Act Like It's Real, Fight Like It's Acting
Screech—
The gym filled with the sound of sneakers scraping against the floor.
A regulation basketball game runs forty minutes total, split into four ten-minute quarters. This exhibition match, though, was between amateurs, and a variety show didn't need endless game footage to fill airtime—so they'd settled on two halves only.
After a quick round of greetings and a few individual interviews, the first half had just tipped off. It was more manageable than expected.
The score sat at 5–11. They were trailing.
Dong-ha had clawed a ball free from the scramble under the opposing basket and put one in. After giving up two more in succession, Jin Yu-han had drained a clean three when the chance came—five points total.
For a team that's been around this long, I figured the gap would be huge. Not as bad as I thought.
Yeon-woo watched the opposing player dribbling toward him.
Their defensive scheme was simple: man-to-man. Each of them locked onto an assigned man. Before tip-off, Coach Jeong Dong-seok had tipped them off that half-baked zone defense would only get them burned—better to just stick to one guy each. Everyone had nodded and taken the advice.
At the amateur level, beating a single defender off the dribble isn't exactly easy.
If you stayed glued without fouling, an attacker didn't have much room to work with.
Yeon-woo's assignment was Yang Yun-jae—a tall model-turned-entertainer. From the pregame interview chatter, he seemed to be the team's ace.
Yang Yun-jae trusted his handle. He meant to glide past the world star planted in front of him and manufacture a highlight.
In basketball, beginners flinch and fall away the second you shake a shoulder.
Yang dropped his shoulder and leaned right, selling the drive. If Yeon-woo bit and shifted that way, he'd cross over hard the other direction and blow past him.
……
Huh?
But Yeon-woo never reached. He simply stayed in the path, tight and careful, sealing the lane. He didn't even flinch at the fake.
Is he so green he can't even read a fake?
Yang bounced the ball again, rocking his upper body. Yeon-woo still didn't bite.
No reaction? Fine—then I just go!
This time it wasn't a fake. He drove hard to the right.
Screech—
Sneakers bit the floor, and somehow Yeon-woo was already there, cutting him off completely.
Wh-what? Why does he react this time?
From the start, Yeon-woo hadn't been watching Yang's torso. He'd been reading the load in the thighs and calves. The difference between selling a drive and actually exploding into one was written plain in the legs.
The shot clock was ticking. Fail to finish inside twenty-four seconds and a violation handed the ball the other way. Sensing he was going nowhere, Yang finally stepped back and kicked it to a teammate on the wing.
Jeong Cheol-min closed on him at once—but the receiver was their shooter. Without hesitation he rose, leaning back, and let it fly. A fadeaway.
The shot created space from the shorter Cheol-min, who simply didn't have the length to contest it.
Clank—
The ball arced, kissed the backboard, spun on the rim, and spit out. No good.
"Hup!"
Under the basket, Son Jin-uk and the opposing center both leapt. Jin-uk's timing was better.
Thud—
The moment Jin-uk came down with two hands on the ball, Yeon-woo was already sprinting the other way.
Someone has to fill the opposite lane!
Yeon-woo cut left and glanced across—Dong-ha was already running.
"Fast break!"
Jin-uk, still deciding where to throw it, locked onto Yeon-woo and whipped a long outlet, arm cocked all the way back.
These were guys who ran an actual club team—their defensive recovery was sharp. Yeon-woo caught it, spun, and knifed down the sideline toward their basket. A quick look back showed Jin Yu-han and Jeong Cheol-min already crossing half court.
We have to punch through before they set their defense. That's our only shot.
The other side wasn't playing man. They ran a classic 2–3 zone—three protecting the paint, two tracking the three-point shooters. Once all five were set, amateurs had almost no way to crack it. Skill-wise they were a step behind; if both teams settled into half-court sets, turnovers would pile up and the offense would stall out.
Finish this fast!
Yeon-woo drove and called out.
"Dong-ha!"
He held the ball in both hands and shouted the name. Every defender's eyes swung that way. Their weight shifted right to cut the passing lane—and Yeon-woo exploded left.
The pass to Dong-ha had been the fake. Dong-ha had scored first; of course their attention would snap to him. Yeon-woo had banked on exactly that.
"Hup!"
"Stop him!"
Yeon-woo rose on the opposite side. The center who'd been on Dong-ha realized too late and jumped to block. But Yeon-woo, mid-layup, spun the ball in his hand, slipped the block, and hung in the air—using every scrap of hang time—to float past the rim and the defender both, then whip his arm around from the far side and release.
On the sideline, the variety show PD and the camera director's mouths fell open.
Double clutch!
The ball left Yeon-woo's hand with spin, kissed the glass, and dropped clean through the net.
Swish—
The rim sang as the ball fell through. 7–11.
"Whoaaa!"
When the PD had first sized up the other team, he'd thought David and Goliath—eggs against a boulder. Watching them warm up, their movement had looked like people who actually played serious ball for amateurs. So he'd planned to edit around the actors' looks more than the score.
But the actors, after months of stolen practice sessions, were better than anyone had imagined. And among them, Ryu Yeon-woo—moving like he was flying, twisting his torso midair to finish a double clutch—was the highlight reel all by himself.
"Yes! That one shot alone just paid for the whole segment."
Still, hope had a way of creeping in.
What if they actually pull off a comeback?
Nothing in sports hit harder than a late reverse.
Nah, that's pushing it. Still—doesn't look like the gap's going to blow open. That's something.
The director and crew cheered the shot. So did Jeong Cheol-min and Son Jin-uk, charging up the floor.
"Yeon-woo!"
He felt the joy—but there was no time. The other side already had the ball and was setting a fast break of their own. Yeon-woo high-fived the oncoming Cheol-min and snapped out the order.
"Get back—now! Defensive shape!"
He pointed at the break forming and sprinted. The teammates still waving their arms and whooping hesitated half a beat, then poured back across half court into position.
The second half opened. The score had closed to 17–19.
Every member was doing their job. Yeon-woo led the attack, weaponizing his physical gifts into constant, threatening drives. Dong-ha, with the most basketball experience of the group, showed sharp off-ball movement that pulled defenders out of position. Son Jin-uk owned the paint, overpowering their center for steady rebounds. Jeong Cheol-min, oldest man on the floor, ran the hardest and stole the ball at critical moments, forcing turnovers.
Trading baskets like this won't close the gap.
To flip the lead, they needed Jin Yu-han's three-point shooting in the time they had left. But the other side had already felt how cleanly he shot in the first half, and the coverage on him was tight. Same for Yeon-woo. Of their seventeen points, nearly half—eight—had come from him alone. Now every time he rose near the rim, two bodies went up with him.
Yeon-woo crossed half court with the ball. All five defenders were already set in their 2–3 zone.
Bae Yu-jun of the idol group NK had come in planning flashy individual moves—showboating for the cameras. Once the actors proved unexpectedly competent, he'd locked into textbook defensive stance, tense and serious.
Yeon-woo raised his left hand as he crossed half court and spread four fingers.
"Drama, episode four pattern!"
The others' faces went complicated.
"Huh? You want to run that for real?"
"Yes! Episode four pattern—go!"
It was a set designed for the cameras, but the cast had drilled the same sequence more than a hundred times. In the end it was no different from the tactical reps any real team ran. Coach Jeong Dong-seok had said even actual players would nod if they saw it.
It's burned into our bodies. It'll work at least once.
In Yeon-woo's judgment, this was the perfect window to burn the "attack pattern."
"Go!"
He gave the signal and cut. The actors' bodies moved before their minds caught up. Repetition was a terrifying thing—the body answered first.
As Yeon-woo drove left, Son Jin-uk crashed in from the side and sealed the defender with his body. The called screen. Jin-uk was a classic control-tower big who dominated the paint, so opposing captain Choi Jeong-su stayed glued to him. At the same time, Dong-ha—who'd been standing in Yeon-woo's path—cut into the space Jin-uk had just vacated, pulling eyes with him.
From the defense's view: Yeon-woo charging in while Jin-uk and Dong-ha swapped spots, setting a clever screen. Yeon-woo exploded into the gap and rose off the bounce.
But they'd been burned enough times. Two defenders already knew the layup was coming. One jumper risked another midair double-clutch spin that would peel the block and finish—so both went up.
The star of the episode-four set, though—as Yeon-woo had said before—was Jin Yu-han.
In the air, Yeon-woo chose neither one-hand layup nor double clutch. He passed.
"Yu-han!"
The ball left his hand mid-flight toward the open man standing alone—Jin Yu-han, left unmarked because both defenders had jumped to stop Yeon-woo.
Thud—
Catching it outside the arc of the three-point line, Jin Yu-han rose and shot. The ball traced a clean parabola, dropped through the rim, and snapped the net.
Swish—
A clean shot, as always.
20–19.
Nineteen minutes into the game, they had the lead for the first time.