Madrid, Spain – October 2014
The sun hadn't risen yet. The city was still asleep.
But the gym lights were on.
Eli Mercer stood at half court, hoodie soaked, hands chalked.
He bounced the ball once.
Stepped back.
Logo range.|
Swish.
Again.
Again.
Again.
6:00 AM – Shot 497
He missed.
He didn't flinch.
He reset his feet.
Breathed in.
Held.
Released.
Swish.
"Five hundred," he whispered.
He walked to the baseline. Picked up his towel.
Coach Ortega entered, coffee in hand.
"You know we have practice at nine, right?"
Eli nodded.
"This is just for me."
School – Afternoon Classes
Eli sat in the back row, hoodie down, notebook open.
Spanish class. He was still catching up.
"Mercer," the teacher called. "Translate this line."
Eli stood. Read the sentence. Translated it cleanly.
The class clapped. He smiled, a little embarrassed.
At lunch, he sat with Luis and Mateo.
"You're famous now," Mateo said, showing him a clip on his phone.
Eli hitting a logo three. Crowd going wild.
"They're calling you Logo Mercer," Luis added.
Eli laughed.
"That's wild."
Evening Practice – Team Session
Coach Ortega ran them through full-court drills.
Eli led the break. Called out switches.
Hit cutters in stride.
Pulled up from deep—again and again.
"He's not missing," one teammate whispered.
"He's not even sweating," another said.
Eli wasn't trying to impress.
He was just doing what he practiced.
Post-Practice – Locker Room
Luis tossed him a towel.
"You ever miss?"
Eli grinned.
"Only before sunrise."
The team laughed.
"You're weird, man," Mateo said.
"But I like it."
That Night – Video Call Home
His mom answered.
His dad leaned in.
His sister waved from the kitchen.
"How's Spain?" his mom asked.
"Good. I'm learning a lot."
"You eating enough?"
"Yeah. They got this rice thing. It's not adobo, but it's close."
They laughed.
"We're proud of you," his dad said.
Eli smiled.
"I'm just getting started."