We'll get another chance to beat them next week."
Leo shook his head, his gaze fixed on the passing streetlights. "It's alright, man. We know you ain't happy about our loss. You don't need to support us right now. We lost, plain and simple. For now, we should focus on getting better."
"He's right," David said, his voice surprisingly firm. "I failed you guys today." He turned and looked at me, his eyes full of a new conviction. "I promise I won't eat any junk this whole week. And Bradley... I'll see you on court Monday."
The steel in his voice was unmistakable. It was a promise, and it gave me a surge of confidence. I wasn't alone in my thoughts. They wanted to be better, too.
I nodded at him. "See you Monday, David."
We dropped them off, and then it was just Harris and me in the car. The quiet was different now, less heavy. My parents couldn't come to watch this weekend, but they had promised they would join me next week, the confidence in their voices that I would make the playoffs was both intoxicating and a source of the loss's sting. My phone buzzed again on the seat beside me. Alex had texted asking how the match went, but I hadn't replied yet. I wasn't in the right headspace to talk to her, not yet.
I needed to figure out a way to win.
The familiar, translucent gold letters materialized in my mind's eye.
STATUS
Name: Bradley Mark Naird
STR: 13
VIT: 14
AGI: 15
END: 14
DEX: 13
INT: 30
TITLES: TRANSMIGRATOR
TALENTS: SHARPSHOOTER, MASTER STRATEGIST
The numbers were stark and familiar. Unchanged. Not a single point had moved since the last time I'd checked.
A flicker of disappointment went through me—a selfish, childish part of me that had expected some kind of reward for the hard-fought battle and the lessons learned. But it was quickly followed by a different thought, a clearer one. The numbers on this screen were telling a lie of omission.
They hadn't captured the moment David decided to give it his all. They didn't reflect Leo's mature acceptance of our defeat, or the fact that in that loss, we had become more of a team than we ever were in our victories. The system could measure my body and my mind, but it couldn't measure trust or resolve. And I realized, for the first time, that was a variable I was okay with not being able to quantify.
I needed to find my own way to improve, change something fundamentally within myself for the status to reflect it. It was a long term project not an immediate answer for next week but certain ideas were formulating in my head.
The house was quiet when I walked in, a cool, dim sanctuary after the bright, hot sun of the tournament. I found them in the living room, the TV off, just sitting and talking quietly. They stopped when they saw me, their faces open and expectant.
"How'd it go, son?" Dad asked.
So I told them. Everything, in excruciating detail. I walked them through the easy first win against the Tigers, the arrogant start against the Rhinos, David's struggles and his eventual heroic effort, Leo's fire, my flawed strategies, the tough comeback, and the final, brutal loss. I laid out the entire four-quarter war, leaving nothing out.
When I finally finished, the room was quiet for a moment. It was Mom who spoke first, her voice gentle as she cut through all the strategy and the scores to the heart of the matter. "How are you feeling about all this?"
The simple question made my walls crumble. "Sad," I admitted, the word feeling small and inadequate. "I'm genuinely sad. The wins were good, but... that one loss, it just stings. I wanted to win outright, to make you guys proud."
My dad leaned forward then, his expression serious. "Bradley, listen to me. Whatever expectations you think we have for you, they pale in comparison to the pressure and expectations you have of yourself." His voice was firm, but kind. "We should never have you think we want you to succeed every time. That was never the mission."
He paused, letting the words sink in. "The only thing your mother and I truly want is for you to be a good human being. To have a great moral character."
He then leaned back, a small, wry smile touching his lips. "Now," he joked, "if that moral character comes with a bonus of you being a basketball prodigy, then I am all for the free NBA tickets in the future. But that doesn't change how we see you."
His smile faded, replaced by that look of pure, unguarded pride I had seen many times before. "We're proud of you, Brad. Not because of what you do on a court. We're proud of you for simply being our son."
His words landed, and I felt the weight of expectations I put on myself begin to lift from my shoulders. The need to be perfect, to never fail... it was all self-imposed. I looked from my dad's steady gaze to my mom's warm, loving smile.
"Thanks, Dad," I said, my voice a little thick. "I... needed to hear that."
"Good, now go get some rest tomorrow will be a better day and I'll help you do some drills to better your physique…Military style", the grin on his face when he said the last sentence gave me chills.
"Al-Alright Goodnight Mom, Dad"
"Goodnight honey", my Mom said sweetly touching my hair.
…
I woke up the next morning feeling... lighter. The conversation with my parents last night had lifted a weight I hadn't realized I was carrying. The sting of the loss was still there, but it wasn't a bitter poison anymore. It was just fuel. My first thought was of Alex.
I grabbed my phone from the nightstand and typed out a message, my thumbs moving quickly.
Me: Hey sorry about yesterday I was soo tired I just came back home and slept. The matches went okay, we won 3 but lost the last one. Our opponent was the same guy who I competed against during the school match.
Her reply was almost instantaneous, the three little dots popping up before I'd even set my phone down.
Alex: You mean the tall one from Loyola?
Me: Yeah that one.
A short pause, and then the dots appeared again.
Alex: Okay. So, are you coming over here later, or should I come to your place?
A small smile touched my lips. The question was so simple, so direct. No games. I thought about the long day of work ahead of me, the promise I'd made to David and myself after the game. The need to get better was a fire in my gut.
Me: I'm going to be practicing all day. Mind if I come to your place this evening?
Alex: Sounds good. See you then.
I set the phone down, a new, clean energy humming through me. The court was waiting. The work was waiting. And for the first time, I felt like I knew exactly what I was fighting for.
Breakfast with Dad was a focused, mostly silent affair. He was reading a briefing on his tablet, and I was methodically eating my oatmeal. When we were done, he simply nodded toward the back of the house. "To the court."
We stepped out into the bright morning light. He didn't give me a pep talk or a lecture. He just handed me a few sheets of paper, neatly folded.
"Here are your morning directives," he said, his voice as crisp as a military commander's. "Leo and David will be here shortly. You will execute every item on this list. Do not skip a single step. I'll be back from the office for lunch in exactly five hours to give you the afternoon session."
I unfolded the pages. My eyes widened. It wasn't a list of suggestions. It was a multi-page, professionally structured training regimen, timed down to the minute, complete with diagrams for footwork and multiple warm-up phases. I read it and was shocked how much prepping Dad had done for them. This wasn't just a dad helping his kid. This was a general deploying his assets for a critical mission.
When Leo and David arrived, I laid the sheets out on the bench like a battle plan. Leo's eyes lit up, a hungry, competitive fire kindling in his expression. David just let out a low whistle. "Dude. Your dad is... intense."
"Tell me about it," I said. "Let's get to work."
The first hour was a grueling blur of Dynamic Warm Up & Athletic Work. We started with Warmup #1 - With Basketball. The Stationary Ball Handling was a test of focus, our hands burning as we moved through Around the World, Figure 8, and a series of Two Ball Dribble exercises. David, true to his word, was more focused than I'd ever seen him, his usual goofiness replaced by a quiet, determined sweat.
Then came the Full Court Ball handling. We pushed ourselves, moving from 1/2 Speed Dribble to 3/4 Speed and finally to a lung-searing Full Speed Dribble , incorporating crossovers and Behind-the-Back moves until the ball felt like an extension of our own hands. We finished the first phase with Partner Passing, shuffling up and down the court, firing Chest, Bounce, and Overhead passes until our arms ached.
The second phase, Warm up #2 - Without Basketball, was pure conditioning. We ran Defensive Shuffles, Butt Kick, and High Knees. We did Walking Lunges, Side Hops, and Bear Crawls until the polished maple floor was slick with our sweat. The Tennis Ball Drops, where we had to start on our bellies and spring up to catch a dropped ball, tested our reaction time to its absolute limit.
After what felt like an eternity, we moved on. We worked on Form Shooting until the motion was second nature. The game of Knock Out that followed was a welcome, if fiercely competitive, Water Break. But the heart of the session was the tactical work. We spent over an hour on Situations, running 2 on 1 & 1 on 1 drills until we were reading each other's movements without thinking, learning to anticipate the pass, to trust that our teammate would be in the right spot. This was where the real work was, the cure for our loss against the Bears.
By the fifth hour, we were running on fumes. Our legs were screaming during the final Defense Reaction & Conditioning Drill. David, who I expected to be the first to quit, was gritting his teeth, his face a canvas of pained determination. Leo was shouting encouragement, his voice hoarse. Dad had timed it perfectly. The final item on the list was the End of Game Drill, a high-pressure scenario to be run on empty tanks. We ran it once, twice, three times, until we executed it perfectly even through the haze of exhaustion.
Finally, we collapsed on the floor for the Cool down with Light Stretching. We lay there for fifteen minutes, our bodies aching, drenched in sweat, but united in a way we hadn't been before. We weren't just three kids playing basketball anymore. We were a team being forged in the fire of a general's training plan.
When Dad came back in the afternoon for lunch, all three of us were sprawled on the court, drenched in sweat and gasping for air. I was on my back, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember what it felt like to have functional legs. Leo was face down, not moving. David was just a heaving mound of exhaustion.
"You look like you've been in hell," a voice said from the doorway. I turned my head to see my dad standing there, arms crossed, with a sly smile on his face.
"Says the Satan who dragged us there," I retorted, which earned a short, sharp laugh from him.
"Alright boys, for the rest of the afternoon," he announced, his voice booming with far too much energy, "you just have to do the End of Game Drill all over again, but for a continuous hour."
The words hit me like a physical blow. My expression blanched. "D-Dad, seriously? That's crazy for a first day."
"Bah, you're the son of a fighter pilot, Bradley. Show some spine," he said, gesturing to my teammates. "Look, Leo and David aren't objecting. Why should you?"
I pushed myself up on one elbow, completely exasperated. "That's because they're unconscious, DAD! They fainted as soon as they heard what they had to do!"
He glanced down at their motionless forms, his expression unchanging. "Be that as it may, you will do as you're told, soldier," he said, his voice turning dead serious. "Remember, you asked for this."
Even in my haze of perspiration and oxygen-deprived logic, I knew he was right. I had asked for this. I had asked for the tools to win.
I replied the only way he taught me: "Yes, Sir."
_____________________________________________________________________
I know some of you may not like this chap but he is a kid and he is learning I told you he would be OP in a measured manner. Don't be too disappointed though things are about to get interesting now. I assure you that when he gets back on the court you will like what he does.
ANNOY ME BY SENDING POWERSTONES AND YOUR COMMENTS, REVIEWS WOULD BE AWESOME AS WELL.