The Banani bench? Goes absolutely, irrevocably, gloriously ballistic. The decibel levels reach ear-splitting, possibly window-shattering, levels. The roof of the stadium? Visibly vibrates, threatening to detach and float away on a wave of pure, unadulterated basketball hype. The Motijheel pyers? They just… stand there. Frozen in pce. Stuck in a tableau of utter, shell-shocked disbelief, like statues made of pure, unadulterated despair. Their triple-team defense, their supposedly genius, st-ditch pn, utterly, completely, and humiliatingly… yeeted into oblivion. Epic fail of epic proportions. History books will be written about this level of defensive ineptitude, probably in the comedy section.

  Coach Rahman, standing forlornly on the Motijheel sideline, looking like he just aged approximately 50 years in the st thirty seconds, like he just witnessed the end of the world as he knew it, just… deftes. He sighs. A long, world-weary, soul-crushing sigh that speaks volumes about the crushing weight of defeat, the utter incomprehensibility of what he’s witnessing, and the dawning realization that maybe, just maybe, he should have stuck to coaching chess.

  He runs a trembling hand over his face, his wise old eyes, usually twinkling with basketball insight and strategic brilliance, now filled with a bizarre cocktail of awe, frustration, existential dread, and a dawning, horrifying realization that’s slowly creeping into his soul.

  They weren’t just pying against a supremely talented basketball pyer, a generational talent. Oh, no, no, no. They were facing something… other. Something… unearthly. Something… uncontainable by the conventional ws of basketball, or possibly physics itself. Like trying to argue with gravity, or negotiate with a bck hole, or convince your cat to take a bath.

  And triple-teaming? Yeah, about that. Turns out, it wasn’t quite the foolproof, game-changing pn they’d so desperately hoped for, not even remotely close to effective. It was like bringing a water pistol to a raging inferno, or maybe a strongly worded memo to a rampaging Godzil, or trying to stop a tsunami with a beach towel.

  James was simply… transcending. Ascending to a higher pne of basketball existence, leaving mere mortals and their earthly defenses far, far behind. Operating on a different frequency, a different wavelength, a different… dimension of hoops altogether.

  And they, poor, mortal Motijheel, were rapidly, desperately, pathetically running out of ideas, and more importantly, running out of hope. And, perhaps even more terrifyingly than anything else, they were running out of time.

  This game, their hopes, their dignity, were all slipping away, like sand through clenched fists, no matter how tightly they tried to hold on, and the chilling, undeniable truth was starting to sink in, settling deep in their bones: there might be absolutely, positively, definitively nothing they could do to stop it. They were doomed. Deliciously, hiriously, utterly, completely doomed. And James? James was just getting started.

  Motijheel, thinking they're geniuses, right? They huddle up, probably drawing diagrams on a whiteboard that looks like a toddler attacked it with crayons. Their "master pn" is to triple-team James. Triple-team! Like, their big brain move is to throw three dudes at him.

  "We'll cage him! We'll neutralize him!" I bet that's exactly what Coach was yelling. It was supposed to be their ultimate lockdown, the move that wins championships, or at least, you know, this game. But seriously? It was about as effective as trying to use a pool net to stop a hurricane. Like, good luck with that, guys.