The victory against Ridgeview should have felt like a coronation. The observer was satisfied, the principal was beaming, and the team moved with the swagger of converts. The "Robot Coach" meme had been quietly supplanted by local news snippets praising Northwood's "analytical approach." But in the silent, data-stream of Alex's mind, a single, glaring anomaly refused to resolve.
Ben.
The big center was the system's most crucial cog. He was the fulcrum for their high-percentage looks, the anchor of their defense. His practice numbers were stellar. In drills, his finishing under the basket was a consistent 97-99%. But in games, a strange divergence occurred. When he received a pass in a set play, his percentage held firm. But on offensive rebounds—those chaotic, unexpected scrambles—his number would plummet. It would flicker from a sure 98% down to a shaky 60%, sometimes even 50%, before the ball even left his fingertips.
The data was clear, but the cause was a variable he couldn't quantify. It was the one column in his mental spreadsheet that remained infuriatingly blank.
He tried to address it with pure logic. "Ben, your efficiency on put-back attempts drops by thirty-eight percent compared to set plays," he said during a film session, freezing the clip on Ben's panicked face after securing an offensive board. "You're rushing. You're not gathering yourself. The fundamentals are identical."
Ben just nodded, his eyes fixed on the screen. "I'll try harder, Coach."
But "trying harder" wasn't a data point. It was noise.
The problem came to a head during their next game against a weaker opponent. They were up by twenty, and Alex was running the bench. Ben grabbed an offensive rebound, and Alex saw the number flicker: 55%. Ben's subsequent rushed shot clanged off the bottom of the rim, a shocking miss from point-blank range.
On the way back on defense, Marcus clapped his hands in frustration. "Come on, Ben! Easy one!"
And Alex saw it. The moment Marcus yelled, Ben's shoulders hunched, and the next time he touched the ball, even on a simple catch-and-finish drill, his percentage wavered, dropping from 99% to 85%.
It wasn't the chaos of the rebound. It was the expectation. The pressure. The fear of failure, magnified by the spotlight and the voice of his star teammate. It was performance anxiety, pure and simple. A ghost in the machine that no algorithm could fix.
He had to write a new formula.
After the game, a comfortable win marred only by Ben's continued struggle, Alex pulled him aside. The gym was empty, the echoes of their victory faded.
"It's not your form, Ben," Alex began, abandoning percentages entirely.
Ben stared at the floor. "I know. I'm sorry, Coach. I just... I get in my head."
"I need you to do something for me," Alex said. "And it has nothing to do with basketball."
Ben looked up, confused.
"The next time you get an offensive rebound," Alex said, his voice low and steady. "I don't want you to think about scoring. I don't want you to think about Marcus. I don't want you to think about the crowd."
"Then... what should I think about?"
"I want you to find me on the sideline. Look right at me. And I will give you a single nod. That's it. That's the entire play. You see my nod, you go back up and score. That's your only job. Can you do that?"
It was a psychological hack. A bypass for the anxiety. He was replacing the complex, pressure-filled decision-tree with one simple, binary command: See Nod -> Execute.
Ben's eyes widened, a flicker of hope in them. "Just... look at you?"
"Just look at me," Alex confirmed. "The data... the numbers say you can make that shot in your sleep, Ben. I just need you to believe it. Let me be the signal."
The next practice, Alex implemented the "Nod Drill." They simulated offensive rebounds, and every time Ben secured the ball, his head would snap to the sideline. Alex would give a slow, deliberate nod. And every time, Ben would score with calm, collected efficiency. The 98% was back, solid and unwavering.
They were preparing for the playoffs now. The air was thinner, the stakes higher. During a scrimmage, Ben grabbed a tough board in traffic. For a split second, he froze, the old panic in his eyes. Then his head swiveled. He found Alex.
Alex looked back, his own heart hammering against his ribs. This was the test. This was the unwritten percentage—the variable of trust.
He gave the nod.
Ben turned, jumped, and laid the ball in with a soft touch off the glass. 99%.
He landed, and a slow, genuine smile spread across his face. It was the first time Alex had ever seen him smile on the court.
Marcus, who was defending him, didn't scowl. He didn't yell. He just shook his head and muttered, "Alright, Ben. Alright."
It wasn't a fix. It was a patch. A workaround for the messy, illogical human firmware that his perfect system had to run on. But as he watched Ben run back on defense, his posture taller, his movements more assured, Alex understood.
His system wasn't just about optimizing shots. It was about optimizing people. And some variables couldn't be calculated. They could only be coached.