They gathered in the gym before warmups, still lacing shoes and taping fingers when Kuhlmann strode in with a clipboard under his arm.
"Listen up," he said, not waiting for silence – he expected it. "Final schedule's locked. Tonight we got St. Joseph. Friday is De La Salle. Next Wednesday, Mater Dei. And we close out our little vacation in the good old U-S-of-A against Compton Magic."
That got a few looks. Nobody smiled.
He continued. "St. Joseph first. They got one name worth remembering – Leland Green. Six-two, hundred-eighty, three stars. Not in the national rankings, but people out here know him."
Kuhlmann paced once, eyes moving across the group. "The rest of that roster? Strays and leftovers. Transfers. Foreign kids. Guys who couldn't stick in real programs but still got bounce or a jumper. St. Joseph doesn't build players – they collect them."
He tapped his clipboard. "Their offense is 'give it to the dude who can score.' Their defense is 'pray somebody jumps high enough to fix it.' No system, no discipline – but that's why you don't sleep on them. Teams with nothing to lose get stupid brave."
He looked dead at the guards. "Some six-five transfer nobody might decide tonight is his mixtape moment. Don't be the ones he eats on."
At that moment, the door opened and Michiko stepped in – sharp suit, dead-serious face, like she'd just walked into a boardroom instead of a gym. She never showed up to these talks, which made everyone straighten a little without knowing why.
"There's one more player you need to be aware of," she said, voice calm but final. "Shūzō Nijimura. Power forward. He played in Japan and was the captain of the Generation of Miracles. Now he is playing for St. Joseph. I'll be joining you for that game."
She didn't wait for a reaction – just pivoted and walked right back out.
Daniel glanced at the boys. A few of them exchanged looks, mostly confusion.
Ector muttered under his breath, "Power forward? From Japan?"
Mason shrugged. "Whatever. If she's showing up in person, dude must be real."
No one had any idea what was coming.
~~~~~
Kuhlmann had zero intention of getting on the bus.
When Daniel asked if he was coming, the old coach waved it off. "It's St. Joseph, not Duke. I'm not wasting my spine on a field trip just to watch you clobber a warm-up squad." He rolled his shoulder like the thought already hurt. "I'll stay here, finish prep for Mater Dei and Compton Magic, and enjoy a chair with back support. If you manage to lose to a transfer buffet and one mystery Japanese forward, I'll pretend I don't know any of you."
That was the end of it – he handed Daniel the clipboard, told Michiko not to let them burn the school down, and went right back to his office like he'd just delegated lunch duty, not a game.
The charter bus rumbled out of the parking lot, half the guys slumped in hoodies and headphones, the other half already talking like they were pre-gaming a title fight. Michiko had claimed a window seat near the front, crossed her arms, closed her eyes, and powered down like a robot in sleep mode.
Daniel sat across the aisle with a coffee, scrolling his phone, saying absolutely nothing – mostly because he was waiting to see how dumb this would get.
Tyrone was the first to break the silence. "Yo, how tall you think that Japanese dude is? Michiko said power forward like it's nothing."
"Minimum 6'8," Mason said, dead certain. "Japan finally grew one. Probably some Hiroshima-Nagasaki super-mutant."
Ector leaned over his seat. "What if he like them sumo dudes? 6'10, three hundred pounds, sets screens like freight trains."
Jesus slapped the back of Ector's head. "Sumo players ain't playing power forward, baboso. They ain't even jumping. More like… Godzilla with a jumper."
Grigori, staring out the window like he was narrating a documentary: "Maybe he is small but dense. Like neutron star. Six-three but five hundred pounds."
Tyrone frowned. "Why you know about space weight, amigo?"
"I read."
"Of course you do."
Novak twisted around from his seat. "All I'm saying – if Michiko left her billionaire tower to see this man, he ain't normal. Japan sent a weapon."
Mason nodded slowly. "Yeah, this is like their LeBron. LeBron-san."
Jesus cracked up. "El Rey del Sushi."
"Shūzō Roll James," Tyrone added, and they damn near screamed.
Up in the front, Daniel didn't even look up from his phone.
Deng suddenly spoke from three rows back, voice calm as always. "I will guard him first. If he is 6'10, I can push him off the block."
Biha nodded, serious. "If he is heavy sumo, I can front the post. I have low center of gravity."
"You have no center of anything," Mason said. "You stumble when you stand still."
Ector leaned back, arms folded. "Nah, we gotta switch everything. Hedge the pick-and-roll, double on the entry pass. Don't give LeGodzilla any angles."
Jesus made a cross with his fingers. "And somebody make sure he don't breathe fire."
Novak grinned. "Imagine he got post fades and karate kicks. I'm guarding him only if we get hazard pay."
Grigori finally turned from the window, deadpan. "If he dunks on me, I retire from basketball and become plumber."
Tyrone pointed at him. "Nah, you too big to be a plumber. You'd break sinks by breathing near them."
They spiraled into imaginary scouting reports: "What if he shoots like Klay?" "What if he plays like Draymond but polite?" "He probably got a samurai headband." "Bro, you racist." "I'm not racist, I'm terrified."
Someone in the back started snoring – Marcus, mouth open, completely unbothered by the impending arrival of Sushi O'Neal. Michiko didn't stir once. Daniel finally locked his phone, leaned his head back, and closed his eyes with the tiniest smirk.
Let them find out the hard way.