The moment Doug sent Mbah a Moute crashing down from midair, a thrill like nothing he'd ever felt surged through him. For the first time, basketball seemed fun—real collisions, raw strength—far better than grinding in World of Warcraft.
So when starter forward Wright drove hard the next possession, going up for a dunk, Doug again timed it perfectly, exploding skyward… smack! He swatted him down just as brutally.
Wright hit the floor in a heap, groaning. Doug, however, was exhilarated.
"You guys should keep charging the paint," he grinned. "I love this kind of head-on collision. That's what makes basketball exciting."
But neither Mbah a Moute nor Wright was the type to keep banging their heads against the wall. No one liked getting their wings broken mid-flight, then tossed to the floor like trash in an unmarked bin.
"Snoop's vertical is ridiculously quick," assistant Nolan explained from the sideline. "That's why he camps under the rim. He waits for attackers to commit, then rockets up and flips them over. Without a defensive three-second rule in the NCAA, it works. In fact, the intimidation might be worse than the block itself. What we need to do now is teach him how to avoid fouling—and how to dunk."
"Exactly," Coach Holland agreed.
He cut practice short and called over trainer Leon Bob, carving out half a court.
"Bob, I want a full report on Snoop. Jump height, three-quarter sprint time, lateral speed, half-court shuttle. Everything."
Soon the tests began, the whole staff watching.
The numbers rolled in.
¾ sprint: 5.4 seconds — awful.
Lateral movement: poor.
Half-court shuttle: poor.
Running vertical reach: 3.22m — disappointing.
Standing vertical jump: 1.01m — insane.
The contrast was absurd.
The staff stared, dumbfounded. They had never seen such a lopsided profile. How could someone touch 3.69m from a standstill, yet only manage 3.22m with a run-up? How could a guy with freakish lift lumber through a sprint slower than anyone else? For reference, Westbrook clocked 3.16 seconds in the sprint.
"So… are all smart athletes this strange?" Holland muttered, doubting numbers for the first time.
Doug scratched his head awkwardly. "Probably just me."
Leon Bob stepped in. "There's something you all need to know. Snoop grew 18 centimeters in the past month. That kind of sudden growth destroys coordination. He needs time to adapt to his new body. These dynamic results aren't the whole picture—give him some months, maybe he'll adjust."
"How long exactly?" Holland asked.
"No idea. Could be months, could be never," Bob shrugged. "But I'll make it my top project. If I can figure this out, I'll become a world-class expert in human kinetics."
His eyes blazed with conviction.
Normally Holland would have spit on such grandiose talk. But after seeing these freak results, he had no reason to doubt anymore.
"Fine. Snoop's yours. Train him into another Westbrook. I'm counting him in our future plans."
"I'll deliver," Bob vowed, glowing with purpose.
So when the Bruins began their next half-court drill, poor Doug was back upside-down.
This time, his assignment: stab balloons pinned to the wall with a plastic sword while dangling from a rope.
"Leon, maybe you should just get me a circus job," Doug muttered, swinging wildly as he jabbed at balloons. "This looks more ridiculous than a dog jumping through hoops or a monkey riding a unicycle."
"Shut it, Snoop! You should feel honored—you're the first human ever to undergo my comprehensive scientific training. This is for your core strength. Coordination starts in the waist and abs, got it?"
Bob always had a theory.
Doug was convinced most of it was nonsense. Yet, as he swung and strained, he did feel more connected to his body.
So, gritting his teeth, he endured—anything to move closer to a body he could truly command.