Another World
My body felt as light as a feather.
The razor-sharp focus of the finals stage, peak condition, a shooting hand on fire.
I feel like I can do anything.
Like every shot I took would swish clean through the net.
Well, in reality, I'd fired up eight threes and made five, so three misses—but they barely mattered.
Normally, one miss would've killed my rhythm, but not today. Even after bricks, the flow held steady.
And then, late in the third quarter.
Swoosh! I drained one more three right before the buzzer, hitting a career-high six threes on ten attempts. Sixty percent.
"You're fucking insane!?"
"What the hell did I just witness?!"
They mobbed me—shaking, slapping, pounding—as I hit the bench amid the chaos of hyped-up teammates.
Subin slid in next to me and whispered,
"Hyung, that's 33 now."
My pro debut high was 34 against Cibona. Just one point from breaking it.
An overwhelming pace.
Of course, my stamina was draining just as fast.
"Hah! Hah! Hah...!"
"Water here."
"Hah... thanks."
I chugged the whole bottle. It'd sweat out soon enough—proof of how hot my engine was running.
"You're pushing without any pacing. Finals adrenaline?"
"Part of it. ...And something else."
"Something else?"
I flicked my eyes to the stands.
Carlo Alcaraz, the Denver scout, was there.
But I zeroed in on the guys next to him.
That's Tim Connelly...
The Denver Nuggets GM had brought along two domestic scouts to watch.
Not just for me, Jokic, or Mitchic—but mainly Partizan's center, Joffrey Lauvergne.
Denver had drafted him in 2013. This game was to gauge if he'd join next season.
Me dropping 33 had to be messing with their heads big time.
"...!"
"...!"
Eye contact with Alcaraz. He fidgeted like hell.
Our quiet deal: don't shine too bright for other teams.
But today's explosion? Miles from that.
Extra scouts everywhere for Bogdan Bogdanovic. Ripple effect huge.
This pace-up was a power flex.
Still sticking to your plan after this?
I didn't know Denver's draft blueprint, but they had a first-round lock that wasn't me or Jokic.
Fine by me, but it stung the pride.
Couldn't half-ass for a shady deal anyway. I'm a pro—play to win.
If this lands me elsewhere? Tough luck.
Worried? Pick me first round then.
Another bottle down. I caught my breath, prepping for the fourth.
Clap! Clap! Coach Milojevic clapped solemnly, firing us up.
"This is it now. Defense: watch shooting fouls. Offense: smart and aggressive. Let's go!"
Score: 72-65. Seven-point lead.
We were ahead big, but fouls hobbled us all game.
Jokic on three. Radovich and Dankovic on four—ejection's doorstep.
Bigs in trouble meant paint leaks everywhere.
Back-and-forth dragged to three minutes left in the fourth.
Beep! Shooting foul on Jokic—he exploded.
"This ain't a foul! What the hell?!"
His baby face twisted feral. Ref grimaced at the killer glare.
"Niki! Enough!"
"Yo, hold him back!"
I rushed in, calming him as I turned him away. Mitchic gentlemanly-protested the ref.
Four fouls now—Jokic benched till crunch time.
Partizan nails both FTs: 76-71 chase.
FT gap: them 21, us 7. Fourteen freebies.
Rage boiled, but nowhere to vent.
"Calm down! We're still ahead!"
Mitchic rallied first.
"Stay locked in—one play at a time!"
Coach chimed in.
"Their outside game's ice-cold late third. Clamp the paint harder!"
Spot on. Partizan bricking wings.
Us too.
Clang! My three rims out.
Clang! Mitchic midrange, Subin's three—three straight misses.
Luckily, Partizan bricks too: Bogdan jumpers, Lauvergne post hook. Stuck at 76-71.
This weird drought hit, Mitchic muttered,
"Damn... clutch time already."
The game had slipped into another world.
4:29 left. Both teams two timeouts.
Partizan snaps the three-minute scoreless first.
Thud, bang! Bogdan crossover shakes Subin—elbow jumper.
"Ngh...!"
Subin stretches desperate contest, but swoosh! Bogdan wills it in.
"Ajde—!!"
Bogdan roars, home fans erupt.
76-73.
Vizura counters—Mitchic pattern play.
I screen, cut baseline; he drives, pocket pass to me.
But tap! Vesterman slides the screen, pokes from behind. Loose ball.
"Loose!"
"Grab it!"
Ball rolls right short corner.
Subin dives—snags it.
Held ball risk flashes. Bigs fouled out.
Jump ball? No edge.
Pass quick before claim.
First eyes: me, baseline-bound. Easy bucket?
Silhouette glimpse—whip! Pass flies...
To Tarence Kinsey trailing me.
"Ah...!!"
Gut-wrench turnover.
Kinsey outlets long to center circle.
"Fastbreak!"
Thump! Vesterman catches flying, lays it home. Arena shakes.
—Rooooar!!
76-75. One point.
Beep! Vizura timeout inevitable.
Subin pale, lost.
Let Bogdan jumper, then turnover—in finals.
Apology stuck in throat.
I smacked his back hard.
"Nothing wrong. Diving that loose ball? Gold. No long face—keep locked in."
"...Yeah. Thanks, hyung."
I locked eyes with Coach Milojevic.
"Coach, next one's mine. Let me cook."
"...Alright."
Our motion offense shines, but clutch? Iso time.
Two forty-nine left—perfect test.
"Fine. But don't tunnel on shots. Got it?"
"Yes!"
Resume.
Me at left 45 vs. Dragan Milosavljevic.
Similar build. I edge power, speed—but no blowby.
Paint help quick, stout.
I accounted for it.
One option.
Thump! Catch, face up—jab step.
Screech! Creak! Burn clock for perfection.
Shot clock 4.6.
Bang! Diagonal step, one dribble.
Dragan backpedals on drive read—but my torso fakes forward, steps side.
Side-step elbow jumper.
Pull-up basics.
Crunch! Dragan scrambles contest.
Swish! Arcs perfect—thud thud rims before sucking in.
"Huff! Huff... come on!"
Game 35. New personal best.
No time to bask.
"Defense! Lock in!"
78-75. Three-point edge.
Bujosevic no timeout.
Figures we'd sub bigs—orders paint attack.
Bogdan steps from corner, posts Subin.
"Hup!"
Thump! Back once.
Thump! Shoulder next.
Flows to face-up drive. Paint wide sans bigs—but thump! Subin fouls first.
Beep! Shooting foul. Team foul hits.
Bench erupts applause.
"Nice, Subin!"
"Great chop!"
FTs allow subs.
Bogdan sinks first—Milojevic throws in Jokic, Dankovic, Radovich. Starters back.
Splash! Second FT: 78-77. One point. Two-oh-eight left.
Jokic post hook rims. Dallo layup bricks. Score holds to 1:31.
"My turn."
I burn iso again.
Mitchic passes—jumper rims front iron.
"Huff! Huff! Huff...!"
Stamina crash.
Two minutes rest all game—full tilt.
Others fouled out, insane load both ends.
Plus: first true clutch ever.
Past games? Blowouts only.
Finals debut in this pressure cooker—unmatched feel.
Mitchic's right. Total other world.
Prior 35 minutes? Child's play.
Soccer grit kept me upright.
One-oh-nine left.
Partizan burns timeout.
Starters out—no iso Bogdan easy.
Motion play it is.
Minute ticks.
Crunch! Vs. Bogdan, I grit teeth, growl.
"Handled my little bro nice, huh? Try me. That iso."
Bogdan deadpan:
"You the guy at our gym last October? Beefing with security?"
"...How'd you know?"
"Tch, damn. Gotta fire that guard."
Gripe—tap! Outward drift.
Bait me wide.
Inbound actually right short corner: Lauvergne.
Posts Jokic. Power-tech-will-pride clash.
Lauvergne edges it.
Screech! Bang! Crisp spin. Hook fake?
Jokic glues, raises hand—but trap.
Lauvergne bobbles "hook," Jokic commits—drives baseline layup.
Thump! Contact.
Beep!! Whistle. Swish! And one.
—Yaaaaah!!
—That's it!!
—Kill those Mega bastards!!
Arena quakes—like real earthquake indoors.
"Ah..."
Jokic clutches head, dazed. Fouled out, feet glued.
Coach drags him bench.
......
Lauvergne FT prep—deathly silence.
Splash! Nets it—eruption.
78-80. Reversed. Fifty-six seconds.
Milojevic saves TO.
Two possessions left.
"Mitch! Lemme!"
I demand—Mitchic shakes head.
Chill needed.
Times possession, repositions, calls Radovich screen. Sneaky rip before set—slices Vesterman, baseline storm.
Dodges help—bang bang! Eurostep layup...
Vesterman chases, swats.
Beep! Foul. Clang! Miss. Two FTs.
"Good call, Leo!"
"Smart play!"
Two points? Worse than FTs.
Partizan hellhole away.
Mitchic line—murderous boos.
—Boooooo!!
Heckles, jeers, family slurs.
Clang! First bricks.
"Fuck...!"
Mitchic grimaces.
Not dire—no intentional miss. Second splash.
79-80. One point. Thirty-six left.
Partizan last TO.
Two points: 80% win odds. Three? 95%.
Vizura subs speed: Subin in for three-point D.
"Move organic! Paint first! Three D key—but don't obsess, no opens. Got it!?"
—"Yes!"
Beep! Inbound resumes.
Partizan burns 24—motion till shot clock six.
Screech! Five-man sync.
Key: off-ball screens both 45s.
One pick-and-slip baseline cut.
Got 'em!
Bujosevic fists.
Left 45 fake screen—Lauvergne fools Radovich/Subin, baseline dives.
Eyes yanked to outward Bogdan.
Vesterman threads...
Lauvergne uncontested...
But shadow sprints beside.
"Hup!"
"...!?"
Seojun—unseen rotation—block leap.
Bujosevic gapes.
Right 45 screen too—should've pulled eyes...
Seojun read handler gaze, opposite cut.
Dumps mark, crashes paint.
"Dunk it, Geoffrey!"
Lauvergne two-hand slam quick—foul bait.
Not set posture—gap.
Seojun exploits: palm scrape, not slap.
Full dunk? Fine.
But slip! Ball flicks free.
Thud! Airballs rim—rim rattle.
Rebound bounces board—late-chasing Subin snags.
Beep! Vizura timeout.
—Ooooh!!
Partizan groans.
Vizura exhales huge.
Squatting Jokic collapses legs jelly. Coach deep breaths.
All wanna hug-praise me—but no time to float.
12.7 seconds.
No TOs either side.
Vizura two points? Momentum flips.
Coach scribbles board frantic.
But.
Trap D shreds inbound instant.
Mitchic catches—double immediate.
"Ngh...!"
Flails, protects.
Open man's out there!
Open? Radovich screening wing.
Thread to him—avoids steal, but no threat.
Jokic? Kill pass maybe. Radovich? Nah vision.
Set crumbles—clock to 5.6.
Mitchic resets play—tap! Partizan fouls clock-kill.
No team foul yet.
Mitchic bites lip.
Glances coach—no quick fix, signals trust.
I signal Mitchic: mine.
He nods.
Beep! Sideline inbound—Radovich.
To Mitchic—to me right 45. Four seconds.
Screech! Single jab—feet gather, pump fake.
"...!"
Dragan flinches outward.
I explode gap.
Bang! Drive. 2.1 left.
Thump, screech! Side stepback—pull-up.
Dragan burned once—no bite.
Pat pat! Glues contest.
0.9.
I feel the clingy pressure.
Swish! Release—knows.
Miss...
Despair floods.
But.
Beep! Whistle blares.
"Huh?"
Clang! Front rim—buuuuzzer! End buzzer.
But beep beep beep! Refs whistle—foul pre-release. Game off.
Partizan freaks—bouncing mad.
Dragan rages.
"How's that a foul!?"
Swarm ref—coaches yank back. Tech worst case.
—No bullshit!
—Foul my ass!
—Rigged! Bought refs!
Boos rain.
Booth buzz—replay screens.
Announcers gasp.
[Oh! Contact on the arm before the ball left his hand!]
[Clear foul. Refs nailed it.]
Boos rage on.
Refs reset clock to foul time—0.8 left. Line up.
79-80.
Line: pressure I'd never felt.
—Boooooo!!
Raw curses, grim slurs—no limits from Partizan faithful.
Two FTs: win or runner-up.
Do-or-die.
I'd shrugged off Anfield hell as nothing—but this?
Crushed it.