The crowd inside Iron Vault Arena was still buzzing, replaying it in their minds. Omar—yes, Omar—had just buried the Roarers' first three-pointer of the night.
On the broadcast, Callahan's voice cracked with disbelief: "I don't know much about him. Was that… could that have been the first three of his career?"
It wasn't just the first make—it was the first attempt. Omar himself knew the truth better than anyone. He had never dared launch from deep in an NBA game. And now? He was a perfect 1-for-1. A career percentage frozen at 100.
But fairy tales are fleeting. Back on the floor, the shot changed nothing about the Roarers' offense. That three wasn't drawn up—it had been the byproduct of a blown rotation, a momentary accident. Omar wasn't about to freelance again. He was a bench big, not a green-light gunner. So after that singular moment, he retreated back to his role, parked in the paint, rebounding, setting screens, doing the unglamorous work.
