The afternoon light slanted through the gym windows, cutting long gold streaks across the hardwood. Practice had just ended, and the air was thick with sweat.
The main group gathered near the baseline, forming a rough circle. Ector held a bundle of short plastic straws like a magician preparing a trick.
"Alright, hermanos," he said dramatically, mocking certain someone, "one straw decides who dies first."
"Dies?" Novak snorted. "It's just training."
"Yeah," Ector grinned, "with Daniel. That's worse than dying."
They drew straws one by one. Adrian got a long one. Novak got long. Grigori didn't even look, muttered something about "god deciding", and tucked his behind his ear. Finally, Jesus pulled his – the shortest one in the bunch.
"¡Ay, carajo!" he exclaimed, holding it up. "Of course it's me. Dios mío."
Ector laughed so hard he almost dropped his. "The chosen one! Go get your last rites, hermano!"
Jesus rolled his eyes, slung his towel over his shoulder, and jogged toward the side court where Daniel was waiting, already bouncing a ball between his palms.
~~~~~
The smaller gym was quiet. The sound of the ball echoed sharply off the walls. Daniel stood near the free-throw line, leaning slightly on his good leg, his other one stiff but stable.
"Ah, our lord and saviour," he greeted with a grin. "You ready to learn something today?"
Jesus smirked. "Coach, I should ask if you are ready. Can you even move, ruco?"
Daniel barked a laugh. "Move? Kid, I might be a cripple, but I'm still closer to LeBron than any of you are to me."
Jesus whistled, long and low, with arms stretched in a surrendered pose. "Daaamn. That's cold, Coach. I wasn't familiar with your game."
"Yeah," Daniel said, picking up a ball and spinning it on his finger, "but true." He tossed it to Jesus. "So, tell me. Who's your guy? Your favorite player."
Jesus caught the ball, twirled it once, and grinned. "Iverson, maybe. Or Carmelo Anthony. Both… ¡duros! You know?"
Daniel nodded slowly. "Good taste. But you're not skilled enough to be Iverson. Not yet."
Jesus clutched his chest dramatically. "Oof. Straight to the corazón, Coach."
Daniel smirked. "But you're lucky. Back in high school, I was in one of LeBron's camps."
Jesus blinked. "You serious?"
"Dead serious." Daniel leaned back against the wall, arms crossed. "LeBron had all the top kids there. Melo came by one day – they're friends, you know. We kinda vibed, and for three days, I played pickup with him. Studied him. Learned how he thinks. I was 6'8" then – not 6'9" like now – built kind of like him. I think that's why I caught his attention."
Jesus' eyes lit up. "You played with Carmelo Anthony?"
"Played against him," Daniel corrected. "And got cooked, sure. But I learned more in those days than in all my life before."
He took the ball from Jesus and crouched low into the triple threat stance – knees bent, ball on his left hip, shoulders squared. One of Carmelo's favourite attacking positions.
"Now, listen close, Jesús. Melo always says to himself – 'There's no one man on this planet that can guard me. They are at my mercy.' That's how he plays. That's how he lives."
He glanced at the kid, who was looking at him with shining eyes. "Do you know what triple threat is?"
"Uhhh… I think yes, but you know, I'm tired… and my memory is a bit foggy… so…"
"If you don't know, just say so. We're alone here. You understand?"
"Entiendo."
"Good. Triple threat is – an offensive stance where a player holding the ball is positioned to immediately shoot, pass, or dribble. Now, stand in front of me, try to guard me. Don't worry, I won't be using height advantage."
Daniel stepped into position. His voice dropped. "Watch my feet, Chapo. I'm not moving fast, I'm moving with purpose."
He squared his shoulders, the ball resting on his left hip, knees bent. One short breath, one heartbeat – then a quick jab with his right foot.
Jesus flinched, barely half an inch. Daniel smiled.
"See that?" He straightened again, calm as a machine. "That's the first test. The jab. You don't attack yet. You ask the defender a question – 'Are you nervous?'"
He jabbed again, sharper this time, and lifted the ball halfway like he was about to shoot. Jesus's hands came up instinctively.
Daniel chuckled. "That's the pump fake. Now I know your habits. You moved your hands, so your eyes will follow the ball. Next time, if I rise for real, you're already late."
He lowered the ball and dribbled once, slow. "If the defender doesn't bite on the fake," he said, tapping his temple, "they won't jump hard to contest the real shot either. That's the trick. Either way, they lose ground. It's all about the mind games."
He reset, motion fluid. "Now – watch the feet. The second test."
He jabbed again, just enough to make Jesus adjust his stance. Daniel's eyes flicked down.
"Your top foot is too close. That's an open lane." He stepped through it smoothly, one stride past Jesus, not even hurrying, then stopped on a dime and faced him again.
"That's the blow-by," Daniel explained. "You don't need to be fast. You need to see where they're wrong. Top foot too close? Go. Both feet opened up? Go. You don't force it, you read it."
Jesus nodded, jaw tightening. "Okay… and if I don't give you that opening?"
Daniel smiled faintly. "Then I test your patience."
He dribbled once, then jabbed a third time – this one slower, more deliberate. Jesus didn't move, waiting. Daniel jabbed again, identical. Jesus held.
Then Daniel feinted one step back, and Jesus shifted – just an inch. That was all it took. Daniel rose instantly into a jumper, smooth and effortless, releasing at the top of his motion. The ball traced a perfect arc. Swish.
"Momentum," Daniel said, lowering his arm. "That's the third read. You stayed still twice. I made you want to react on the third. When you shift from your last position, when you break rhythm – bam. I shoot, or I go by. You're already gone in your head."
Daniel walked back to the free-throw line, wiping his palms on his shorts. His voice was quieter now, but each word hit like a drumbeat. "That's what people don't understand about Melo," he said. "Everybody talks about his footwork, his strength, the jumper – but none of that's the core. The real thing is control. He never forces. He waits. He manipulates."
He held the ball at his hip again, eyes distant, seeing some invisible defender in front of him. "Most players try to break through the defense. Melo bends it. He makes the defender move first, makes them reveal where the weakness is – and then he builds his shot there. Out of that single mistake. That's why they call his archetype a 'shot creator.' Because the opportunity wasn't there until he made it exist."
He dribbled once, slow and sure, then looked at Jesus. "Every jab, every fake, every hesitation is a question. What will you give me? And whatever they give – your weapon. Turn nothing into something."
Daniel tossed the ball to him again. "So stop thinking about attacking, boy. Think about building. Every action you take should be constructive – one read, one reaction, one opening at a time. Do not be someone who forces…"
He smiled, faint but certain. "That's the difference between trying to be a hunter and knowing you already are the apex predator."
"Now," he said, his tone shifting again, "let's talk about the second part of Melo's game – ball placement."
He lifted the ball high over his head, holding it in both hands, standing tall. "Sometimes he starts like this," Daniel said. "Up high, proud, like a tower. That's when he's protecting space or reading the floor. He looks down on the defender – not just physically, but mentally. He tells them – you can't reach me."
Then, slowly, Daniel dropped into a lower stance, setting the ball against his left hip. His frame looked tighter, coiled. "But most of the time, he keeps it here," he continued. "Left side, close to the body, under control. Protected – but always ready. From this position, he can rise into a jumper with only one motion. Watch–"
He lifted the ball, nothing else moving but his shoulder – clean, effortless, the shot flying out like a reflex. Swish.
"That's the secret," he said quietly. "Economy of movement. When the shooting arm's already set, there's no tell, no wind-up. You don't give the defender time to breathe."
He caught the ball again on the bounce and held it near his right ear, elbow bent sharp. "Sometimes he even brings it up here," Daniel said. "Right side, close to the head – it looks awkward, even wrong. But that's the trick. Nobody expects a jumper from here. The defense relaxes, the hand drops – and then he fires."
He lowered the ball, eyes meeting Jesus'. "Melo plays between expectations. High, low, right, left – he hides his rhythm so no one can find it. Most players dribble until they get a shot. Melo already has one – he just chooses when to show it."
Then, after a beat: "That's why his game feels so calm. He's never rushing to find space. He's telling the defense to give it to him."
Daniel dribbled once, catching the rhythm again. "Alright," he said, motioning for Jesus to step closer. "We've talked about reading. We've talked about control. Now comes the third piece – selling it. Melo's footwork."
He stood in triple threat again – knees bent, back straight, ball tight against his hip. Then, with a sharp snap, he jabbed his front foot forward. Not just his leg – his whole body followed, shoulders, hips, even the ball.
"See this?" Daniel said, holding the pose. "Most guys jab with the foot. Melo jabs with the body. Everything leans towards the defender. It makes them feel the pressure, like he's already driving. Their brain panics – they shift, they open their stance."
He relaxed, stepping back half a pace. "And when they do… he doesn't even have to do much. They gave him all the space themselves."
Jesus nodded, eyes tracking every movement.
Then Daniel shifted his weight again, this time sliding his non-pivot foot backward, smooth as silk. His body looked like it was retreating.
"This one's the bluff," Daniel said. "You step back just enough for them to breathe – to think you've given up ground. Their hand drops, their shoulders loosen."
He didn't even finish the sentence before he rose into a jumper – quick, pure, unguardable. Swish.
"– and that's when you kill them," he said as the ball hit the floor again.
Jesus let out a low whistle. "Man… that's evil."
Daniel chuckled. "Basketball's supposed to be. You're not playing to impress them, or make friends, or whatever people say in the movies – you're playing to prove them wrong, you are playing to make a statement. To say that you own them."
He bounced the ball once more, slower now. "Every explosion comes off the back foot," he said. "That's where the real power lives. Melo doesn't rush forward – he coils, he builds pressure in the back leg, then releases. Quick. Efficient. Balanced."
He faced Jesus squarely. "That's what makes him special. He doesn't dance for space – he manifests it. Every move is a lie that hides the truth."
For a moment, the gym was silent except for their breathing and the soft bounce of the ball.
Then Daniel clapped once, hard. "That's enough for today. Drill it till it's muscle memory. Start adding it into motion."
Jesus wiped sweat from his brow, grinning. "Damn, Coach. You really make me feel like a kid again."
Daniel smirked. "Good. That means you're learning."
Jesus started toward the exit, the ball tucked under his arm. He stopped at the door and turned back. "Hey, Coach," he called. "You want me to send the next one?"
Daniel grabbed his clipboard and nodded. "Yeah. Bring me Ector."
Jesus laughed on his way out. "Oh, poor hoodlum. He's not ready for this."
Daniel smiled to himself, spinning the ball in his hands. "No one ever is."
"Can't wait to bust Tyrone with my new moves!"