Reversed Evaluation
Randall held his ground with unyielding defense.
The real threat of a jab step wasn't the jumper itself—it was the drive that branched off from it. The jab step jumper on its own was an inefficient shot.
Whether stepping up directly or dribbling into a pull-up jumper, it was fundamentally a tough contested shot. So from the defender's perspective, you could let them take the jumper as long as you solidly blocked the drive.
A prime example was LeBron James.
When LeBron used a jab step, opponents kept their distance. If you half-heartedly contested the jumper, he'd blow right past you.
Unless it was LeBron's "that day," it was better for the defense to contest the jumper and force him to shoot. On the flip side were players like Kevin Durant or Carmelo Anthony—guys who could hit contested jumpers efficiently while also excelling at drives.
Of course, Randall didn't rate Seojun anywhere near that level.
He showed zero concern for the jab step jumper.
'Shoot if you want to shoot.'
His final stat line would probably end up around 30% field goal percentage. Volume shooter with garbage efficiency—the classic garbage stats where you pad your numbers while the team gets crushed.
So Randall ignored Seojun's jabs no matter how he poked and prodded.
Even when Seojun gathered his feet for another jumper, Randall figured he'd self-destruct eventually. His contest was solid enough anyway.
Swish!
"Hot damn! Heaven's on my side today."
The next three in a row.
Swish!
"…"
And the fourth. This time not from the elbow, but out at 45 degrees. From the three-point line.
Swish—bouncing off the rim and in.
The first to react wasn't Randall, but Smart.
"Holy shit…?"
Four straight possessions, nine points in a row. Score: 33-53. The game narrowed back to a 20-point gap.
The insane jumper accuracy had the scouts in the stands, along with teammates Chang-min and Subin, staring wide-eyed in shock.
"Suuuu… huuu…!!"
Seojun took a deep breath while bringing the ball up the court. There was a strange aura of dominance about him now—a chilling presence only the opposing players could feel.
Gordon yelled at Randall.
"JR! That guy's fully locked in!"
That day that comes for every player now and then.
Gordon warned him using the expression "being in the zone."
"Guard him tighter!"
"…Tch."
From that moment, Randall's rock-solid defensive stance shifted.
Screech! Screech! He finally started reacting every time Seojun jabbed with his right foot.
Seojun's jab steps weren't exactly polished.
A true jab step required even probes left, right, and diagonal, with body fakes to shake the defender and create an opening. But Seojun just stubbornly moved forward and back, with simple torso motion.
Yet it was enough.
When Seojun retracted the foot he'd jabbed forward, Randall flinched.
Screech! Seojun quickly gathered his feet and rose for the jumper.
Whoosh! Randall lunged forward like he'd been waiting, extending his arm and jumping.
His fingers were just 5cm short of a block—a ferocious contest.
Randall was convinced the miracle was over this time.
But it wasn't.
Swish! Another clean swish through the net, and Randall's pupils shook uncontrollably.
"What the fuck…?"
Montrezl Harrell, sitting on the U.S. bench, let out an involuntary gasp of shock. The other players reacted much the same.
Five straight jumpers.
Score: 35-53. With 1:01 left in the second quarter, the gap was inside 20.
Donovan, wanting to see more of this flow, didn't call timeout.
'What a fun guy!'
On the U.S.'s next possession, Randall got revenge.
He bullied Seojun with a strong ball screen, then thud! slammed his body into him, fading back for a jumper.
Score: 35-55. Back to 20.
"You think you're the only one who can do that?"
Seojun smiled at the irritation in Randall's voice—something new.
Next possession.
This time, Marcus Smart moved.
He pressed Chang-min hard to keep the ball out of Seojun's hands.
The basic jab step setup relied on receiving the ball at a designated spot from the passer. Pressure the passer, and the offense crumbled.
"Urgh…!?"
Chang-min flailed in panic under Smart's sticky man-to-man.
At that moment, Subin cut out to the right 45-degree wing, took the pass, and barely escaped the crisis.
Smart scowled and chewed out Rabin.
"You should've followed him out!"
Rabin shrugged. Like he wanted to keep watching the Randall-Seojun showdown.
Even Coach Donovan felt the same, so Smart shook his head and backed off like, do whatever.
Still, thanks to Smart's pressure, Seojun didn't get the ball until the shot clock hit 9 seconds.
Yet Seojun showed no urgency.
He jabbed at Randall.
"Gonna shoot this one too? Or maybe drive this time?"
"…"
"C'mon, say something. You were yapping nonstop earlier."
Seojun trash-talked aggressively.
He enjoyed mind games with opponents but wasn't usually this chatty. This time was different.
There was one line he had to hear from Randall today, no matter what.
Shot clock at 2.7.
Screech! Seojun gathered his feet. He raised the ball with both arms, knees pumping. An obvious pump fake.
But Randall bit.
He was hyper-focused on the jumper threat, and the clock was tight.
Thud! Randall exploded upward.
The issue? Seojun had been so locked into the trash talk he'd forgotten the shot clock.
He'd blanked on how Smart's pressure had eaten it down. No urgency because he straight-up didn't realize.
'Huh? When'd it hit 2 seconds? Screwed…!'
Leaning forward for the drive, Seojun hastily adjusted and went into his jumper.
Colliding with the charging Randall was inevitable.
Thump! Bodies crashed. Seojun flung the ball anyway, but it predictably airballed.
'Ugh, what an idiot move.'
But.
Beep! Shooting foul on Randall. Two free throws for Seojun.
Cheers erupted from the stands.
"What a smart kid!"
"He totally toyed with Randall!"
"Hahaha! Ripping free throws out of him—Randall got owned!"
The scouts applauded.
Grind! Randall gnashed his teeth, humiliation plain.
Teammates swarmed Seojun, praising the slick trap play.
Subin asked in awe.
"Hyung, you planned that?"
"··················Obviously."
Good was good. Seojun grinned and thumbs-upped.
###
Halftime after the second. Score: 37-57. Still 20-point gap.
'Even after my explosion, it's still 20. Unreal.'
A wry chuckle escaped.
"Hoo…!"
I felt the switch flip off.
Those five straight jumpers were peak rhythm mixed with luck—a fluke.
Halftime broke the flow; it wouldn't happen again.
My jumper percentage would settle back to normal.
'But I've planted the seed of my jumper's threat.'
Now, use it to drag those words out of Randall.
That declaration of equal footing.
Third quarter.
Waiting on court was bench guy Justice Winslow.
'Tch, this one's sneakily tough.'
Great speed, and killer defensive instincts.
As I started my jab step attack, he showed different defense than Randall.
Screech! Screech! Textbook reactions to my right foot—perfectly countering both drive and jumper.
His speed made drives tough.
So I turned my back for a bully ball.
Thud! Thud! Winslow gave more ground than Randall.
But even pushing into the paint, no path opened. Nothing but forcing a finish.
Then a cutter slipped in.
"Hyung!"
"…!"
Subin took the pass, slammed brakes to shake Rabin, and rose for a jumper. But Rabin's freak athleticism matched him, contested, and it rimmed out.
Subin bit his lip in frustration. I was stunned too.
'What the hell is that athleticism?'
To me, those three—Zachary Rabin, Aaron Gordon, Julius Randall—had physical tools like mine.
Rabin might edge me in speed, though I had power. Randall had power over me, but I had speed. Gordon matched both, and being taller meant I was outgunned.
'Am I normal, or are they freaks too…?'
Song Kyung-bae's words flashed back.
Unless you're 2.2m, physical talent means nothing. America has truckloads of 2m monsters.
'He was right.'
Had to admit it. And realize:
To make the big leagues, I needed technical skills sharpened razor-edge beyond physical gifts.
'Just realizing that is huge gain.'
I played the rest relaxed.
The game was done.
…But the bleeding didn't stop.
So before it ended, settle the score with Randall. That was the final goal.
'Gotta draw it out somehow.'
America, deeming the game over, kept starters benched.
To lure him, had to poke the enemy bench.
Mid-third. Score: 44-73. 29-point blowout.
Ting! Jab step jumper rims out, failed possession. I glanced at the nearby U.S. bench and muttered.
"Ah… where'd the guy who was schooling me go?"
Slipping in "bitch," the U.S. players burst out laughing.
"Pfft!"
"Kuh…!"
"Puhahaha!"
They hid grinning faces behind towels.
Smart, Rabin, everyone—even Gordon belly-laughed.
Randall shot death glares.
Grind! Grind! He ripped off his warm-up jacket like tearing clothes and stormed to the court without a word to the coach.
The opposing coach waved him in like, if you want it.
Randall entered. The duel restarted.
Seeing him, my switch flickered back—jumpers started falling.
Not five straight, but 50% hit rate. Randall couldn't ignore them anymore.
"Shoot or not, shoot or not…"
"…"
"Answer: shoot!"
Swish! My 10th jumper of the game.
Randall defended silently now. On offense, he bullied hard.
Trading blows like old rivals. The showdown dragged to the fourth.
I clung on, fingers gripping a cliff edge.
Solely on the obsession to hear that one line from Randall.
6:20 left in the fourth.
"Haa! Haa…! This time, drive. So…"
Randall finally snapped.
"Shut your fucking mouth, you goddamn bitch!"
I grinned, dopamine surging.
'Yes—that's what I wanted.'
That admission of me as an equal adversary.
"Hup!"
"…!?"
Pump fake drew Randall. I drove for the layup.
My 34th point.
…But the score was 40+ now. End in sight.