They spilled off the bus like a pack of hungry wolves.
St. Joseph didn't look like much from the outside – just another California high school with sun-bleached banners and a parking lot full of dented cars. But the boys were laser-focused on one thing: the "Japanese power forward" Michiko had warned them about.
And then they saw him.
A massive dude – had to be 6'8", maybe pushing 300 – was standing near the gym doors sucking on a Gatorade. Broad shoulders, gut hanging over his shorts, arms like sandbags. He wasn't Japanese in any timeline, but to the boys? That was LeGodzilla.
"There he is," Tyrone whispered. "Bro built like a fridge with knees."
Jesus whistled low. "Dios santo… ese cabrón eats centers for breakfast."
Ector squinted. "He look Samoan. Or Albanian. Or… I don't know, man. Does Japan have islands with sumo Vikings?"
Mason elbowed Novak. "He kinda looks like you if you gave up basketball and married a bakery."
Novak didn't flinch. "If that's the power forward, I'm retiring today."
Grigori nodded solemnly. "He has face of man who only breathes in steak."
Marcus started laughing. "Maybe his mom Japanese and his dad is… three polar bears stacked in a hoodie."
Jesus snapped his fingers. "Yo, maybe that's why he don't look Asian. He just born there. Passport Japanese, bloodline cheesecake."
Ector shook his head. "Nah, that's Serbian-Japanese genetics. Novak, explain your cousin."
Novak deadpanned, "If that is my cousin, I'm suing someone."
Then Michiko – who had been half-asleep behind them the whole walk – finally spoke.
"Not him," she said flatly, pointing across the lot.
They followed her finger.
And froze.
Some skinny kid was tying his shoes by the bench. Maybe 5'10" on a good day, 148 pounds soaking wet, built like a high school manager who forgot to grow.
Jesus stared. "¿Perdón?"
Ector blinked twice. "Who's that? Ball boy?"
"That is Nijimura Shūzō," Michiko said like she was announcing a funeral. "The power forward."
Silence. Then:
"POWER forward?!" Tyrone practically yelled. "What power? Double-A batteries?"
Marcus clutched his chest. "You said he was a FOUR. That's not a four, that's a folding chair with shoes."
Grigori glared at Michiko. "You lied."
"I told you his position," she said, totally unbothered. "I never mentioned his height."
Ector groaned. "We were scouting Godzilla and you bring us Ant-Man."
Jesus shook his head. "This man smaller than my tío who works at a car shop."
Deng leaned down and muttered, confused, "If he is power forward… where is power?"
Biha pointed at the fat dude. "We guard him, yes?"
"No," Daniel said, smirking now. "That guy's just their center. Nijimura's the one Michiko meant."
Mason was still processing. "So what, the Generation of Miracles point guard is four feet tall? They got a shooting guard in a lunchbox?"
Novak crossed his arms. "I warmed up my knees for nothing."
Tyrone cracked his neck. "If that's their PF, we winning by triple digits."
They weren't wrong.
From the opening tip, it was child endangerment disguised as basketball.
Ector bullied their starting guard so hard the dude subbed himself out. Jesus had three straight steals just because nobody could keep the ball away from him for more than two seconds. Deng and Biha? All that work with screens and slips finally clicked – they weren't graceful, but they were moving, rolling, catching, finishing. Novak was firing passes like he'd been programmed to farm assists.
First quarter ended 52-14. St. Joseph looked like they'd been dropped into a prison league.
Nijimura checked in early in the second, chest puffed like he was ready for war. The boys smelled cap immediately.
Tyrone barked, "Ayo, somebody get the mascot off the floor!" Ector crouched over him and said, "You sure you in the right gym, little man?" Jesus waved a hand over his head. "I can't see him, he below sea level."
Nijimura tried posting up Mason once. Mason didn't move. Nijimura bounced off like a shopping cart into a truck bumper. He got subbed out after ten minutes total, with two points and a bruised ego.
At halftime the score was 115-35.
Second half? Worse.
By the fourth quarter, the scoreboard was crying for mercy and half the guys were laughing more than sweating. St. Joseph's coach looked like he was calculating early retirement.
That's when Tyrone got bored.
He jogged over to the corner during free throws and leaned against the wall like he was on lunch break. A group of St. Joseph girls were sitting on the retractable bleachers scrolling their phones and giggling whenever someone got dunked on.
Tyrone pointed at one of them mid-play. "You in the red hoodie – what's your name? Don't lie, I'm psychic."
She blinked. "Uh… Alicia?"
"Thought so," he said like he'd guessed it. "You like basketball or just came to watch your boys suffer?"
Her friend laughed. "Y'all are rude."
Jesus trotted over and inserted himself instantly. "Oye, we just educating the public. Y'all ever seen a score hit two hundred in real life? This a cultural experience."
Alicia smirked. "You supposed to be playing."
Tyrone shrugged. "We are playing. They just not participating."
Jesus pointed at the court. "Look – Deng about to dunk on someone's uncle again."
WHAM.
Screams and oohs from the stands.
Tyrone grinned. "Told you. So anyway, what y'all doing after this funeral?"
Meanwhile Daniel didn't even bother yelling at them. With a 120-point lead, discipline wasn't high on his list of concerns.
That day, they ran the bench, mixed lineups, let Deng and Biha take turns terrorizing terrified sophomores. Jesus threw a lob off the backboard to himself just because no one jumped. Ector shoved through a double team like he was clearing snow. Mason and Grigori barely broke a sweat. Tyrone and Marcus started calling plays in accents just to stay entertained.
Final score: 200 to 70.
St. Joseph scored 20 in garbage time entirely because Daniel told the boys to stop blocking shots into the stands.
The best part? The improvements showed. Deng sealed and rolled like he'd been doing it for months. Biha kept his hands ready and caught everything. They weren't polished, but they weren't plants anymore. Training wasn't just theory – it was finally visible.
~~~~~
After they wrapped up the 200-70 execution and shook exactly two hands respectfully, they spotted Nijimura near the water coolers trying to look invisible.
Wrong day to be short and famous. He barely came up to Mason's shoulder. The boys circled like sharks with nothing better to do.
Ector led the approach with a grin that was half friendly, half predatory. "Yo, Captain Teiko," he called out, voice booming. "That's what she said, right? Power forward of the Japanese Avengers?"
Jesus tilted his head like he'd discovered a rare insect. "So tú eres el power forward? Bro, I thought you were the water boy who stole a jersey."
Ector squinted exaggeratedly. "Nah, maybe he's like Ant-Man. Gonna grow mid-game and punch the paint from under the floor."
Tyrone crossed his arms and grinned. "If he's a power forward, then I'm the pope. Did you eat only flowers growing up?"
Mason clapped Nijimura once on the back – gently, but it still shifted him. "I boxed out toddlers bigger than you at YMCA runs. Who let you guard literally anything?"
Grigori stared with flat confusion. "In Russia, power forwards eat people your size. You would be snack for snack."
Novak leaned in, pretending serious curiosity. "You sure you didn't just translate your position wrong? Maybe they said 'forward' and meant 'stand forward in the lunch line.'"
Biha just looked down at him and laughed once from his chest, like a bear amused by a mouse.
Deng held up his hand over Nijimura's head like he was measuring luggage. "If you power forward, your point guard must be fetus."
Tyrone just whistled low. "Man, Generation of Miracles? More like Generation of Midgets."
Ector finished it off with a mock salute. "Tell your miracle friends we're coming to Japan to tuck all of y'all into bed. Bring a booster seat so you can see us when we get there."
Nijimura tried to stare them down, jaw set – but when Jesus rested his elbow on his head like an armrest, even he looked like he knew the universe hated him.
~~~~~
Nijimura ducked into the near-empty locker room like he wanted the walls to swallow him whole. The noise from the final whistles and the boys' laughter filtered in muffled and distant. He sat on the bench, shoulders hunched, fingers fumbling with the screen of his phone.
He typed fast, no polish – a message that was more a command than a plea: "Momoi, tell the boys to double their practice. They are fucked…"