But James? He just… smiles. That infuriatingly calm, ridiculously confident, borderline-smug smile that’s starting to burrow its way deep into the Motijheel pyers’ psyches, pnting seeds of doubt and despair like a particurly aggressive, invasive weed that refuses to be pulled out.
It’s the smile of a man who knows something you don’t, something you can’t even comprehend. The smile of a man who has cheat codes to reality, who knows the secrets of the universe, or at least the secrets of how to completely dominate a basketball game. The smile of a man who just ordered pizza online and knows it's gonna arrive any minute now, perfectly timed for halftime of his personal highlight reel.
He’s triple-teamed, yes. Surrounded, undeniably. Outnumbered, mathematically, sure. But he’s also got Bullseye locked and loaded. And they, the poor, unsuspecting defenders, have precisely zero idea what’s about to hit them, zero clue about the impending basketball apocalypse. Prepare for impact, boys. Brace yourselves. This is gonna hurt.
He raises the ball, slowly, deliberately, almost theatrically. The three defenders brace themselves, unching into a synchronized, slow-motion jump, their movements resembling a ballet performed by treacle-covered sloths, in zero gravity. Arms raised, bodies contorted in awkward angles, faces strained with effort, they reach… for air. Sweet, sweet, empty, utterly useless air. They might as well be trying to catch smoke with chopsticks.
James releases the shot. Effortless, fluid, poetry in slow-motion. Like he’s just casually flicking a nonexistent piece of lint off his perfectly clean jersey. The ball arcs upwards, a perfect parabo of basketball destiny, soaring through the air with majestic, almost arrogant grace, like it knows exactly where it’s going and doesn’t need any help from anyone.
The three defenders, still suspended mid-air in their slow-motion ballet of utter futility, their outstretched hands reaching… absolutely nothing of consequence, nothing but thin air and shattered dreams. Whiff! Missed it by that much, and by "that much" we mean "the entire length of the basketball court."
The ball continues its celestial journey, a tiny orange comet hurtling directly towards its target, the waiting basket. It’s aimed directly at the center of the hoop, locked on with ser precision, guided by some unseen, benevolent basketball deity, or maybe just James’s ridiculously accurate shooting skills.
Swish. Silken perfection. Clean as a freshly undered, perfectly pressed sheet straight out of the dryer. Nothing but net, baby. Nothing but pure, glorious, swishing net. The sound itself is a symphony of basketball perfection, a sweet, sweet sound of victory and utter defensive humiliation.
Three points. Again. Through the freaking triple-team. Through a defensive strategy specifically designed to contain him, to neutralize him, to render him… human. Impossible, apparently. And yet, here it is, spshed across the scoreboard in bright, mocking numbers, undeniably, ridiculously, infuriatingly real. James: 3 points. Triple-Team: 0 points, and counting.
The Banani bench? Total, unadulterated, glorious, beautiful chaos. Explosion of limbs, screams of pure joy, high-fives that threaten to dislocate shoulders, pure, unbridled pandemonium erupting from the sidelines. They’re acting like they just won the lottery, cured cancer, discovered alien life, and got free pizza for life, all at once.
