The Monster Appears
Once we qualified for the main tournament, changes started sweeping through our basketball team.
The special training kids who used to bolt for academies right at 4 p.m. were now sticking around until 8 p.m., fully committed to practice. Just like Chang-min said, the whiff of a championship shot had flipped their attitudes.
Chang-min decided to skip his basketball academy for a while to focus on tournament prep, and Shin Subin—whether his dad asked him to or not—skipped his academy too, training late into the night at the gym. With all nine of us on the team showing up for practice, we could finally run proper team drills. For me, it meant getting in the team reps I'd been missing out on—especially practice for offensive rebound situations.
"Etcha!"
Tick! The ball, tapped in like a high-five, swirled straight into the rim. A classic tip-in play.
'Easier than I thought.'
Still, it was a must-have skill. After grabbing an offensive rebound and coming down, you're inevitably facing the opponent's pressure no matter what. If you could finish with a tip-in, you had to. We even practiced follow-up plays—trailing our penetrator, scooping up a missed shot, and converting. We drilled the basics of offensive rebound scenarios to perfection. After passing 6 p.m. and grabbing dinner, we shifted to partial offense tactics.
Chang-min tucked the ball under his arm and laid it out for me and Subin.
"We're running the triangle offense."
"Triangle offense?"
"You know Phil Jackson's system? Super famous. Anyway, with our big three setup right now, it's the most efficient."
"Got it. So what's the principle and the core of it?"
"No clue."
"...?"
Chang-min, bold as brass.
"I'm not the coach who invented it—how am I supposed to know the nitty-gritty? We're just mimicking the shape. It's not some pro-level tactic for nothing. It'll work if we stick to it."
Not wrong. In soccer, you start with a basic 4-4-2, run the flat back four, have fullbacks overlap. Copy the form, and the tactics flow somewhat. Chang-min was eyeing the triangle's key advantages.
"This offense has players moving in triangles to create organic strong-side opportunities. Even if the ball goes to one guy, the defense can't double without hesitation. But with you, Seojun, they're definitely doubling. That means space opens for me or Subin. You pass to the open man and cut quick to the low post for position. Then me and Subin link up—pass to you or shoot. Next, you crash for the offensive board and tip it home, or take the close pass and finish. Got it?"
"...Yeah."
I didn't fully get it, but I nodded. Chang-min said we'd figure it out on the fly and kicked off practice. The crux was handling doubles on me. No double? I catch high post, back it down for a one-on-one finish. Double comes? Kick to the open guy and relocate to low post.
'Tactics seem straightforward.'
Real games were another story, but we'd polish this as our base until the tournament. Partial tactics wrapped around 8:20 p.m., the training kids headed home, and the three of us stayed for individual work. Normally it'd be threes, but for now, free throws took priority.
'Gotta drag my success rate to at least 80%.'
My shooting idol Kobe's career free-throw mark hovered around 88%. Vince Carter hit 80%, and even big man Garnett was at 79%. Role models like that? I had to hit 80% minimum. But damn, it was tough. Ten shots, five makes. Par for a beginner like me, but free throws felt like something you should nail, breeding obsession.
"Hey, Kim Chang-min. Give me some free-throw tips."
Rarely, Chang-min looked hesitant.
"Can't teach free throws."
"Why not?"
"I shoot bank."
He fired some free throws. His shots kissed the backboard and dropped. Thung! Swish! Thung! Swish! Five for five.
"Whoa, looking good!"
"Not bad. But don't copy it. Once you start banking free throws, you're locked in."
True—Kobe barely banked them, if at all. Curry, Nash, Allen? Same deal.
"If you still want it, I can teach. Up for it?"
"Nah, I'm good. I'll figure it out solo."
Sharp shooters just didn't bank 'em—that was my takeaway. I refocused. Then Shin Subin ghosted up out of nowhere.
"Shoot short."
"...?"
This guy was living silence. Like the word "taciturn" sculpted into human form. No wonder they said he resembled Seo Taewoong.
"Short how?"
"Free throws arc too long, they brick more. Aim rim edge, shoot short."
He ghosted off to his own drills.
'Short it is?'
I tried. Aimed the front rim. Ting! First bounced off the edge. Second kissed it soft and dropped through. Third skipped the rim but swish! Clean.
'Oh...?'
Made sense. Long free throws hit the back rim wide and bounce out unless banking perfectly. But short to the front? Straight shot absorbs energy on contact and rolls in.
'Plus, easier to aim.'
Visible front rim over invisible center. Ting, swish! Swish! Ting, swish! Swish! Swish! Free throws raining. Ten shots, eight makes—personal best.
"Whoa!? Whoa...!?"
One tip, total transformation. Like a wuxia master glimpsing a manual line and ascending realms. Dopamine surging, I hammered away. That endless growth high. We wrapped at 11 sharp. Court spotless—Chang-min and Subin had cleaned.
"Dude, your focus is insane. Anyway, lights out. Janitor uncle's pissed."
"Sorry, sorry. Grabbing my stuff."
I stripped my sweat-soaked uni and reached for clothes—but paused.
"Uh, been wondering. Who's she?"
Across the dividing net, a girl statue-staring the court. Thought she was artsy at first, but she was studying—CSAT-style—till closing at 11 p.m.
"Oh, her? Haha..."
Chang-min chuckled easily.
"Told you we had Soyeon and Hanna on the team? That's Soyeon. Subin's girlfriend."
"Ah... gotcha."
Studying or not, waiting till this hour? Devotion defined. Subin turned to her, blunt as ever.
"Go home alone."
"Huh!? Why?"
"Gotta go with Seojun. No more walking you home."
No explanation. She glared daggers at me, texted let's talk later, and bounced. Bus ride back.
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
Me and Subin, deadly silence. Just the village bus engine droning. Air thick, I forced chatter.
"Saw her name tag—junior? Hitting on underclassmen? Smooth. The looks help, huh?"
"Same year."
"Wait, same year?"
"Early birthday."
New intel. Early birthday. Couldn't let that slide.
"You punk. Why hide that bombshell?"
That's why early birthdays get called sly. Sneak same-grade status, reveal later, then whine about "how can you call me hyung now?"—playing narrow-minded. Then shrug off the busted hierarchy.
"Can't stand hierarchy breakers. Banmal's fine—just call me hyung from now."
"...Got it, hyung."
"Perfect."
Home was a shiny 52-pyeong new-build apartment overlooking Gwanggyo Lake Park. Shin Won-hyung, already off work, welcomed us warmly.
"Come in, Seojun! Sit, sit. Shower first! Subin, use the master bath!"
His wife, Kim Yun-mi, looked stormy. Dragging a stranger home without consulting her? Fair.
'I'd be pissed too.'
Full empathy—I'd keep quiet, avoid her.
Kim Yun-mi seethed inside.
She knew her husband's lavish ways—slipping the kids 50,000-won allowances like candy—but this crossed the line.
'How do you give a room to some total stranger?'
He'd cleared his basketball memorabilia room, sure, but still. And Seojun's size? Terrifying. Her son Subin was 194 cm and built, but Seojun was another level—199 cm, thick frame. Unhuman. His face was kindly, disarming, but the bulk? Unapproachable.
"You bring home a kid with zero connection, no heads-up? Even if his story's sad!"
"W-Well..."
"What do you tell Suryeon next week?"
"I'll handle that! And I told you—this repays a debt."
"Repays what? What are you even saying!?"
Shin Won-hyung leaned in.
"Seojun's the one getting Subin the championship. Our dream? Watching him win nationals. He's making it happen. Subin wins, gets stats for a top college team. We house him? No biggie."
"Getting him the win...?"
She'd missed the last game, couldn't parse it. She knew hoops from supporting her son—high school ball wasn't easy. Sangwon High, with its imploded team? No title shot.
"Seojun's a freak!"
Won-hyung was frustrated. Wanted to show box scores, but prelims were too minor—no detailed stats online, just qualifiers list. Calling organizers? Hassle.
"Honey, give it a week. June 7, 16-strong match at 4 p.m. Watch that—you'll get it. Still no? Fine, I'll send him packing."
That bought uneasy truce. And June 7, Friday, 4 p.m. She and her vacation-day hubby hit the game, glum. Dansung High was obscure even to insiders, but today's foe?
'Gangsan High, of all teams.'
Gangwon Province powerhouse. Not title fave, but top-six lock. No chance.
'Another blowout.'
Subin fights valiantly, as always. Watching hurt. But.
"Huh?"
Gangsan looked tense. Their coach bellowed pre-tip: no fouls! Rumors of Dansung's collapse had spread.
'Crowd's eyeing Seojun?'
College coaches, pro scouts. Why?
'Hope they like my boy too.'
She clung to that, praying Subin stayed safe and shone. Tip-off.
"Uh...?"
Jaw dropped. The monster appeared. Gangsan crushed under that impossible force.