Daniel wasn't in the main gym that morning. He'd taken the boys to another facility for individual and team drills. That left Marcus in charge of handling the first day of the club's official recruitment drive.
He didn't mind at first. How bad could it be?
Marcus sat alone in the wide, echoing gym, a folding table in front of him piled with registration forms, pens, and a thermos of coffee that was already running low. Michiko had helped him earlier – she'd posted the announcements around campus, translated the sign-up sheets into Japanese, and double-checked everything before leaving to grab lunch for the both of them.
Now it was just Marcus and the silence.
He leaned back, stretching. "Nice and easy," he muttered. "Just a couple of sign-ups. No drama."
That's when the doors slid open with a squeal.
A short girl, maybe 5'5'', with peach-colored curls trotted inside, clutching a sheet of paper. She stopped right in front of the table and began speaking in rapid Japanese, gesturing toward herself and the forms. Marcus blinked, completely lost.
"Whoa, hold up – sorry. No Japanese," he said, raising both hands. "English only."
She paused, then brightened suddenly and pointed at herself. "Minami Momotarō!"
Marcus smiled politely and shook her hand. "Marcus Bane. Pleased to meet you."
She pointed to herself again, struggling to find the words. "I coach middle school! Basketball club! Meiko School!"
"Oh, you're a coach too?" Marcus asked, genuinely surprised.
Her eyes went wide, and she waved her hands frantically. "Ah, a–aaah, no–no–no coach! Wrong! Manage! Beat boys! I discipline!"
Marcus coughed to hide a laugh. "Oh! You mean manager. Got it. Well, today's recruitment is only for players, not managers. You can come back tomorrow."
"Uwaaaah!" she cried, eyes brimming with tears. "No good? No manager? Rejection?!"
Marcus panicked. "No, no, no – you good! You very good!" He gave her both thumbs up. "Managers not today! Managers tomorrow! Tomorrow come! Okay?"
She blinked twice, then beamed. "Aaaah! Understand! I speak good English! Tomorrow! Goodbye!"
She bowed deeply, curls bouncing, and hurried out of the gym with the confidence of someone who had just passed an exam.
Marcus slumped back into his chair, running a hand over his face. "Lord… if the whole day's like this, I'm not making it to dinner."
Exactly one minute after the peach-haired girl left, the doors opened again.
A boy stepped inside – short, maybe 5'7", clearly Japanese. Marcus didn't even bother trying English this time. He just handed the kid a form and gestured toward the table. Easy enough.
But then came another one. And another.
And another.
Within minutes, the gym doors turned into a revolving gate. Groups of students started pouring in – boys, girls, even a few adults who looked like teachers. The air filled with chatter, footsteps, and the sound of pens scratching on clipboards.
By the half-hour mark, Marcus realized he was surrounded.
He stood up, stretched his back, and turned toward the entrance – and his heart dropped.
The entire gym was packed.
Rows of kids pressed up against the bleachers. More lined up by the doors. Some were sitting on the floor, filling out forms like it was a college exam. Even the balcony seats were full of curious students watching the chaos unfold.
Marcus dragged a hand down his face. "Oh, hell no," he muttered under his breath. "I didn't sign up for this."
He'd heard a lot of strange things that day, too.
One boy walked up, grinning, and announced proudly, "I want to be black!"
Another came right after, slapped his form on the table, shouted, "Jordan! Kobe! Obama!" and strutted out without explanation.
At one point, Marcus was convinced a kid was being racist – the boy looked him dead in the eye and yelled, "Monkey fast! Gorilla strong!" Marcus froze. But after a few confused gestures, he realized the poor kid was trying to say he himself was fast and strong. Probably just… an idiom gone horribly wrong.
The one bright spot was that a few students actually spoke English – enough to make things slightly manageable. So Marcus created two stacks of papers: one for English speakers, one for Japanese. Unfortunately, the English pile was maybe ten sheets deep… while the Japanese pile looked like it could crush a man.
Just when Marcus started considering faking a fire drill to clear the place out, the gym doors slammed open again.
Michiko stormed in.
She took one look at the crowd, sighed, and pulled a whistle out of nowhere.
PHEEEEEEP!
The sharp sound sliced through the noise like a sword. Every head turned instantly.
Michiko barked something in Japanese – sharp, clipped, unmistakably teacher energy. Whatever she said worked like magic: the chaos evaporated. Boys straightened up, formed a perfect line, and started behaving like soldiers on inspection. Then she turned to the cluster of giggling girls near the back and said something else, just as curt. They froze, nodded politely, and left the gym in orderly silence.
Marcus blinked.
"Michiko… you are my savior," he wailed, on the verge of tears.
She just crossed her arms and smiled at him confidently, like superheroes do in comics books.