"Alright. Tonight, we're going to win this ga."
Coach Chus Mateo's voice echoed through the locker room of Real Madrid CF. His words were calm, but I could hear the fire behind them. For most players here, this was just another league match. But for ?
It was a rebirth.
My na is Dirgantara Renji—Dirga for short. And tonight was my first official ga with Real Madrid's first team. After ten long years of bouncing around the lower leagues, surviving injuries, playing for forgotten teams, and being told I wasn't good enough, I was finally here. Even if I started from the bench, this mont ant everything.
My dream was still alive.
"Welco to the Movistar Arena!" the announcer's voice bood across the packed stadium. "Real Madrid versus Barcelona—one of the greatest rivalries in European basketball!"
The crowd responded with a roar, their energy vibrating through the floor. The lights dimd, then flared up, bathing the court in bright white as the teams took their positions. From the sideline, I took a deep breath, letting it all sink in.
Tonight wasn't a final. It wasn't a title decider. But for , this was the biggest ga of my life.
I watched as the ga kicked off at a blistering pace. Campazzo orchestrated the offense with precision, darting through defenders like a chess master moving pieces. Rathan-Mayes attacked the rim with force, while Abalde and Garuba hustled on both ends. Then there was Serge Ibaka—veteran, anchor, champion. Just being on the sa roster as him was surreal.
I had goosebumps.
I rembered watching Luka Dončić play here years ago, tearing through defenses before he even turned 18. Now he was an NBA star. Back then, I sat in the stands. Tonight, I sat on the bench, one substitution away from the court.
The ga was poetry in motion.
Thunderous dunks. Crossovers that made defenders stumble. Deep threes that swished through the net like whispers. The intensity. The noise. The fire.
This... this was basketball.
The third quarter ticked away. Real Madrid led 55–50, but Barcelona was closing in. Then, I heard it.
"Dirga!"
I turned. Coach was looking at , nodding.
"You ready?"
I stood up, adrenaline spiking. "Always."
"Alright. Go play."
I stripped off my warmup and jogged to the scorer's table. My heart pounded as I heard the arena announcer.
"And now, entering the court—Dirgantara Renji! The late bloor who clawed his way back from the second league to the main stage!"
As I stepped onto the court, I heard a few scattered cheers—maybe so fans rembered from my earlier days. I stood out, after all. Brown skin, 189 centiters tall, with sharp Southeast Asian features and untad black hair. My mother was Japanese, my father Indonesian. I looked different, and I played different.
Rathan-Mayes passed by and gave a quick pat on the shoulder. "Make it count."
"I will," I said.
I took a deep breath, letting the roar of the crowd and the tension of the ga settle into my chest. My hands were calm. My focus sharp.
Ti to go to work.
The ball found its way to on the next possession. I called for a screen. Serge stepped up and set a solid pick. I curled around, slipped between defenders, and drove hard into the paint.
One defender stepped up—too slow.
I euro-stepped around him, the help defense coming late. I adjusted mid-air and laid it in high off the glass.
Bucket.
The bench erupted. The fans cheered louder now.
Next possession, another play. I didn't think—I knew. I saw the floor like I'd seen it a thousand tis. Knew where my teammates would be, where the defenders would rotate, how the play would unfold.
I was in flow.
Minutes passed like seconds. The third quarter ended. I sat down on the bench, chest heaving, but I didn't hear anything. I was still in the zone, mind spinning, wanting to get back out there.
Coach noticed.
So did Rathan.
"Coach," he said quietly. "Let Dirga keep playing."
Chus looked over. I t his eyes.
He saw it.
That fire.
"Yeah," he said. "Let him cook."
The fourth quarter began, and I was back on the court.
Every dribble, every pass, every step—I moved like the ga was part of . The ball felt like an extension of my hand. I broke down defenders, found teammates, made plays that felt effortless.
75–60.
Two minutes left. We had the lead, and I had poured everything into this run. My legs started to feel heavy. My breath ca shorter. Coach gave a glance—it was ti to sub out.
I nodded and jogged toward the sideline.
And then—
It hit .
A sharp pain, deep in my chest.
I stumbled.
My breath caught.
Then another wave of pain, more intense. My heart thudded violently. My vision blurred. My knees buckled.
I collapsed.
Gasps erupted around the arena. The sound of my body hitting the hardwood echoed like a gunshot.
"dic! Get a dic!"
I heard shouting, running footsteps, soone calling my na—but it was all muffled, distant. My eyelids grew heavier. Everything started to fade.
The world went dark.
...
I opened my eyes.
A basketball bounced against concrete nearby.
I was no longer in the Movistar Arena.
I was on an Indoor court—sowhere unfamiliar, surrounded by fading twilight. A man stood across from , dribbling lazily, as if waiting for sothing.
One-on-one?
"What the hell...?" I whispered.
"Yo, you good, Dirga?" the man asked, his voice calm, almost amused.
"Who are you?" I asked. "Where am I?"
My heart raced.
Was this a dream?
A vision?
Or sothing else entirely?
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