Chapter 28: This Guy Really Throws Punches! (Part 2)
Around 9 a.m., we rolled into downtown Hungary and grabbed a taxi straight to Belgrade, the capital of Serbia.
By the time we checked into our lodging and unpacked, it was past 3 p.m., so we decided to spend the day sightseeing to shake off the jet lag.
Kim Yun-mi, who'd insisted we call her "Mom" from now on, was buzzing with excitement in this new Eastern European city—her energy was off the charts.
She was chatting away with Suryeon noona, grinning ear to ear.
"The food here is insanely good! I had no idea Serbia was such a foodie paradise."
"Mom, it's 'cause this area's got that Turkish influence. Turkish food is no joke!"
"Alright, Subin, eat up—you've got that tryout tomorrow!"
But Subin snuck a glance at me.
He knew I hadn't lined up any tryout plans yet.
I'd been glued to my phone the whole time, trying to reach out.
To Serbia's top powerhouse: KK Partizan.
That was where my pick, Nikola Milutinov, was playing.
Milutinov had snagged the most self-eval votes back then—three—and he was hailed as Serbia's brightest young prospect.
Plus, Partizan was like the Champions League of Serbian ball, a mega-team in the EuroLeague. In soccer terms? Manchester United.
Top prospect on a powerhouse squad. Logically, this had to be my guy.
"Ugh, seriously—why the hell won't anyone pick up here either? Pre-season means slacking off? Nah, front office should be hustling harder before the season kicks off!"
"Hyung, what now?"
"No choice. We storm the gates. Head there first thing tomorrow."
I fed Mom a vague line about schedule changes—she'd been hyped to spectate the tryout—then Subin and I slipped out alone the next morning for Partizan's gym.
With pre-season ramping up, the parking lot was packed, staff buzzing in and out.
Security was tight, though.
We got the green light from the gate guard handling vehicles, but the gym entrance goon stonewalled us.
This dude looked like he could debut in the UFC tomorrow—pure Eastern European tank.
Blocked by the classic brick shithouse, I flashed my phone and begged him to fetch a front office guy or coach.
"That's me! Czech U-19 World Cup semis, USA vs. Korea! Dropped 38 on 'em. That's no joke."
The guard didn't even flinch.
"You got an appointment?"
"Uh... no, not yet. But I figured if I could chat with a coach or director, we could set one up. So just call one over, lemme talk to—"
"Piss off."
Ice-cold stare. I took a breath, stayed polite.
"If no coach, maybe front office? Or gimme a contact—homepage numbers go nowhere. Can't book without it! So—"
"I said piss off. Won't say it thrice."
"... "
He clenched his fist.
I backpedaled awkwardly.
Not scared, exactly.
'This guy's gonna swing for real!'
I knew it from my long Euro stint: Eastern Euro dudes don't bluff.
If they look ready to throw down, they throw down—full swing. Accidents everywhere from it.
America's got gun chaos; here, it's fists that kill.
"Okay, okay, we're going. Chill."
"... Hmph. Follow."
Thinking we'd harass more folks, he herded us back to the gate, bellowing at the guard there: no outsiders.
'No dice right now.'
We trudged home empty-handed.
After shooing off Seojun and Subin, the guard huffed back to his post, shrugging it off.
A voice piped up beside him.
"You good just sending them packing like that?"
"...?"
He whipped around, freezing.
The white guy at the end of that glare smirked.
"Looked like they wanted a tryout. You got no pull beyond security—sure that's how you handle it?"
The guard smacked his lips.
Any scrub player, he'd tell 'em to butt out.
But this was the team's top option this season—the star prospect.
Flustered, he stammered.
"They had no appointment. Rules say no outsiders in the gym, so..."
"Hook 'em up with front office, then. You just didn't wanna bother."
"Uh... Want me to call 'em back? They're probably not far—Asians stick out."
"Nah, no need. If they show again, sure."
"Got it. Have a good one."
"You too."
Turning for the gym, the white guy glanced back.
'Eastern dude chasing tryouts, though.'
Weird world. Bogdan Bogdanovic shook his head and stepped inside.
After the door-in-the-face, I slumped on a nearby bench, staring at the sky, sorting my thoughts.
'Knew this could happen.'
Would've been sweet if it clicked instantly, but life ain't that smooth.
That's why I had Plans B, C, D queued up—mulling those now.
"Hyung, hit 'em again after lunch? Guard might be gone."
"Solid idea, but... might as well loop around a bit."
"Loop how?"
Time to check my other Nikola: Jokic.
"Tryout there, train a few weeks—if no vibe, bounce back here. No contract signed? No harm."
"Could get bounced again."
"Then I'll hire an agent if I have to—nail a real appointment."
Personally, Milutinov's rep and team screamed lock, but Jokic nagged at me.
He'd gotten two votes back then—Chang-min and I rated him high.
Common thread:
-Guy's got poise for days. Kinda lacks killer instinct, though...
Sports styles vary, but extremes? Hyper-aggressive fighters buzzing with power vs. chill masters making hard plays look easy.
Soccer: Ronaldo vs. Messi.
I'd glimpsed that zen-master potential in Jokic. Basketball sage vibes.
Still, Milutinov edged him, team worlds apart—so Partizan it was.
But this shutdown? Jokic check mandatory.
"Nikola Jovanovic?"
"Belgium league now—too much travel. Plus, nobody voted him."
"True. Milutinov for me, Jokic for you..."
"Settled. Time to call."
No double-books, so zero outreach here. Feared radio silence, but it connected easy.
"Ah, Mega Vizura front office? Yes. I'm..."
I pitched my resume hard, begging for a tryout.
The guy's vibe? Barely polite.
Finally, annoyed:
"Come to the gym. We'll talk there."
Hung up. Whatever—a slot was a slot.
I bolted to Smederevo, Mega Vizura's spot.
Mom and Suryeon noona blinked at the sudden move, packing our stuff.
Figured another day delay, but Smederevo's close to Belgrade—rolled in by 3 p.m.
Small town, sparse crowds, cozy gym—but guards same as ever.
This one? Elderly, not the jaw-breaker type.
"I told ya, they said come to the gym."
"Hm... Nothing on my end. Training's wrapping anyway. Tomorrow?"
"Just need a word."
"Front office probably clocked out."
"Yeah, phone guy's MIA now. Check that too?"
Different headache—total dodge.
"Enter if you want. On you if it goes south."
"Ha...!"
Then—jackpot face.
A massive white dude, out for air maybe.
I yelled on instinct.
"Jokic! Hey! Jokic!!"
Flailing like mad.
"...?"
Jokic gawked. Random Asian hollering his name? Baffling.
Then curiosity hit—he strolled over.
'Hooked!'
I rapid-fired: U-19 Worlds, blown away by his Serbia run. Flew from Korea to ball with him. Tryout shot? Hook a guy up.
"Became a fan that day! Huge one!"
Jokic cracked a mischievous grin, amused.
"Wanna run a pickup game before you go?"
Gym inside was winding down, vibe loose.
Players yapping, prepping final pickup.
We show, eyes on us.
Coach-looking dude barked.
"Jokic! Who the hell?"
"Just friends, Deki. Wanted to watch practice—brought 'em."
"No randos."
"Friends, man. They play ball—can jump in pickup? Won't disrupt."
"Whatever..."
Early 30s guy. Pre-season lax—he shrugged it off like family visit.
Jokic tossed us white practice vests, told us to warm up.
"Subin, loosen up quick."
"Uh, yeah."
Sneakers on, we heated fast.
Pickup kicked off soon.
Chill practice game.
We? Locked in, all business.
Six guys rotate out after five—Jokic beckons playfully.
"Now! Hurry!"
Tryout? Close enough. Coaches watching.
'Make it flashy—stamp the memory.'
Jumped in.
My matchup: Dunjubevic, forward my size.
Golden—beat a twin body head-on? Impact.
"Pass!"
45 degrees, PG Micić chuckles, lobs it.
Thud! Caught it, face up, locked eyes.
Dunjubevic waved lazy hands—no pressure D.
Could blow by, but pointless. Time to instill fear.
Dribble, shoulder barge.
Thump! Thump!
"...!?"
Dunjubevic spooked.
Makes sense—Julius Randle got shoved too. No wins there, but proved my power crushes bigger frames.
Now? Even stronger.
'Gap!'
His fundamentals? Below Randle.
Shoved, created space—swish! blew past, rim run.
"Hup!"
BOOM!! Thunderous one-hand slam.
Air shifted instant.
Players clocked it: I got game.
Jokic O-faced, stunned. Coach scowled my way.
Dunjubevic rubbed his chest, glaring.
'Strong start.'
Yelled defense, backpedaled.
Burned once, Dunjubevic mirrored—same spot attack.
'Show me what ya got.'
Left arm out, grazed his side—D stance.
Thump! Thump! He bull-rushed like me.
Thud! Heavy.
Manageable. 2m3cm, but light build.
'Speedy small forward type.'
Blow-by likely. But jumper possible—I baited a gap.
Thud! Let him shove left once—opened drive angle. Randle trap redux.
He bit—whoosh! dove in.
'Gotcha!'
Tat-tat! Pre-split-stepped, chased lateral, shoved him paint-wide.
"Urk...!?"
Drift from rim—panic flickers.
Dumped to corner guy.
'Damn—wanted that block if he forced.'
Not dumb enough.
Later, short corner to elbow—pass hunt. But three flies.
Ting! Miss.
Jokic snags board—I holler, nitro boost.
"Hey!"
Whoosh! Full sprint sell—show hustle.
Long outlet past foes? Tough. No Sangwon teammate nailed it.
But.
Swoooosh!
"...?"
Perfect arc drops right in my path.
Speed, touch, timing—flawless.
'This precise?!'
No time to gawk.
Thud! Half-court grab, Dunjubevic on hip—rim charge.
Paint: PG helps—2-on-1.
Could dunk or lay, but smarter play.
"Hah!"
Leaped rimward, dragged 'em up—no shot, twisted left corner kickout.
Pulled inside, kicked out.
Subin dashes in, snags.
Fires wide-open three.
Time froze.
'Swish it—for both our sakes.'
"... "
Subin eyed rim, jumped.
Swish! Gorgeous arc.
Shwick! Net song—pure.