The flight was smooth – smoother than any of them had expected. Mr. Goro hadn't just booked them tickets; he'd sent his own private jet. Leather seats, gold-trimmed fixtures, food menus thicker than textbooks. The boys sprawled out like NBA vets already.
Ector leaned back, grinning. "When I hit the League, I'm buying me one of these. Custom paint job. Matte black. Call it the T-Rex Express."
Grigori gave him a sideways glance, deadpan. "Private planes are nice. But real heavy lux?" He raised a finger, solemn. "A yacht. Oligarch-style. With a piano nobody plays."
Laughter rippled down the aisle.
"Of course you'd say that," Jesus chuckled. "You already look like a Bond villain, hermano."
While they were laughing, Michiko looked up from her tablet. "Oh, right. I was notified by the Japanese Education Department officials this morning." She glanced toward Coach Kuhlmann, who instantly frowned. "If we want to compete, we'll need at least five more players. Japanese nationals. Otherwise, we're disqualified."
A long groan filled the cabin.
"You're kidding," Daniel muttered. "We finally get these maniacs working like a team and now we've gotta add rookies?"
Michiko gave a half-shrug. "Rules are rules. Can't do anything with them."
Tyrone stretched, shaking his head. "Man, as long as they can hoop and don't fold, I don't care. But they better not be soft."
That's when Novak perked up. "Wait, if we're going to study in Japan… that means it's gonna be like an anime school, right?"
Jesus lit up immediately. "Sí, bro! Like Slam Dunk! You think we get our own club room? With snacks? Maybe a cute manager too?"
Ector turned in his seat, grinning wickedly. "Hear that, Dr. Lang? Your Serbian Romeo's already scouting for new relationships."
Dr. Lang, who had been sipping tea in peace, didn't even look up. "Novak, don't make me put you on an emotional diet. No romance till you grow a couple more inches."
The plane exploded with laughter. Novak's cheeks went red as he muttered something about "artistic motivation."
Tyrone clapped his hands. "Nah, for real, though – anime managers? They always got one girl taking care of the team. We need at least five. Equal opportunity."
"Five?" Deng said, cracking up. "You think this is a harem anime?"
Biha leaned in from across the aisle. "We should host a beauty contest for the job. 'Miss Onitsuka Tigers 2014.'"
Jesus threw up his hands. "I'm voting for whoever can cook."
The jokes rolled on, bouncing between rows, the laughter cutting through the jet's soft hum. For the first time since they'd been recruited, they weren't just players on a mission — they were boys, a team, a family in the making, flying headfirst into the unknown.
~~~~~
The customs line moved quicker than any of them expected. Maybe it was the private jet, maybe it was the way Michiko flashed credentials that looked more official than a passport, but within an hour they were standing outside in the Okinawan heat.
The air hit different – humid, salty, warm in a way that felt alive. Tyrone squinted toward the palm trees swaying near the parking lot. "Man," he muttered, "this ain't Japan. This Miami with subtitles."
That earned a laugh from Ector. "Bro, facts. I was ready for Tokyo neon signs and robots, not beach weather."
Marcus, walking ahead, grinned over his shoulder. "Welcome to Okinawa, boys. Closest thing Japan has to California. Just with fewer arrests."
The ride from the airport to the school was quiet at first – everyone glued to the windows. The roads were narrow, the signs half-English, half-Japanese, and every few blocks there were American diners next to temples.
Novak leaned back in his seat. "You weren't kidding. It's like America colonized a beach and called it cultural exchange."
Michiko smiled faintly. "That's not entirely wrong. Okinawa's full of U.S. military bases – people here grow up hearing English before Tokyo Dialect. But wait till you see the school. Mr. Goro doesn't do small."
She wasn't lying.
When the bus rolled through the Onitsuka Athletic High gates, the boys went silent. The place looked less like a school and more like an Olympic training compound. White marble and steel architecture stretched along the coastline, framed by glass domes that gleamed in the sun. Beyond the main building sprawled the athletic fields – a full-sized soccer stadium, three baseball diamonds, a golf course, and an American football field that was so big it felt like it was from Texas and not Japan.
Grigori whistled low. "This isn't high school. This is a heaven for athletes."
"Correction," Kuhlmann said, "a billionaire's playground. Goro's dream is to turn this into the 'smithy of champions,' his words, not mine."
The bus slowed past the basketball complex – four courts under one curved roof, with the main arena alone large enough to seat five thousand. The dorms sat nearby, gleaming with glass balconies and palm-shaded paths leading straight to the beach.
Jesus pressed his forehead to the glass. "Damn… they got a beach court too? We're about to be hooping barefoot with sunsets in 4K."
Aliir nodded. "It's perfect. Even the air smells rich."
Michiko pointed toward a row of identical modern buildings near the edge. "Those are the dorms. You'll each share a four-room unit – two people per room, shared living space, big kitchen, two bathrooms. And yes, there's AC. You're welcome."
"Wait, kitchen?" Novak perked up. "We cook for ourselves?"
Marcus chuckled. "You eat what you can make. Welcome to adulthood."
Ector groaned. "Bro, we're doomed. Tyrone's gonna burn water."
"Man, I'm from Compton," Tyrone shot back, laughing. "We cook with soul, not smoke."
Michiko broke the discussion, "Don't worry, the school still has a couple of canteens and dining halls. You will continue to eat according to your diets, local chefs already have the menus. The kitchens are there in order for you to make something on your own if you want."
As the bus curved toward the dorm entrance, the ocean came into full view – turquoise stretching forever. Waves rolled against a private beach with volleyball nets and shaded pavilions.
Even Grigori smiled at that. "Alright. Maybe billionaire not crazy."
The bus came to a stop. Daniel stood, clapping his hands once. "Alright, Tigers. Welcome to your new home. You got the rest of the day to unpack, explore, and not break anything. Tomorrow, we start working."
Ector looked around as the boys stepped out into the Okinawan sun, breathing it in. "You know," he said with a grin, "if this basketball thing doesn't work out, I might just stay here forever."
Tyrone stretched, smirking. "Yeah. But first, we make it work."
~~~~~
The boys' new home in Okinawa came alive fast. By the end of their first day at Onitsuka Athletic High, every dorm room looked like a snapshot of its occupants' world.
Novak and Grigori's room looked like a slice of Eastern Europe transplanted into Japan. On one wall, they'd cleared space for a small ugolok – the traditional Orthodox corner. A framed icon of Jesus and Mary hung in the center, its gold edges catching the evening sun. To the right, Novak had hung an image of Stefan Lazarević – medieval Serbian king, poet, and saint. Beside it, Grigori placed his own icon: Saint George the Victorious, spear through the dragon. Beneath the icons, the desk was chaos – a tangle of console cables, half-empty protein tubs, and a PS4 humming beside a stack of Batman: Arkham discs. Above his bed, Grigori had taped a massive Batman poster and pinned an old CSKA Moscow scarf next to it. Novak, meanwhile, claimed his side with a small poster of Darko Miličić dunking in his Pistons jersey. The room smelled faintly of incense, dust, and new plastic – equal parts chapel and bachelor pad.
Ector and Jesus's room was a chaotic temple of swagger. The first thing anyone saw walking in were G-Unit posters above the beds, followed by Migos, Kanye's Graduation cover, and a faded shot of Big Pun mid-performance. Jesus had draped a large Mexican flag over his side of the room – "for balance," he said – and taped a small rosary to the mirror. Ector brought his speaker, blasting trap beats so loud the dorm's walls probably developed trauma. Between sneakers, snapbacks, and the ever-present cloud of cologne, the place felt more like a cheap underground recording studio than a dorm room.
Biha and Deng's space was the calmest of them all – neat, minimal, and almost meditative. White curtains, clean desks, shelves lined with books on psychology, philosophy, and African literature. There were especially many works by Chinua Achebe and Wole Soyinka. JB had stacked his new Panasonic Lumix camera and accessories neatly in the corner, labeling each SD card like a pro. Deng had filled the windowsill with potted plants from a local market – hibiscus, peace lilies, and one cactus he'd named Coach K. When Biha asked why, he just said, "He also doesn't need much water."
Tyrone's room stood apart. For now, he had it to himself. Dumbbells and resistance bands covered the floor like landmines, a mini-hoop hung over the door, and a poster of DeMar DeRozan stared down from the wall beside his bed. But the centerpiece was the signed, framed DeRozan jersey, hung proudly in the middle of the main wall. The whole space radiated focus – everything athletic, purposeful, driven. Beneath his bed, a shoebox held old photos: his mom, his neighborhood, his first jersey.
~~~~~
Onitsuka Athletic High's boys basketball club:
Name: Onitsuka Tigers
Number of club member: 7
Number of 1 string players: 7
Number of managers: 0
Number of coaches: 3
Number of medical staff: 1