By Thursday, Tanaka had started letting him demonstrate drills to the class. He stood at the front, showing the correct shooting form while classmates watched. Fourth-graders from the P.E. period had started gathering by the gym door during his class, pointing. One of them was a fifth grader, who had watched Kagao's entire practice match and said afterward, loud enough to hear-
"He's a third-grader? Seriously?"
Kagao had kept his face neutral, but inside he was jumping with joy.
'Give me the ball,' he'd thought more than once, whenever he was open. 'I have it from here. Just give me the ball.'
Saturday arrived, and Kagao was up at seven, dressed by seven-fifteen, eating breakfast before his mother had finished making it.
He heard small footsteps coming down the stairs. Tamayo appeared in the kitchen doorway, looking sleepy and clutching her yellow rabbit stuffed animal, which she carried everywhere.
"Nii-chan's up early."
"He has basketball tryouts," their mother told her, pouring tea.
"Basketball," Tamayo repeated looking surprised, she walked across the kitchen to stand beside Kagao's chair. She peered up at him. "Is that the one with the-"she mimed, throwing something overhand.
"Close enough."
"Can I come?"
"You'd be bored."
"I wouldn't." She pressed her rabbit against the table's edge. "I want to see you do basketball."
"You don't even know what basketball is."
"I do, too….Is it fun?"
"It's the best thing there is."
---
The drive took fifteen minutes. His father didn't talk much in the car - he rarely did, it was an early Saturday morning.
'I'm going to make this team, Kagao thought. 'I'm going to make it, and then I'm going to be the best player on it.'
His father pulled into the school lot and stopped the engine. He glanced at Kagao in the rearview mirror. "Ready?"
"Yeah."
"Are you nervous?"
Kagao thought about it, and he felt butterflies in his stomach, but not in a bad way; it was more like the feeling before Tanaka started the practice match.
"Not really."
His father smiled. "Good."
The gym was bigger than Kagao's classroom gym. They didn't use the lower hoops that Tanaka used. Eight kids were already there when Kagao and his father arrived, more coming in behind them.
They were bigger. Fourth-graders, fifth-graders, everyone was in sports clothes, clutching water bottles, talking to friends they already knew. Kagao recognized faces from the school hallways, though he didn't know who they were.
He stood slightly apart, taking it in. His father got against the far wall with a couple of other parents. He nodded, looking at Kagao.
'You're fine.'
The coach was in his forties, a whistle already around his neck and a clipboard in hand. He moved through the group, checking off names.
"Ori Kagao?"
"Here."
The coach glanced up from his clipboard. "Third grade?"
"Yes."
"I see, get in line."
The first drill was dribbling. Start at the baseline, dribble to half court and back, alternating hands. Most of the older kids handled it easily; a few of the younger ones struggled with the transitions.
Kagao waited for his turn, watching the fifth-grader ahead of him cross half court and return to the line.
The coach blew his whistle. "Ori."
Kagao stepped to the baseline, ball in hand.
'Mine.'
He drove. The dribble stayed low, right hand to half court, seamless switch to left. He hadn't practiced this specifically - just done it naturally in P.E. both times without thinking. His feet moved faster than he expected, blitzing up the court. He passed the line and returned, handing the ball off.
The court was silent for a moment, with the fourth and fifth graders looking in shock.
He stepped back into line. 'Good, keep watching me play.'
The second drill: two lines at the elbows, catch-and-shoot. The coach threw the pass, the student caught, set, and shot. He evaluates the form, the footwork, and the release.
Kagao watched the first four kids. The form varied - some good, some rough, one kid who jumped completely sideways. It was his turn now. He caught the pass from the coach, feet already square, set, shot. The ball traced its arc and dropped through.
Swish
He got back in line, watching the coach write something on his clipboard. In the third drill, you get a partner to chest pass back and forth while moving parallel lines up the court. Kagao was paired with a fourth-grader who was decent. They moved in tandem, trading the ball.
The first pass: catch, pass back. Second pass: Kagao caught it and held it. His hands turned the ball over, looking towards the nearest basket. The court was open. He could drive from here, cut baseline, the angle was-
"Ori." The coach said.
Kagao passed the ball back, and they continued. He knew he'd held it too long, but he didn't care, because for that second the ball had been his.
The scrimmage divided them into groups of four against four, mixed ages. Kagao ended up opposite a fifth-grader who had at least four inches on him and moved with the confidence of someone who'd been playing this sport for years.
The tip-off went to the other team. Kagao dropped back on defense.
The fifth-grader with the ball dribbled left. Kagao mirrored him, arms out, weight low. The kid tried to go right. Kagao's foot planted. The kid pulled up, looking for a pass. Kagao's hand blocked the pass and stripped the ball. He made two dribbles, then pulled up and shot.
Swish.
"Nice shot." His teammate said.
Kagao was already watching the other team inbound the ball. The other team was good, so it wasn't one-sided, but every time the ball moved through Kagao's area, he positioned himself to cut off passing lanes before the offense realized what had happened.
And when his team had the ball, Kagao wanted it in his hands.
'Here. Give it here.'
A teammate dribbled up the right side. Kagao got to the post and caught the entry pass. The fifth-grader was behind him, arm across his chest. Kagao did one step, spun, the shot going up before the defense could react.
It hit the glass, dropping through the net. In another possession, he caught a pass on the wing, drove, and drew two defenders. A teammate was wide open in the corner. Kagao saw him. He held the ball for a beat - thinking,' I can get through' - then he passed, and the teammate hit the shot.
His team celebrated the points, but Kagao didn't celebrate. He was already back on defense. The pass had been the right decision, and he knew it was the right decision, but he still hadn't fully wanted to make it.
'I should have had the ball,we'd have scored either way.'
By the third possession, he was open in the post, waving for it. His teammate drove instead, forcing a layup that rimmed out.
'Give me the ball, I'm open. I'm always open. Why aren't you giving me the ball?'
He grabbed the defensive rebound - the older kids had gone up for it, but the timing was wrong, the ball bouncing toward the left corner where Kagao had already been. He scooped it, turned, drove coast to coast, and finished left-handed off the glass.
From the sideline, he heard the coach say something to one of the parent volunteers. His father stood against the far wall, watching. He'd barely moved since the scrimmage started, and never cheered. Yoichiro had positioned himself where he could see the full court. Eyes tracking Kagao from baseline to baseline.
The kid was playing a different game from everyone else here, where the other kids reacted, he'd already anticipated. The age gap showed everywhere except in performance.
'He's going to outgrow this in a season,' Yoichiro thought. The ward level would give him game experience, competitive instincts, and exposure to different players, but the ceiling was much higher than this gym.
The end of the scrimmage was waved off by the coach after fifteen minutes. The group gathered at half court. Kagao jogged over, barely winded. A few of the older kids were breathing hard.
"Good work, everyone," the coach said. "I'll be posting the roster on the community board on Tuesday morning. Most of you should expect to hear from me before that." He paused, looking around the group. His gaze settled on Kagao briefly. "Some of you definitely will."
The older kids were already breaking into their own conversations, water bottles out. A couple of the fifth-graders glanced at Kagao; they didn't look very happy. The coach went to where Yoichiro stood.
Kagao watched them talk from a distance. He couldn't hear, and his father's face showed almost nothing. He felt a tingling sensation in his hands and wanted to go again immediately. Fifteen minutes wasn't enough. He looked back at the hoop on the three-point line. He could just go shoot while everyone packed up.
His feet carried him toward the ball before he'd decided anything. He picked it up, squared up to the basket, and shot.
Swish.
He retrieved it and shot again.
Swish.
Behind him, he heard the coach say, " I don't often see a third-grader at this level. His spatial awareness alone-"
Swish.
"-have to be careful not to let him develop habits that-"
Swish.
His father appeared on his shoulder. "We should head back."
"I made the team," Kagoa said with confidence.
"You definitely did." His father put a hand on his shoulder. "Let's get lunch. You can tell your sister about it."
They walked toward the exit together, "Dad." Kagao looked up at him. "The coach said the teams play other wards, right? Like tournaments?"
"That's right."
"And the good teams can go to city-level ones?"
"Metropolitan tournaments. Yes."
'I want a bigger stage.' Kagoa thought.