Walking away from the girls' gym felt like leaving a high-end concert hall. The sounds had been sharp, rhythmic, and professional.
The short walk down the corridor to the main gym—Gym A—was like approaching a failing zoo.
The sounds were all wrong. It wasn't the clean swish-squeak of a practice; it was a chaotic mess of clanging rims, dozens of basketballs dribbling out of sync, loud, artless yelling, and... was that a... whoopee cushion sound?
"Okay, brace yourselves," Yosuke said, his hand on the gym door like a soldier opening a bunker. "This is it. The 'Hall of Shame.' The 'We-Lost-By-Sixty' Memorial Gym. The... well, you get it. Welcome to the circus."
He pushed the door open, and the three of them stepped onto a high balcony that overlooked the entire court.
Yosuke spread his arms wide. "BEHOLD!"
It was... a disaster.
The court was a blur of unfocused activity. There were at least fifteen guys in mismatched practice jerseys, and none of them seemed to be doing the same thing.
"Okay, okay, here's the tour," Yosuke said, dropping into the role of a seasoned zookeeper. He pointed to a scattered group of guys on the far sidelines, who were ostensibly supposed to be signing in the 1st-years. "That right there? That's the 'B-Team.' The 'Benchwarmers.' The 'Human Victory Cigars'—except we never win, so they never get lit."
The group was a masterpiece of laziness. Ryota Sato, the clown from the morning's booth, was "supervising" sign-ins by... trying to balance a spinning basketball on his head. He was, of course, failing, and the ball kept clattering onto the sign-in table.
Beside him, Osamu Dazai, the gloomy kid, was sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at a crack in the floorboards as if it had personally insulted his entire family. The other B-Team players—Shigeru, Issei, Kohei—were in a circle, doing stretches that looked more like competitive napping.
"They just... exist... to make the starters feel better about themselves," Yosuke concluded with a sigh.
He then pointed to the five guys actually running a drill on the main court. They were being yelled at by a haggard-looking Coach Evans. "And that," Yosuke said, "is the 'A-Team.' The starters. The guys who actually play."
Ren watched them. They were certainly... playing.
Jin Tanaka, the captain, was playing defense with a ferocious, almost scary intensity.
Yuto Hayashi, the "hot-head," was trying to drive past him, got angry when Jin cut him off, and just... shoved him.
FWEET! "Hayashi, that's a charge! Again!" Coach Evans yelled, his voice already hoarse. "You can't just run them over! This isn't bullfighting!"
"He was in my way!" Yuto yelled back.
Under the basket, the giant Takeda Hiroshi was just shaking his head, while the team's official Point Guard, Sora Watanabe, calmly dribbled a ball on the side, looking like he'd seen this all a thousand times.
"See?" Yosuke whispered. "Our main offense is just 'wait for Yuto-senpai to get a foul.' It's great."
Ren's gaze drifted from the players to the scorer's table. A single 3rd-year student was sitting there, typing furiously on a laptop amidst a mountain of disorganized stat sheets. He looked polished, organized, and completely out of place, like an accountant who had accidentally wandered into a mosh pit. This was Haru Kobayashi, the 3rd-year team manager. Ryota's bouncing ball clattered off the table, and Haru shot him a look that could have melted steel.
"And that's Haru-senpai," Yosuke said. "The most organized man in a hurricane. I think he's secretly running the whole school."
Kenji, who had been quietly observing, suddenly squinted at the court. "Wait. Yosuke... look." He pointed at the fifth starter on the A-Team, the one with glasses who was lining up for a free throw. "His jersey. It says 'Ito.'"
"Oh, yeah!" Yosuke said, snapping his fingers. "I forgot! That's Kenjiro 'Ken' Ito! He's a 2nd-year, like Jin."
Yosuke looked at his friend Kenji. Then at the player Kenji. A slow, evil grin spread across his face.
"Oh, this is perfect. You're 'Smart-Kenji'!"
Kenji Ito sighed. "...Please don't."
"And he's... 'Sporty-Kenji'!"
"...I'm right here."
"No, wait, I got it!" Yosuke announced. "You're 'Quiet-Kenji,' and he's 'Other-Kenji'! Or... 'Glasses-Kenji'!"
"We both wear glasses, Yosuke," Kenji pointed out, deadpan.
"DAMMIT! Okay, okay... You're 'Smart-Kenji' and he's... 'Sweaty-Kenji'!"
"I'm leaving," Kenji said, turning around.
"No, wait, 'Less-Sweaty-Kenji'! That's it! It's a compliment!"
Ren just watched the chaos on the court, his friend's antics beside him, and felt... nothing. This wasn't a team. It was just a collection of problems.
FWWEEEEEEEEET!
Coach Evans's whistle was so loud it echoed, silencing the entire gym for a split second. Even Yosuke shut up.
"ALRIGHT!" he roared, his voice cracking with frustration. "A-TEAM, B-TEAM, SIDELINES! 1ST-YEARS!"
He pointed to the terrified-looking group of freshmen who had been huddling by the door.
"GET ON THE LINE! LET'S SEE WHAT YOU'VE GOT!"
He looked at the group of skinny, nervous kids, and then at the B-Team, and then at the A-Team, and let out a pained sigh.
"Basic layup drills!" he yelled. "Let's go, let's go!"
He rubbed his face, muttering to himself, but Ren heard him perfectly from the balcony.
"...And for the love of God, don't trip."