The sun had long dropped behind the trees when the gym lights flickered on. By 7 p.m., the court was packed.
More than a hundred students stood in clusters across the hardwood, clutching basketballs or bouncing on their heels like they didn't know what else to do with their hands. The air was humid, heavy with the smell of resin and nerves.
Marcus blew the whistle. "Alright, settle down!" A sharp echo cut through the chatter. Aisha stood beside him, megaphone in hand, her clear Japanese translation carrying across the gym. The sound of sneakers squeaking and a hundred balls thudding to a stop filled the space.
Kuhlmann stood at half court, clipboard under one arm. Daniel was beside him, stopwatch in hand. Marcus lingered near the sideline, eyes scanning the sea of faces – most of them short, lean, and jittery.
"Welcome to the Onitsuka Basketball Club," Kuhlmann said, his tone clipped, deliberate. "You've chosen to be here. That means you'll give everything you have tonight. We're not looking for stars. We're looking for people who can survive."
Beside him, Arisa Takamine – her posture impeccable, her expression unreadable – lifted her own megaphone and translated in Japanese. Her voice carried authority, every word clean and precise.
Nobody spoke. Some nodded too fast.
"Warm-up laps," he ordered.
Within minutes, chaos erupted.
Half the players didn't know how many laps to run. A few cut corners. One kid tripped over another and nearly sent both crashing into the wall. Another one jogged like he'd never run before in his life – head bobbing, arms flailing out of sync.
Marcus pressed his lips together, watching. "Lord have mercy," he muttered.
Minami's perfect English turned on at that time. She perked up. "Lord have mercy!" she repeated brightly in Japanese – loud enough for the students to hear.
A dozen boys shot Marcus a panicked glance.
He groaned. "Girl, don't—"
Too late.
Daniel clicked his stopwatch. "Thirty seconds in and we already have casualties."
Kuhlmann said nothing, only writing numbers on his clipboard.
Next came suicides.
By the third sprint, a third of the group looked like they'd been shot. By the fifth, someone threw up into a trash bin. A few boys tried to hide their exhaustion, hands on hips, pretending to stretch while gasping for air.
"Keep moving!" Marcus barked. "You can't play basketball if you can't breathe!"
Near the sideline, Aisha and the other managers stood watching, clipboards ready. Arisa Takamine – expensive tracksuit, heels swapped for sneakers – stood beside her, expression unreadable.
Near them stood two new girls that were selected for manager positions. One was Emma Lafontaine – a French, only an inch shorter than Arisa. Wavy honey-blonde hair tied in a loose ribbon, long lashes, bright grey-blue eyes that sparkle like morning water. A few boys had noted that she wasn't wearing things in her usual style that day. She still had a Chanel scarf and a hint of expensive flowery perfume, but she too wore an expensive luxury-brand tracksuit.
Olivia Tanaka was the name of the other girl. Five-five. Pale white skin, short dark-brown hair that just brushes her jawline, striking green eyes, wearing an oversized hoodie and tracksuit. She stood there with confident energy – athletic, quick, a bit tomboyish.
When the running stopped, the height difference became impossible to ignore. At five-foot-eight, Arisa quietly towered over most of the boys. She folded her arms, tilting her head slightly. "Are they all first-years?" she asked dryly.
Aisha shook her head. "Some are second- and third-years."
Arisa raised a brow. "Oh."
Next came the vertical jump test.
"Line up!" Marcus yelled. "One at a time, touch the tape on the backboard!"
The first boy jumped, barely grazing the bottom of the net. The second flailed midair like a startled cat. The third actually fell backward and landed on his side, to a wave of sympathetic groans.
Ector whispered to Tyrone, "You think he got negative inches on that one?"
Tyrone didn't smile. "Bro, he jumped like he was chained to the ground."
Then came a decent one – a stocky boy with strong legs who got close to the rim. Marcus nodded. "Number 47. Mark him."
Daniel scribbled something. "Good legs. Maybe a forward."
But those were rare moments. For every clean jump, there were five misfires – knees buckling, sneakers squeaking, wrists smacking backboards too low.
After that, ball-handling.
"Two lines! Dribble to half court, crossover, come back!"
Half the gym turned into bedlam again. Balls rolled everywhere. One kid lost control so badly it bounced off another's leg and hit a water bottle. Someone tried to spin like they'd seen on YouTube and dropped it twice.
Marcus blew his whistle, exasperated. "If I see one more spin move, you're all running again!"
But amid the mess, a few flickers of control appeared – short kids who stayed low, dribbled tight, eyes forward. Raw, but sharp.
Kuhlmann pointed. "Number 22. Number 81. Potential."
Daniel nodded. "Limited size, but good balance."
Then came shooting.
The sound of basketballs hitting metal was deafening. Some shots were line drives, others went straight up and came down like mortars. The net barely saw action.
Olivia winced as one ball bounced off the rim and rolled to her feet. She passed it back calmly. "Do they even know which end to aim for?"
Minami tried not to laugh. "They're trying."
"Trying is a generous word."
Marcus kept notes but sighed through half of them.
"Alright," he called. "Next drill – passing!"
Within seconds, two kids managed to hit each other in the face.
The sound echoed. Someone muttered "damn," under their breath.
~~~~~
Kuhlmann's face didn't change once. He watched it all – the missed shots, the heavy feet, the confusion.
When the gym finally quieted after nearly two hours, most of the players were bent over, drenched in sweat.
He stepped forward. "Stop."
The word cut through the panting.
"Look around you," he said. "That's what effort looks like. It's ugly. It's loud. But it's the beginning."
Nobody spoke.
"You'll all stay in the program," he continued. "The seven best will join the main team. The rest will train, learn, and compete among themselves. If you improve, you'll earn your place. If not, you'll still learn what it means to work."
He paused, scanning their faces. "That's the purpose of Onitsuka."
The players exclaimed a collective "hai!", exhausted but serious.
Marcus leaned toward Daniel and murmured, "I don't think we found any prodigies tonight."
Daniel shrugged. "Doesn't matter. We found who's willing to suffer."