Reversed Evaluations (2)
Final score: 63-111.
From the last three minutes of the fourth quarter, I'd been on the bench, accepting this 48-point blowout with calm resignation.
This was the gap between us and the world's strongest team.
Through this game, I gained a lot of insights. The path I needed to take, and how to get there.
Was this the effect of post-nut clarity?
"Phew... Good work!"
I stood up from the bench and greeted the players who'd finished the game in my place.
The team thought we'd put up a decent fight, their faces bright despite the loss.
Coach Kim Kyung-min clapped with a relieved expression, looking much more at ease.
"Let's carry this momentum into the Croatia game the day after tomorrow! We just need one win! One win, and we're through to the upper rounds!"
-Yes sir!
-Yeah, we've got Seojun!
-Let's face the US again!
Their eyes on me sparkled with hope... but I was pessimistic about the next game.
Unlike my teammates, who had been funeral-faced before the US game but were now riding high on morale, I'd been pumped before tip-off only to lose all hope afterward.
I'd learned the true terror of team basketball.
Even my performance today was only possible because their coach didn't adjust.
If he'd wanted to shut me down, I wouldn't have done a thing. No jab-step jumpers, no iso setups at all.
The same went for Randle. If he hadn't taken my bait and stuck to 1-on-1s instead of playing team ball, I couldn't have contained him.
Croatia or Spain won't be that careless.
America was the top team and kings of complacency, so they'd given me openings other squads wouldn't.
From my perspective, the remaining two games looked even tougher than today.
Of course, I had no intention of showing that.
"...Yeah, let's give it our all! Korea fighting!"
I shouted encouragement, and they cheered back, heading to the locker room one by one.
I slung a towel over my shoulder to follow, but someone approached suddenly.
"Hey."
"...?"
It was Zachary Lavine.
He grinned and held out his palm. I slapped it like an arm-wrestle, and he pulled me into a quick bro-hug.
"You were great today. I thought it was just a scrimmage, but damn, it lit a fire. Good game."
"Yeah, you too... Zachary Lavine?"
"Jack. Jack Lavine."
"Right, Lavine. Good game."
Lavine looked a bit disappointed.
"Honestly, double-clutch isn't my thing. That was just practice. After you blocked me, I wanted to poster you straight-up... but no chances came."
"Poster me in my face?"
"Dunks are my specialty, too."
"Ha! You think I'd just let you?"
"We'll see next time we meet."
Next time.
What stage would that be on?
As I pondered, my eyes met Julius Randle's across the court. He was heading into their locker room.
Seeing me, he raised both hands, flashing fingers: 4 and 8. 48 points.
Then he yelled,
"What you did today meant jack shit! Just flailing at air, you punk-ass bitch!"
Marcus Smart shoved his back, dragging him inside.
Somehow, I had a feeling our beef wasn't over.
Lavine gave a wry smile.
"Ignore that guy. He's always like that."
Then—tap! Someone patted my shoulder from behind.
"Well played."
Aaron Gordon gave me a thumbs-up, then turned indifferently toward their locker room.
Lavine said "see you" and left too.
.
.
.
The game ended in Korea's crushing defeat.
A 20-point loss is a garbage-time blowout, but 48 points? That's beating them one-handed while picking your nose.
Still, Song Kyung-bae couldn't close his gaping mouth.
It was all because of Seojun's performance.
Unbelievable...
He'd been genuinely worried about the kid's future.
His harsh words in their last meeting were only because he wanted Seojun to succeed domestically as a legend.
How many high school prospects had he seen ruin their careers chasing NBA dreams?
Countless talents hailed as prodigies in Korea, vanishing without a trace in America.
For an East Asian to succeed in the NBA, you need Yao Ming-level freak height.
Even Yao had elite skill beyond his size.
So a 2-meter newbie like Seojun? No way in the US.
...Until today's game.
38 PTS (FG 16/24, 3PT 2/3, FT 4/5)
4 AST | 13 REB (4 OREB, 9 DREB)
2 BLK | 1 STL | 2 TO
31 minutes played, those were his numbers.
No wonder Randle lost his shit—insanely efficient.
Even accounting for America taking it easy, it was monstrous.
NBA scouts watching surely upgraded him to at least a 4-star prospect off this.
This kid's different.
Song trusted his gut.
And he wanted to believe.
He'd been burned before, over and over.
But maybe this time...
###
Two days later, Group A second match against Croatia.
Spain had beaten them just before, so if we won today, third place was locked.
America wouldn't lose to Croatia.
We went all-in, treating it like our last game.
But the wall was high.
Screech! With smooth spin moves, their center softly laid it in.
Our center, Jung Ho-young, was getting toyed with.
"Hoyoung! Focus! Points keep coming from your side!"
Coach Kim Kyung-min snapped in frustration.
Hoyoung got rattled, turning into an even bigger liability.
But that's not all.
Their center was a beast. Power, skill, sense, tactical moves—he dominated Hoyoung everywhere. Even popping threes off pick-and-pops, driving him to despair.
That center.
Dario Saric...?
Never heard of him.
But at this rate, the game would explode, so I had to step up.
"Hyung, I'll take him now. Okay, Coach?"
Kim nodded—no choice.
Matching up with Saric, 10cm taller, I got outmuscled but hung on with speed and shot contesting.
We contained his impact somewhat, but ironically, that's when the game blew open.
Croatia's coach, Bracovic, ran constant pick-and-pops once I was on Saric, pinning me outside to kill my paint help.
They feasted inside, pulling away.
Final score: 92-73.
Upper rounds? Done.
"..."
"..."
Team morale crawled on the floor.
No forced cheers now.
They slunk to the locker room, shoulders slumped.
Even I dropped to 23 points under their schemes—my prediction spot-on.
If we'd had more team practice...
Maybe kept it to 10 points? Regret lingered.
Pointless what-if.
As I packed for the locker room, Saric approached.
"Where you playing now?"
"Huh?"
"D1? D2?"
"What...?"
"Which NCAA team."
NCAA. US college ball.
"I'm in high school."
"For real? Haha... Planning on NCAA?"
"Haven't decided."
"Cool. Wanna try out for my team? I'll put in a word—you'd crush the tryout."
"What!?"
"Kidding. Anyway, great game. Impressive. Next time, say hi."
Again.
Next time.
What stage were they expecting?
...I was starting to get it.
###
Next day, final Group A game.
A slim shot at upper rounds remained.
Beat Spain by 40? Something impossible.
Spain had beaten Croatia by 17 and only lost to the US by 29—solid.
It was a one-sided loss.
No flash, just sound fundamentals widening the gap.
Final score: 97-69.
Three losses. Sifted out as planned.
Didn't belong on main stage—fight for 13th-16th, then pack up.
Knew it, but it stung.
Bad draw.
China and Iran beat weaklings like Ivory Coast and Czech to advance.
Anyway, shake it off for 13-16th.
Coach Kim urged tourism till tomorrow's off day.
"Free time till 3 PM tomorrow. But stick with the association guide. Good work today—dismissed."
No one felt touristy, so local eats and beer talk.
"Seojun, join? Famous spot nearby. Beer's killer. One drink's fine..."
Jung Ho-young's invite.
"Sorry, gonna rest."
"R-right. Rest up!"
Much on my mind, I headed to the hotel.
And in the lobby? The last guy I wanted: Song Kyung-bae.
"Good three games, Seojun."
I brushed past, not engaging.
"Whatever you say, my mind's set. Not playing domestic."
Expected mockery. Nope.
"Fine. Chase your dream full throttle."
"...?"
No sarcasm. Softer tone.
Song smiled, patted my arm.
"You're in—go hard to the end! Got it?"
"..."
"Got it!?"
"Yes..."
My US game changed his view?
I saw it as luck, but not him.
"Work hard! I'll talk Incheon Asian Games roster—no worries. I'll get you in."
Total reversal.
An unexpected ally.