The gym felt bigger than George remembered.
The lights were brighter.
The court was wider.
The noise echoed longer.
George Mikan Jr. stood on the baseline, hands on his shorts, looking up at the scoreboard. Freshman Tryouts glowed in red letters above the court.
He was 5'8.
Short.
Too short, according to most people in the gym.
"Point guards line up here!" a coach shouted.
George jogged over, heart steady but loud in his ears.
This wasn't the driveway anymore.
Tryouts started simple.
Layup lines.
Passing drills.
Basic shooting.
George's layups were clean, but nothing special. His passes were sharp, but quiet. No one clapped.
Then came shooting.
"Five spots," the coach said.
"Ten shots each."
George stepped to the corner.
The ball hit his hands.
Bounce.
Set.
Shoot.
Swish.
No celebration. He just caught the rebound and went again.
Swish.
Swish.
Back rim.
Swish.
A few heads turned.
From the wing, he missed two in a row. He adjusted his feet slightly.
Swish.
Swish.
By the time he finished, the gym sounded different.
Not louder.
More focused.
Scrimmage came next.
George checked in with the second unit.
Bigger guards crowded him. Long arms. Physical defense.
"Don't force it," a teammate muttered.
George nodded.
First possession, he didn't shoot. He moved the ball, relocated, stayed patient.
Second possession, the defender went under the screen.
George stopped.
Shot up.
Swish.
The defender frowned.
Next play, they pressed up on him. George hesitated, drove once, kicked it out. Assist.
The game sped up.
But George didn't.
Midway through the scrimmage, something clicked.
Not flashy.
Not explosive.
Just… clear.
The noise faded.
The spacing made sense.
Every shot felt honest.
He caught the ball at the top of the key.
No hesitation.
Swish.
A teammate glanced at him. "Again."
George did.
Swish.
For a moment—just a moment—the game felt like it did when he was a kid. Quiet. Familiar.
Locked in.
The whistle blew.
Tryouts ended.
As players filed out, George sat on the bench, breathing slowly. Sweat dripped from his chin. His legs burned.
Coach Daniels stood near midcourt, clipboard tucked under his arm.
He looked at George.
Then he nodded.
"Shooter," he said. "You—come back tomorrow."
George stood.
His hands trembled slightly—not from fear, but from holding it in.
He walked out of the gym alone.
Outside, the sun was setting.
And for the first time, high school basketball didn't feel too big.
It felt like home.