Snoopy stepped up to the free-throw line.
He took a slow breath, adjusted his stance, and lifted the ball.
Shooting from under the rim was one thing; shooting from the free-throw line was another. The distance demanded different strength, a new rhythm of balance and release.
The ball arced—swish.
Then another. Clang. Then swish again.
Fifty percent accuracy right from the start. Not bad. Not bad at all. Especially considering this was his first systematic free-throw practice.
Coach Ben Holland studied him closely. His body control was still clumsy, but his hands… his hands were something else.
The fingers—long, flexible, as if blessed by the gods themselves.
Then came the rhythm.
Swish! Swish! Swish! Swish!
Four in a row.
Coach Holland, standing beneath the basket to rebound, couldn't help but smile. "Snoopy, you were born for basketball. If this sport was played with everyone standing still, I'd say you're the most talented player I've ever seen."
Snoopy gave him a look that could only be described as helpless.
"Coach, maybe you should've told me that before inventing a sport that requires moving around."
Holland burst out laughing.
That was what he liked about this kid. Snoopy wasn't some obedient, silent rookie, nor was he a cocky, arrogant prodigy. He was calm, respectful, but always genuine. He trained seriously, never bragged in the locker room, and got along with everyone. In many ways, he was easier to coach than the "stars." Maybe that's what you get from a student who entered UCLA on pure academic merit.
But soon, practice shifted.
Leon Powe walked in, dragging Snoopy toward the strength room. A new drill awaited.
Suspended upside down, Snoopy slashed away at floating balloons with darting movements.
This time, he popped them all in just nineteen minutes, an improvement of eleven minutes compared to yesterday.
Leon cheered like he'd won the lottery. "Historical breakthrough! We're making history here, Coach!"
The staff clapped him on the shoulder, then turned back to serious matters: opponents, brackets, and the looming national tournament.
UCLA's road was set.
Washington this Friday. Arizona after that.
But truthfully, those games hardly mattered anymore.
The standings were decided: UCLA sat at number two in the Pac-12, with USC perched at number one.
That meant UCLA would be an at-large selection for March Madness. Holland's estimate: they'd enter as either the South Region 3rd seed or 4th seed. Which translated to a first-round matchup against a 13th or 14th seed team.
Simple enough, at least, on paper.
But everyone knew the monster waiting down that path.
Kansas State.
And at its center: Michael Beasley.
Beasley wasn't just good. He was rewriting the NCAA record books.
His first college game? 32 points, 24 rebounds.
His season average? 26.2 points, 14.5 rebounds per game.
Unheard of.
Greg Oden, last year's number-one pick, had averaged only 15 and 9.
Even Carmelo Anthony, who led Syracuse to a national title, had only managed 22 and 10.
Only Kevin Durant, last year's number-two pick, Beasley's best friend and "sworn brother", came close, with 25 and 13.
And still, scouts were saying Beasley was stronger.
At 6'10", he had the rebounding and post moves of a power forward, plus the ball-handling and outside shooting of a small forward. A big man who could hit threes at 43%? Terrifying.
After O.J. Mayo's USC fell to UCLA earlier this week, the draft boards unanimously elevated Beasley to the consensus number-one prospect.
Which brought Holland to his radical plan.
"We'll use Snoopy on him."
The assistant coach, Cole, nearly dropped his clipboard. "Wait, wait, wait, what? Snoopy? You're saying you want a rookie who barely knows how to shoot to guard Michael Beasley?! That's suicide!"
Holland's voice was calm, but unwavering. "If we meet Kansas State, Snoopy is our best option."
Cole slapped the playbook in disbelief. "What about Taj Gibson? He's quicker, stronger, more athletic.."
"Exactly," Holland cut him off. "Beasley thrives against players like Taj. He'll beat them at their own game. The only way to disrupt him is to throw something completely different at him. Someone with an unorthodox rhythm. Someone Beasley can't read."
Cole just stared.
This wasn't a strategy. This was lunacy.
Using Snoopy against Beasley? That was like bringing a kitchen knife to a gunfight.