Dad. It seems like America has way more incredible players than I thought.
Whistle
"4-0! One point left, Ronnie!" someone yelled from the sideline.
Even reciting lines that belonged in a manga didn't improve my mood. What the hell was this guy? Was this really the level of someone who just plays street ball?
During my youth national team days, I'd definitely played against American high school teams.
"How old are you?" I asked suddenly.
"What?"
Confused by my random question, he frowned slightly and shook his head. He even snorted a bit, but I wasn't going to pass him the ball until he answered.
The guy who'd been staring me down put his hands on his hips and answered.
"Sixteen."
"..."
Wait, wait. Did I hear that wrong?
Sixteen? With that face? With that skill?
Let's not mention that I was more shocked by his appearance than his basketball ability. Oh right, that's true. America calculates age a little differently than we do.
Maybe he wasn't sixteen, but actually eighteen.
"High school?" I pressed.
"What? Why are you asking so many useless questions! Just give me the ball! I need to get that watch right now," he snapped.
"..."
He gestured again for me to pass the basketball, but I was still holding it tight against my side, waiting for an answer.
The guys watching from the sidelines were getting louder, but I didn't care.
"I'm a senior now. Happy? So give me that damn ball!"
Senior? Wait, what does that mean again?
"Ugh! What, what?"
While I was lost in thought again, the guy who'd gotten closer punched the basketball hard with his fist. The ball slipped out from between my side and hand, rolled toward the basket, hit the pole and stopped.
He walked over slowly, picked up the basketball, came back toward me and said:
"I don't need your pass. I'm just gonna start."
Putting together the few words I could hear, I realized he was about to restart the game immediately. For now, let me focus on the game again.
This guy's first step was no joke.
"..."
Crouching down and bringing the ball near his hip, he got into a pivot position.
And I put my right palm close to his face, lowering my center of gravity even more. Whether he shot a jumper or tried to drive—this was the best defensive position I could manage.
Even though I wasn't the best, throughout high school I was considered a solid defensive player.
I'd never faced someone this small and quick, but I couldn't give up five straight points.
I had my pride too.
"Oh! This time he looks more serious," someone called out.
"Come on, Ronnie! Just break him down," another voice added.
Shut up, you guys. You're messing with my concentration.
Up until now, this guy had been using my psychology very cleverly. On the first possession he drove, on the second he caught me off guard and shot a jumper.
On the third, he drove again, but only because I'd stepped closer to defend the jumper. That's when I decided it was almost impossible to keep up with his speed.
So on the fourth possession, I'd intentionally allowed the drive and tried to block him from behind.
But this guy predicted what I was trying to do and smoothly switched hands for a left-handed layup.
The only option left was to give my absolute best.
"..."
Huh?
Dribble dribble dribble, bounce bounce bounce bounce
During our brief standoff, he started dribbling in place for the first time. As he backed up slightly, he began bouncing the ball between his legs, increasing the dribbling speed.
Did he think I'd be impressed by these little tricks?
"Looks like you've practiced some, Chinaman. But you've got too many holes," he taunted.
"..."
"Where do you think I'm going? Left? Or right? Should I just shoot it like this?"
Usually when players get chatty on the court, it's because they're being pressured, but most of the guys I'd met at international competitions were like this.
Why so much talking? It's not like trash talk was going to make me fold.
I guess it's just a cultural difference?
"Tch. Boring. I don't know if you're a tourist or what, but maybe you should learn more English?"
Bounce-dribble
It changed!
His breathing and dribbling tempo changed. He seemed to pick up the pace a bit, and after a few dribbles, he skillfully attempted a crossover.
His body, which had leaned slightly right, moved straight left, and this time I was able to follow his direction properly.
"Huh?"
But as soon as he stepped left once, he immediately extended his right foot far back and moved his body.
No way. At this speed?
Following the crossover with an immediate step-back move, the distance between him and me suddenly opened up more than three feet. I tried to move forward immediately, but he'd already released the basketball.
Swish
"..."
Between the guys making obviously exaggerated celebration noises and the guy walking toward me pointing at my wrist, I felt overwhelming doubt.
A Japanese youth national team player losing 0-5 to a sixteen-year-old, eighteen at most, street basketball player.
How does this even make sense?
==
January 10, 2012. Beverly Hills, California. California Route. JEM Community Center.
My condition was terrible.
After losing my watch, I couldn't even remember how I got back to the motel. I lay down on the bed without even showering and only managed to get about thirty minutes of sleep after watching the sun come up.
That was barely anything.
"Are you feeling sick?" David asked.
"Just didn't sleep much."
"Must be nerves. Hmm—the situation isn't looking too good, Hiroshi."
"..."
Only twenty-four hours into the real schedule, and my self-esteem was plummeting.
David said only about 20% of the people who'd come to the court the day before came back to see me again. More than ten colleges that had planned to check me out gave up on the evaluation process.
Scouts are busy hiding information from each other, but they also have a brotherhood that helps them avoid unnecessary work.
In other words, American college basketball officials weren't very impressed with my skills.
"The timing wasn't great. Most teams have already closed their recruiting," David explained.
"Wow, that's really comforting," I replied sarcastically.
For Division 1, the season usually starts in November.
They play conference regular seasons, which typically last about three months. Then the conference champions meet in March for a tournament—the famous "March Madness."
During that time, NCAA tournament games are way more popular than most NBA games. It's pretty enviable how much attention amateur basketball gets.
"No, really. It's the middle of the season right now. After the champions are decided, there might be more opportunities..." David said, seeming genuinely disappointed.
College basketball recruiting happens all season long, but around this time, scouts usually focus on blue-chip players. One or two excellent freshmen can change the entire season.
He emphasized that recruiting was one of the most attractive aspects of American sports. I couldn't quite fall in love with that appeal though.
"Still, I'm going to keep thinking positively. You should too, so hang in there," David said, holding out his fist for a bump.
"Haha. I'll try."
But my depressed mood just wouldn't improve. Today was supposed to be the day I showed my athletic ability, and I was worried I might get injured.
"Ugh, shit."
I just rubbed the spot where my watch used to be, feeling phantom pain in my wrist.
==
January 11, 2012. Beverly Hills, California. California Route. Royal Santa Monica Motel.
"Damn it!"
"..."
I was anxious.
During the three days of workouts at JEM Community Center, there were quite a few Japanese reporters too. And the news I found online was full of stories about how I was going to make it into the NCAA.
But somehow, the people commenting seemed to understand the situation way better than the reporters.
In one interview, the scout who said my basketball skills were very impressive was from Dalton State College.
And Dalton State wasn't NCAA but NAIA 1, belonging to the SSAC (Southern State Athletic Conference). Basically, that's like fourth division.
There are over 200 schools better than Dalton.
"Ugh, damn."
David's expression after hanging up the phone looked pretty grim. Apparently, all the NCAA Division 1 and 2 schools we'd originally been thinking about didn't want me.
San Francisco State University, which had visited JEM two days in a row on the second and third days of workouts, seemed to be our target, but they politely declined, saying they didn't have enough information.
Most other officials said similar things.
They'd acknowledge my performance in international competitions, but they had to question that competitiveness. They added that the teams sent by the US and Canada at the time were composed of players who weren't even ranked in their respective countries' high school systems.
We worked our asses off trying to beat them back then.
Still, losing by 20+ points wasn't exactly a secret.
"Sigh—we need to change our plan," David said.
"How?"
"If you go back like this, Hiroshi, you'll be a laughingstock."
Thanks so much for pointing out something I already knew.
"Just wait a minute, I need to make some calls."
"It's not like I have anything else to do anyway."
In a week, I had to go back to Japan.
I needed to join the national team for the invitational tournament at Tokyo Metropolitan Gymnasium in February. If I couldn't accomplish something before then, I'd be dealing with mockery for the rest of my life.
"Ahhhh—"
I couldn't help sighing from the gloomy mood.
Getting up from my chair and grabbing the remote, I decided to turn on the motel TV. I was thinking of watching some sports channel, but when I flipped through a few channels, I saw basketball being broadcast on a channel called "WWM."
It didn't look like NBA. NCAA maybe?
"Huh? Wait."
What? Did I see that wrong? No way.
The face I was seeing on screen wasn't unfamiliar at all.
"What the hell!"
Number 2 playing for a high school team called West Chester. That guy was exactly the same man who'd stolen my watch.