July 28, 2010
The sun hung high above Oak Hill Academy, casting shadows across the polished gym floor. The air inside was thick with tension—expectation. This wasn’t just another training session.
This was the start of sothing much bigger.
..
Team Vorpal Basket: Full Roster
Lucas Graves (#10) – Shooting Forward
Evan Cooper (#9) – Point Guard
Josh Turner (#8) – Shooting Guard
Ryan Taylor (#11) – Power Forward
Brandon Young (#15) – Center
Aiden White (#7) – Small Forward
Bench Unit:
Louie Gee Davas (#5) – Guard/Shooter
Coonie Smith (#6) – Guard
Jeremy Park (#42) – Forward
Kai ndoza (#31) – Guard/Forward
And of course... the so-called head coach:
Coach Fred Mason – The lazy, overweight, corrupt figurehead who barely lifted a finger unless there was food involved.
Most teams followed their coach’s orders.
Not us.
I make the plays. I build the rotations. Mason might hold the clipboard, but I hold the respect. We need him on paper to qualify—nothing more.
Now, we’re heading into the most critical part of the year:
The Tournant System – National Middle School Championship
Step 1: Local Trials – Qualifier Phase
Every district. Every city.
Every school team stepping onto the court with the sa goal—survive.
Each district will host a local elimination trial.
Top 2 teams from each district advance.
Those 2 move on to the Division Cup.
Let’s do the math.
32 districts × 2 teams = 64 teams advancing to the next stage.
That’s Step 2: The Division Cup — the regional bloodbath where only the elite survive.
But that’s still far ahead.
Cause for Now?
This was the beginning.
The Local Trials.
A single loss could end everything.
We—Vorpal Basket—entered as one. Black-and-red warm-up jackets zipped halfway, shoes tied sharp, faces set.
We weren’t flashy.
We were focused.
"Hey," Evan Cooper muttered beside , hands in his pockets, "I think the dudes from Linwood Middle are already trying to size us up."
I didn’t look. "Let ’em."
Josh Turner spun a ball on his finger, chewing gum like he was in a street ga, not a sanctioned tournant.
Brandon Young exhaled a deep breath behind us. "I’m not nervous," he muttered to himself. "Just focused."
Ryan Taylor clapped him on the back. "Good. Now stay that way, big man. We need you in the paint."
Aiden White cracked his knuckles and adjusted his sleeves. "Man, this gym slls like stress and sweat."
"It’s war," I said quietly. "And this is our first battlefield."
The bench unit followed a few steps behind us. Louie Gee Davas, younger than most of us at thirteen, was practically vibrating. He kept looking around at the other teams—wide-eyed, jaw clenched.
I slowed down and fell into step beside him.
"Yo," I said.
He blinked and looked up fast, like he’d been caught dreaming.
"Y-yeah?"
"You good?"
He nodded quickly, too quickly. "I’m ready. Really. I trained yesterday. Did that step-back thing Ethan showed . Hit like... three in a row. I think."
I narrowed my eyes. "Today, you’re gonna see what real pressure feels like."
Louie swallowed hard, but his nod was steadier. "I’m ready."
He ant it—even if his fists were clenched a little too tight.
We reached the benches.
Other teams were scattered around the gym. So still warming up. Others watching us from the far wall like we were invaders.
We were in enemy territory, even if it was neutral ground.
A referee passed by, clipboard in hand.
"Vorpal Basket?" he asked.
I nodded. "That’s us."
"Your ga’s first. You’re on Court A. Ten minutes until tip-off."
I nodded again and turned to the squad. "You heard him."
Coach Mason was sitting in the far corner, sipping from a giant soda, his belly rising and falling like a sack of dough. He wasn’t even looking at us.
He had nacho crumbs on his hoodie.
Absolutely useless.
But we needed his signature on the roster sheet to qualify. That’s it. That’s the only reason he was here.
The rest? The plays, the adjustnts, the tiouts? That was all .
I wasn’t the captain by vote.
I was captain because the others followed .
I turned back to the squad.
"Alright. Listen up."
Everyone circled.
"First ga’s against the Portsmouth Vultures."
Josh groaned. "Man, those guys play like NFL linebackers."
"Exactly," I said. "They’re rough. They’ll try to bully you, especially under the rim. Brandon, Ryan—lock it down in the paint. You see Darnell Fox coming in full speed, don’t play hero. Plant. Draw the charge."
Ryan smirked. "I live for that."
"Evan," I continued, "you’re our engine. Keep the tempo up. Don’t let them slow us down. Their guards aren’t quick enough to chase."
Evan gave a tight nod. "Copy."
"Josh, Lucas—space the floor. Give Lucas so room to work."
Josh gave a salute.
I looked at Louie. "If I call you in, I need you to shoot like you’ve got nothing to lose."
Louie blinked. "You—You’re gonna call in?"
"Eventually," I said. "You’ve been training. Let’s see if it paid off."
He grinned so wide I thought his face would break.
Kai ndoza and Jeremy Park stood behind him, nodding in solidarity.
Coonie Smith twirled his towel around his fingers. "Hey," he said, "no matter what, let’s make sure we don’t let Mason draw up any plays, alright?"
Everyone laughed quietly.
Even I cracked a smile.
After that, I locked eyes with everyone
"Let’s move." I said my voice cut through the silence.
No grand speech. Just clarity.
This is where the story truly begins.
One court at a ti.
....
Lucas Pov
Lucas Graves – Jersey #10
Position: Shooting Forward
Age: 14
This is it.
The hardwood floor. The lights. The crowd murmuring in anticipation.
It wasn’t just a ga—it was a test. A test of how far we’ve co since the last ti we stepped on this court. Since that awful loss during a friendly scrimmage that haunted us for weeks.
We were about to face our first opponent in the Local Trials:
The Portsmouth Vultures
Black and red jerseys.
Every player looked like they’d been hitting weights since birth.
Their captain? Darnell Fox – #0, a power-forward built like a truck and with a vertical like
a springboard. He was rumored to be dunking since age 12.
Their playstyle? Rough.
Dirty when the refs weren’t looking.
They didn’t just try to win.
They tried to humiliate.
...
Starting Lineup Called.
I step out, giving Evan a low five. Josh taps his chest and gives a nod.
Brandon cracks his knuckles.
Ryan grins.
He loves brawling in the paint.
Ref blows the whistle.
Ball goes up. Ga on.
The ref tossed the ball into the air, and ti felt like it slowed. Brandon leapt, his timing sharp, but not sharp enough.
Tip-off lost.
The orange blur fell into the Vultures’ point guard’s hands, and the ga ignited.
"Push it!" barked their coach.
They didn’t jog up—they exploded.
I was already sliding into position, keeping eyes on #0—Darnell Fox—their monster of a power forward. He was built like a linebacker but moved like a sprinter. Ryan stepped up to et him near the free-throw line, arms raised, feet ready.
But Darnell didn’t stop.
He dropped his shoulder and threw his elbow into Ryan’s ribs.
"Ugh!" Ryan staggered, just enough.
Darnell rose.
Layup. Easy.
0–2.
The ref’s whistle? Silent.
Typical.
Coach Mason scratched his belly like he was waking up from a nap. I didn’t even bother listening to whatever nonsense was about to co out of his mouth.
Instead, I turned my eyes to the bench. To Ethan.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t blink. He wasn’t yelling like so wannabe player coach trying to get attention. He was watching the court like it was a chessboard.
Not a coach.
A general.
Cold. Focused.
Strategizing.
That’s why I respected him. He never treated us like throwaway rookies, like we didn’t matter. Since he stepped up, everything shifted. The bench believed again. We weren’t "those loser team from Mouth of Wilson." We were Vorpal Basket now. We are reborn to sothing new.
I inhaled through my nose.
Ti to answer back.
,,,
Fast break. Evan leads the charge.
Josh picked off a sloppy pass and kicked it up the court. Evan scooped it in stride, legs churning. I burst into motion on the left wing, slicing diagonally across the court.
He saw .
His pass? Perfect. No spin, just clean velocity.
Ball landed in my hands.
One dribble.
Two defenders rotated to , fast.
They think I’m going all the way in?
Pump fake.
They both leave the floor—biting hard.
My sneakers kiss the court as I stop.
I rise.
Follow-through smooth. Arc clean.
Net whispers.
2–2.
No roar from the crowd—yet. Just the quiet tension of a tied score, reset.
I scanned the court, silver eyes catching movent, flow, gaps. The ga was young, but already, it had a rhythm. I could feel it humming in my blood like music.
This... this is my tempo.
...
Four minutes in.
Score: 11–8, us.
Josh was on fire—hit two clean threes from the corner. Evan was weaving in and out of defenders, carving lines like an artist on hardwood. Aiden even had a slick assist to Ryan.
But the Vultures were relentless.
They weren’t just playing basketball—they were throwing fists behind screens, tugging jerseys, stepping on shoes.
Brandon took a forearm to the gut under the basket—no call.
Ryan got smacked across the wrist mid-jumper. Nothing.
The refs kept swallowing their whistles.
My fists clenched as I watched Brandon rub his ribs.
If the refs won’t protect us... then we protect each other.
Next play, I saw it happening again.
Darnell Fox caught the ball near the elbow, and his eyes turned into headlights—gunning toward the rim.
Not again.
I planted my feet near the paint, arms wide, heart thudding.
He ca barreling.
I didn’t move.
BOOM.
His shoulder slamd into my chest like a car crash.
I hit the floor.
Ref’s whistle—finally.
"Charge!"
Crowd gasped. Their coach shouted.
Darnell scoffed as he turned. But when our eyes t, he didn’t look amused.
He looked... acknowledging.
He knew.
I wasn’t just another skinny forward in his way.
I was here to fight.
...
Tiout.
We huddled near the bench. Coach Mason opened a bag of chips.
Great.
But then Ethan stepped forward, voice low.
"They’re baiting us," he said. "Trying to drag us into a street fight."
We listened.
"Don’t give them that satisfaction. Let your ga speak."
I nodded, jaw tight.
Then he looked dead in the eyes.
"Lucas... it’s ti to show them why you matter. Show your ga"
That settled in my chest like fire.
Not pride.
Not arrogance.
Conviction.
I gave a nod. "Got it."
Eyes locked in. Tunnel vision. Just , the court, and the rhythm I was starting to control.
...
Next play.
Evan faked a handoff, slashed toward the middle. The defense collapsed.
I rotated to the left wing.
Open.
He saw —again.
Passed.
I rose.
Three.
My hands knew what to do. Balance, eyes, elbow, follow-through.
Splash.
14–8.
My heart slowed.
My breath steadied.
My ga.
I glanced at Ethan again.
He smirked—but only slightly.
He already knew.
The rest of the quarter played like a battle. Elbows. Scraps. Hustles for loose balls. We didn’t win every mont—but we made every mont count.
Buzz.
End of 1st Quarter.
Vorpal Basket – 19.
Portsmouth Vultures – 14.
,,
3RD POV
As Josh jogged to the bench, gasping. Coach said sothing, but again—it was just a background noise.
Because soone stood up from the bench.
Soone who have done analyzing the ga
Ethan Albarado.
He tightened his shoelaces with purpose. Not like a kid stepping onto the court.
Like a soldier entering a battlefield.
Lucas looked across the court, still dripping sweat, breath ragged.
Their eyes t.
Connection. Instant.
No words.
Just history.
Pain. Sacrifice. Determination.
They had been through things. Things no scoreboard could asure.
But that didn’t matter anymore.
Because the second quarter was about to start.
And Ethan was entering the ga.
Lucas exhaled sharply and cracked his knuckles again.
Portsmouth Vultures howled louder now, their trash talk spitting fire.
But there was a shift.
A tremor beneath their confidence.
Because this wasn’t the sa Vorpal Basket they elbowed around in the first.
Not anymore.
Ethan stepped onto the court.
His sneakers kissed the hardwood with soft precision.
Lucas t him at half-court.
They stood shoulder to shoulder now.
Darnell Fox snarled sothing under his breath—sothing about crushing them. About breaking them.
But neither flinched.
They didn’t look at Darnell.
They looked at each other.
And in perfect unison, without even planning it, they both said:
"WE ARE VORPAL BASKET!"
The gym roared.
The End of Part 1.
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