Signing with Mega Vizura
The ball sailed cleanly through the rim.
I jogged back on defense, giving Subin's butt a light smack.
"Nice one, little bro."
"...You too, hyung. Nice pass."
If there's one standout thing about Subin, it's his unflappable calm. He doesn't get fired up, but he doesn't shrink back either.
If I've got the makings of a rhythm shooter, this guy's got the makings of a mechanic shooter. Not sure if that's even a term, but whatever.
Once I drained one and Subin followed with another, the vibe on the court flipped completely.
Dangubić especially seemed hell-bent on payback for the humiliation I'd dished out earlier—even in a pickup game, he was showing real fire.
But no dice.
Dangubić fell short of me in strength and speed. Sure, his skills were sharp, so if this were my first time facing a player at this level, I might've been rattled. But I'd been replaying that duel with Julius Randle in my head every single day.
Raw power paired with blistering speed. Smooth ball-handling and shot touch that belied his size.
Mouthy guy, but the talent was legit.
Compared to Randle, the dude in front of me didn't stand out in any one area.
Screech! I anticipated his spin move and cut it off. Dangubić twisted his body mid-jump, fishing for a foul, but I snapped upright, arm straight up, avoiding contact.
A ref might've called it, but since it was just pickup, no whistle.
Clang! Brick.
Our ball.
Time to show the jumper.
Jabstep jumper? Or maybe the crossover pull-up I've been grinding lately?
Turnaround jumper's still iffy, but right now... yeah, I could make it work.
That rush of confidence had me locked into my rhythm.
Beyond shooting, I'd flashed box outs and pick-and-roll D too—plenty to show.
"Suuuuu... Hooo!"
Fully zoned in, I charged toward their side of the court.
But then—a bellow that shattered my flow.
"Stop!"
It was the coach.
Stern-faced, he halted the pickup game and yelled at me.
"Who the hell are you?! Jokić! What the hell is this?!"
Even Jokić looked flustered, scrambling.
Right when it was getting good.
This was just the warmup. Still, I got the coach's frustration, so I grabbed my phone and hustled over.
"Hello! I'm—"
I explained I was a front-office invitee for a tryout, then ran down my background.
Background meaning that U-19 World Cup footage.
I pulled it up on my tablet and walked them through it.
"That's me, number 13. Seojun Lee!"
The coach and staff watched quietly once the video started. Players drifted over one by one; even Jokić peeked in.
My highlights vs. the US. For Subin... he struggled there, so mostly Senegal and Czech games.
The coach watched the 20-minute clip in silence, then scowled at the subtitles I'd added.
"38 points? Against the US?"
Thinking it was fake, I paused and pulled up the official FIBA box score.
"See? It's real!"
"Uh... Greg, this legit? Not some fake site?"
The assistant coach fiddled with his phone for three minutes, then nodded.
"Official site. Mičić and Jokić's stats match too. Yeah, 38 points for real."
That sealed it—murmurs rippled through the group.
Serbia had gotten smoked by 29 by the US in that tourney, so Mičić and Jokić looked shocked too.
Mičić, who'd been glued to the screen, suddenly shouted.
"Not against bench guys either! That matchup? Julius Randle from back then!"
The head coach tilted his head thoughtfully, then gestured to finish the video.
After the full 20 minutes, his tone softened.
"So? Here for a tryout means no team yet?"
"High school senior. Graduating in about four months. That a problem for a contract?"
"Nah."
The coach smacked his lips, then cracked a smile.
"You two start training with us tomorrow."
By the time we wrapped and left the gym, it was past 6 p.m.
Back at the hotel, Subin's mom and Suryeon noona were pacing anxiously—they'd just learned about the tryout and had been on pins and needles.
Mom rushed over, desperate.
"How'd it go!? Why'd you go without us?!"
"Ahaha... sorry, it was last-minute. Right, Subin?"
Subin nodded.
"Training starts tomorrow."
"What!?"
Mom froze like she'd been struck by lightning.
I jumped in with details.
"Not official yet. Two weeks of training, then they decide on a contract."
"R-right. The real test starts now."
"Pretty much."
"N-no time to waste! We need long-term lodging and a rental car! Suryeon! Let's look now!"
Suryeon noona sprang into action like she'd gotten orders.
I let out a silent sigh of relief.
At least we're at the starting line.
If this got messy, it'd burn time and cash. Solving it in two days after arrival? Huge win.
But it's not over.
If Jokić turned out to be a scrub, I'd need an agent ASAP to hit up KK Partizan.
So tomorrow's tryout wasn't just me proving myself—it was vetting Jokić too.
Mega Vizura's team training kicked off the next day.
We joined as tryouts, blending in with the roster.
One coach, Nemanja "Greg" Greković, shadowed us full-time.
"Good! Free throws done. Post-up session over there next."
Post-up D, pick-and-roll, pick-and-pop, 1-on-1, 2-on-1, 2-on-2, 3-on-3, 5-on-5 minis.
First taste of structured drills—I lost track of time, soaking it up.
Joined pickup games mid- and post-session, stamping my presence.
Day three: Front-office guy and team prez watched.
Not sure if for me, but they chatted with head coach Deyan Milojević.
Separately, I kept tabs on Jokić whenever I could.
The guy's unique.
Bench role, not starter—but zero fire to claim it, no grind for growth.
He works hard, but no killer instinct. Like he figures it'll happen naturally.
Playstyle screams it too.
After one pickup, I asked him.
"Hey, why no dunk? Wide open earlier—no one contesting. Pickup mercy?"
Jokić shot back, baffled.
"Why dunk?"
"Huh?"
"Just lay it in. Why bother dunking? Still two points."
"...Showmanship for the fans?"
"Fans like wins more."
"Mind games?"
"One dunk gonna break 'em?"
Fair point—perspective thing.
But also: Center playing high post over low. Passing over shooting.
Total my-pace weirdo.
Guys like this can blow up... or fizzle.
Like Eden Hazard in soccer—good or bad: star who self-destructs on fitness.
Jokić that type?
Even more mystery. Wanted to drag in Milutinov for a 1-on-1 comp.
Day seven of tryouts.
Front-office approached.
"Wanna chat light terms?"
Position check meeting.
I laid it out: NBA draft next year—season-only deal. Send me to May combine. Then NBA team tryouts. Contract for Subin too.
Pay minimum, but honor these.
He said okay, wrapped it.
Next day:
"Milojević rates you high. Says you'd bump our D a level pronto. No pay issues? Accept single-year, combine, all terms. Bring an agent for advice, hit us up—we'll sign fast."
Coach saw me as wing defender. Offense secondary, D elite.
Hot to ink me for ABA (Adriatic League) now.
So eager, he pushed personally. Sooner the better.
Uncertain me? Tricky. But loophole: Not yet 18, need guardian.
Club set October 26—my 18th—for signing. Prep agent by then.
Work visa another four weeks: ABA second half debut.
That's the deadline.
Two weeks left. Decide by then.
Three weeks in Serbia.
Shin Won-hyung at our place—for Subin's deal.
Subin fast birthday: Turns 18 February next year. Guardian consent needed.
Shin family itching to sign, but front-office dragging feet.
Subin bonus to my deal.
Ink him first, I bail? Trouble. So holding both.
Oblivious Shin couple pacing, worried.
"Why push the meeting?"
"Something wrong with our Subin...?"
Subin, in the know: "Whatever hyung wants is fine." Even no deal, skills grow—that's cool.
I decided.
Whew. No point overthinking. Follow the heart.
Next day: Told front-office yes. Agent on 26th.
October 26—birthday.
Inked with Mega Vizura, applied for work visa at embassy.
Shins signed same day—cheers erupted.
"Seojun! Uncle's treating big tonight! Subin contract bash—and your birthday!"
"Honey! Home instead! I'll Korean feast till the table buckles!"
"True, kids crave Korean. Okay, I'll hit the Korean mart for groceries!"
Shins piled into the car, off downtown.
No backing out now.
Whatever the training, ball's in my court.
Jokić doubts? Done. This setup's plenty from future knowledge.
Official roster now, sorting my locker—Jokić bounds in, pumped.
He'd warmed to me—my fanboying, entry process.
Hearing the news, raced over.
"Lee! Official contract?!"
"Yup. My locker now."
"Playing games right away?"
"Visa first—ABA second half."
"Oof, shame. But good—need wing D. Strong second half, playoffs possible."
"Haha, you fired up for once?"
"Just fun! Hey, Lee—time for pick plays sometime?"
"You screening? I'm no ball-handler. Off-ball screen on a center? Nah."
"I'll handle and drive. Deki says pattern plays could work in games."
"Got it—but center ball-handling?"
"Confident there. Today free?"
"Sorry, party tonight."
"Right. Tomorrow then."
"Cool. See ya, Jokić."
He shrugged.
"When you dropping the formal? Nikki, Yokie... or Joker. Some call me that."
"...!!"
"Anyway, tomorrow!"
I froze.
Joker. That sparked something.
Not direct on Nikola-whatever.
Novak Djokovic interview.
-Don't call me Joker anymore.
Djokovic's old nickname.
But he asked to drop it—someone else fits better.
That was Jokić!?
Puzzle clicked. Djokovic wouldn't yield to a foreigner—makes sense for countryman.
"Ha... haha! Hahahaha!"
Laughter bubbled up.
Next Euro GOAT.
Nikola Jokić.
Nailed it.
Conviction set—one job left.
Train, play together.
...Steal his strengths, make 'em mine.