The Unknown Stage (2)
The 2013 FIBA U-19 World Championship, held in the Czech Republic.
Park Sung-hyun gave a concise overview.
Sixteen nations were participating: six from Europe, four from the Americas, two from Africa, and four from Asia & Oceania.
The first match was scheduled for June 27—about two weeks away.
"But isn't it a bit late for me to join the roster now?"
"It's a youth tournament, so the final entry deadline is pretty generous. They haven't even had the first team camp yet, so you joining now is no problem at all."
"Hmm..."
A tournament just two weeks out, and not a single team camp? Sure, the nationals were the priority right now, but still.
"What's wrong? Any issues?"
"No, nothing like that."
Once I agreed to join the national team, he ran through the tournament schedule, training dates, head coach, assistants, and all the miscellaneous details.
That odd sense of dissonance I'd been feeling sharpened during the process. For a world championship, the whole thing felt remarkably sloppy.
No scrimmages lined up, no clear tournament goals. What the hell is this?
It was probably something only someone like me, who'd experienced national teams before, could pick up on.
I'd had meetings like this countless times in my past life. And whether it was someone from the soccer federation or the national team coach, there was always one thing they did solidly.
- Seojun, let's make some real noise this time!
- We have to make it to the round of 16 at least. You know we're capable.
Expectations for results. They'd hype up the prize money for good performances, the honor you'd gain—firing up the players with all sorts of excitement.
Nothing like that here. Not even a speck.
The irony of the national team selector showing zero expectation that the players would deliver results.
I still don't know much about basketball, but...
Well, on the adult stage, maybe it made sense. Our country's soccer team faced the same hopeless odds against full-strength Brazil or Spain.
But this is youth level?
Korea was pretty strong in youth competitions. I'd only truly felt the talent wall in pro leagues—youth stage, domestic or international, I'd dominated.
...Though something had felt off from the start. It was about my fame.
In soccer terms, I was dropping hat-tricks and 10/10 ratings every game. Normally, that would cause an uproar.
Ronaldo-level talent emerges! World-class prospect! News outlets would splash it everywhere, fans would go wild, and top European clubs would send scouts.
Baseball's the same. Hit six homers in three national tournament games, or throw three complete shutouts? You'd have every domestic fan's attention, MLB scouts drooling.
Games would get cable or streaming coverage at least.
But here? Nothing. Shockingly so.
A handful of online articles about my stats, a smattering of basketball fans who'd caught wind of me. That was it. No broadcasts, no foreign scouts in sight.
In other words, basketball treated Korea on par with—or below—Southeast Asian leagues.
Even youth level has that big a gap with world basketball?
This was unexpected. Adult disparities, fine—but youth too?
Then my current records meant nothing. Three goals or four in a Southeast Asian youth league? Big leagues wouldn't care.
Which meant the NBA—the near-future dream I was chasing—was an impossibly distant star.
I refused to accept that quietly. It'd be too pathetic. Me rampaging now, the opponents I'd crushed—they'd all be jokes.
Worse, it'd just repeat my past life. A frog in a well thinking it's talented, getting humbled again in a farce. Some divine being regressing me just to laugh at that? My blood boiled.
Fine. Let's see just how big the gap is.
Fueled by fighting spirit and resentment toward this unknown stage, I wrapped up the meeting.
The next day, Tuesday. Day before the finals.
The Shin family table was lavish as ever—breakfast is the foundation of the day, after all.
I came back from a light jog, and Kim Yun-mi greeted me with a bright smile.
"Seojun, hurry and wash up! I made the most delicious native chicken baeksuk!"
"Baeksuk...?"
"Initial heat wave is coming soon. And tomorrow's the finals. Gotta recharge your energy!"
Baeksuk for breakfast? Anyway, after washing up and heading to the table, I saw Suryeon noona neatly setting my place. Kim Yun-mi served the freshly made baeksuk first to me and Subin.
Her husband, Shin Won-hyung, watched with a smile, not a hint of displeasure.
"Eat up! Then off to school!"
"Thanks for the meal."
"Yes, dig in!"
Only after we took our first bites did she smile in satisfaction and start serving her husband and daughter.
That's when yesterday's chat with Park Sung-hyun popped into my head. I'd forgotten amid the chaos.
"Oh, right—I forgot to mention. Yesterday, I talked to someone from the basketball federation. He said Subin’s getting picked for the national team too."
Clang! Utensils hit the floor.
Shin Won-hyung dropped his spoon; Kim Yun-mi fumbled the ladle she'd been rinsing.
"N-n-national team? What does that mean?"
Shin Won-hyung's voice trembled.
I explained the U-19 World Cup, and his eyes nearly bulged out. Kim Yun-mi let out a shriek of joy.
"Kyaaah! Honey! Hanwoo for dinner tonight—the most expensive place in the neighborhood!"
"Of course—wait, no! Finals tomorrow. Don't want to add pressure. Let's gorge after the win!"
"I'll call Grandpa!"
"Yes! I'll handle Father-in-law!"
The Shin family erupted in celebration.
Subin stayed relatively cool, though. On the bus to school, he said:
"You got picked, so I tagged along, right?"
"'Tagged along'? He spoke highly of you too. Though he did mention wanting to bring our triangle offense straight to the national team. Said Chang-min's getting picked too."
Subin nodded, accepting he was just along for the ride.
Still, it was real—we'd made the national team. When I told the guys at school, Chang-min's jaw dropped.
"I'm on the national team!? You're not messing with me?"
"Dead serious. Get a passport if you don't have one."
"O-okay! Be right back—gotta call Mom! Holy shit..."
Chang-min bolted off, unable to hide his excitement. I got it—my first national team call-up felt exactly like that.
.
.
.
Training before the finals.
After team defense drills, I jumped straight into threes.
This session felt especially crucial. Even more so after yesterday's meeting with Park Sung-hyun.
That's why I'm learning threes.
A hint from my future self. My counter to that unknown stage.
"Hoo! Hoo!"
Whoosh! Whoosh! The ball sailed, but not as I wanted.
Clang! Clang! Splish! Clang! Three out of ten.
I tamped down my irritation; next ten, four in.
Tch. Even in practice, I need seven out of ten. Next, 45 degrees...
Whoosh! Whoosh! Same story.
After about 300, I took a breather. That's when I noticed Chang-min staring thoughtfully from the basket.
"What?"
"...Nothing. You're sticking with threes?"
"Yeah, just this today."
"Got it. Hey, noona!! Come here a sec!"
He called Suryeon, who was helping other guys, and asked her something.
"Track Seojun's shots—success or miss. Mark O or X for each one, not just overall."
"Okay!"
"Yo, Lee Seojun. Keep drilling!"
I ignored it and resumed.
An hour later, Chang-min—back from pick-and-roll with Subin—wiped sweat and grabbed the sheet from Suryeon. It was filled with neat Os and Xs.
First ten: [OXXXXOXOOX]
Second: [OOXOOXOXXX]
Third: [XXXOXXOXXX]
And so on, for 300 shots. Success rate: 37%.
Hoo... Yesterday's news got me rushed. Dropped a bit.
Won't cut it in games. I'd planned to show something tomorrow, but this would just burden the team.
"Restarting training."
As I grabbed the ball for the three-point line, Chang-min stopped me.
"Hold up. Training's good, but tweak it a bit."
"...?"
"I'll call positions—shoot from there."
"Okay."
Whatever, I followed.
"Top first! Step forward three paces. Just ahead of the free-throw line. Yeah, there."
Bounce pass. Thump!
"Jump shot from there!"
Midrange jumper. I focused on form and released.
Clang! Splish! Clang! Splish! Splish! Splish!
Then:
"Now—back to the three-point line."
I reset at top; pass again.
Splish! Clang! Splish! Splish! Clang! Splish! Clang! Clang! Clang!
"Back to free-throw line!"
Repeated drills: top, 45 degrees, corner.
Chang-min handed me the sheet.
"Check it. Your three-point success just now."
127 shots, 71 makes. 56%—big jump.
"How...?"
"Midrange first. Gets your shot feel locked in before the arc. Hmm, not certain since you've only been playing ball a bit, but..."
He nodded, continuing.
"Think you're a rhythm shooter."
"...!"
Streaky, but unstoppable when hot.
"So, don't chase volume. Fewer shots, but groove into that feel. What do you think?"
Chang-min's advice became a game-changer—not just for my threes, but my overall shot selection.