It’s aggressive, bordering on assault, a frantic, almost comical attempt to bottle lightning in a mason jar, to catch smoke with a butterfly net, to contain the sheer, unadulterated James-ness of James. It was less a sophisticated defensive strategy and more a desperate, filing performance art piece titled "The Futility of Man Against the Inevitable," pying out live on the basketball court.
“Holy moly, guacamole!” Arshad excims from the Banani bench, his eyes practically bugging out of his head like a cartoon character who just saw a ghost. “Will you LOOK at that, Tahera! They’re actually doing it! Triple-teaming James!
I thought Coach Rahman was just spitballing, you know, just brainstorming out loud! But he actually went there! He’s a mad genius, a beautiful, beautiful mad genius!” He lets out this bark of pure, unadulterated ughter, shaking his head in utter, bewildered amazement.
“Talk about throwing the kitchen sink! Desperate measures? Dude, this is like… DEFCON 1 levels of ‘we are about to lose our dignity and possibly our will to live unless we do something completely, utterly insane’!” He elbows Tahera, grinning like a Cheshire cat who just swallowed a whole canary. This was way better than any reality TV drama, pure unscripted chaos unfolding right before their eyes.
Tahera, ever the picture of uncool, analytical composure, nods slowly, thoughtfully, though if you squinted real hard, you could see a tiny twitch of her lips betraying a hidden smirk threatening to break free. “Predictable, in a way,” she says, her tone all dry and matter-of-fact, like she’s casually commenting on the weather, not witnessing basketball history, or at least basketball absurdity, in the making.
“They were statistically unlikely to simply… allow a repeat performance of the second quarter. A change in tactics, however… questionable… was, statistically speaking, anticipated.” But even she, the queen of irrational thought, the empress of illogic, can’t quite suppress a tiny flicker of amusement in her eyes.
Triple-teaming? Seriously? It was so over-the-top, so hiriously, gloriously desperate, it was almost… beautiful in its sheer, unadulterated absurdity. It was like watching a toddler determinedly try to build a sandcastle big enough to hold back the entire ocean tide – utterly futile, yes, but undeniably, wholeheartedly committed, and kind of endearing in its own ridiculous way.
Meanwhile, down on the court, James finds himself suddenly… enveloped. Swallowed whole. Consumed by a writhing, slightly panicked mass of Motijheel defenders. It’s… cozy. Uncomfortably, intensely cozy.
Like being trapped in a very sweaty, slightly custrophobic, three-person group hug that nobody actually consented to. Normally, being mobbed by three opponents would trigger instant red-alert panic mode, right? Code brown situation. Send out the SOS fres. Text your next of kin, just in case.
But James… James operates on a completely different pne of existence, a different dimension of reality. James is not wired like your average, run-of-the-mill human being. James is… different. He’s on another level, literally and figuratively.
And so, naturally, because why wouldn't he?, he just… activates Sloth View. Because Tuesday, right? And Tuesdays are for Sloth View.
Instantly, the chaotic, filing, borderline-hysterical movements of Lut, Saim, and Anderson… morph. Shift. Transform. They slow down. Way, way, way down. Like someone hit the slow-motion button on reality, but only for them.
