The Third Team Declaration

October 26th.

It was my birthday, and from the morning onward I had to endure a full-scale Korean food offensive.

A feast of dishes you’d only see during the holidays had been laid out.

“Does our Seo-jun like fried peppers?”

Mother’s homemade side dishes filled the table in perfect order, and the rich aroma of long-simmered seaweed soup perfumed the entire kitchen. Seo-eun had enthusiastically helped her, packing the fridge to the brim with prepared banchan. Normally we would simply eat what we could and throw the rest away once it spoiled, but a birthday spread like this made that impossible.

If I finish all this, I won’t be able to eat out for a while.

After we finished breakfast together, the team gave permission for a tour of the practice facility. The group seemed slightly overwhelmed by the gleaming gym.

Mother in particular looked envious.

“I thought the Thunder’s training center was impressive… but this is on another level. I wish Su-bin could train somewhere like this.”

“If he keeps working as hard as he is now, the opportunity will come,” I replied.

“That’s right. I’m definitely sending Su-bin to the NBA. So you work hard too, Seo-jun.”

We toured the weight room and locker room before stepping onto the court. Players who had already arrived for individual workouts glanced our way.

Of all days.

Two players in particular had an awkward relationship with me—Demarre Carroll and Dennis Schröder.

Carroll, who had been practicing free throws, gave me a meaningful look before turning away and resuming his workout. The atmosphere between us felt like the calm before a storm.

From what I heard, the front ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠office had planned to run live scrimmages—risking injury—to decide the opening-night starter. The winner would start the first game.

If things had gone that way, this cold war wouldn’t have ended here.

The situation had changed only yesterday. Kyle Korver’s ankle sprain from the final preseason game against San Antonio turned out to be more serious than expected, sidelining him for two weeks. The team decided to turn the situation into an opportunity and named both Carroll and me as opening-night starters. An invisible civil war had begun as we competed while sharing the floor.

Carroll is one thing, but…

Schröder was the real problem. Or rather, the real annoyance.

“Hmph. The guy hasn’t even debuted yet and he’s already bringing his family to the gym for a field trip? Look at this team.”

He continued his biting tirade.

“That kid is nothing. He played well in preseason—so what? They hand him an opening-night starting spot for that? Ha! The head coach, the assistants, the front office—they’ve all lost their minds!”

Schröder was openly bad-mouthing me at full volume.

“His true level will show soon enough. His minutes will disappear, he’ll ride the bench, and then he’ll be garbage. Next season he’ll vanish without a trace.”

What made him truly vicious was his shamelessness. I turned my head and stared at the guy standing about five meters away. Schröder, who had been chatting with his crew, looked back at me with a casual expression that asked if I had any business with him.

I let out a dry laugh.

“Sir, why don’t you all go on ahead?”

“Hm? Oh, sure.”

After sending the group on, I walked up to Schröder.

I had let his comments slide for the sake of team chemistry, but I couldn’t ignore it anymore.

“Hey. Did you think I wouldn’t understand if you spoke German? Well, I suppose that’s a natural assumption.”

“…!?”

Schröder’s eyes widened in shock at my fluent German. His pupils trembled and his lips quivered.

“That’s right. I’m good at German. I’ve understood every word you’ve been spouting this whole time.”

“N-no, that’s…”

“I know exactly why you’re mad.”

He hadn’t started a single game last season, and now a rookie was taking an opening-night starting spot. Of course he was furious.

“But this is where it ends. My place in the hierarchy is now above yours. I’m a starter. You’re a bench player.”

“…!!”

“So stay in your lane.”

I picked up a basketball that was lying nearby and threw it hard at him.

“If you have a problem with it, come at me one-on-one. Stop whining like a coward.”

Even after my direct provocation, Schröder couldn’t step forward. He knew. He knew he had no chance in a one-on-one. I could handle his attacks, but he could never stop my post-ups. Realizing it would only end in humiliation, he didn’t dare accept. He could only glare.

I shrugged and turned back toward the group.

“What were you talking about?” my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠father asked, curious.

“Just asked if they slept well last night.”

“Haha, that’s just like you, Seo-jun. You get along with all the players, huh?”

“Something like that.”

I was the type to build team chemistry through personal relationships, but I also knew that wasn’t the only answer. Some players had to be suppressed through force and influence. Carroll and Schröder were exactly that type.

Well, Schröder is taken care of.

Now all that remained was to crush Carroll with pure skill.

.

.

.

October 28th.

The day before the Toronto road opener.

Our squad flew to Toronto, checked our condition, and held media day. Because it was the season opener, the event was on a grand scale—profile shoots, one-on-one interviews with reporters, the works.

What surprised me was that I received even more attention than the established starters. Teague, Millsap, and Horford weren’t exactly overflowing with star power. On the other hand, I had the unique angle of being an Asian ninth pick, plus the impact of bullying Kevin Love with bully ball and smacking LeBron James on the back of the head. The reporters flocked to me.

“Coach Budenholzer has officially confirmed you as an opening-night starter. Which position will you be playing?”

“That’s difficult to say right now. What I can tell you is that I’ll give my all no matter which position I’m assigned.”

“The starting competition with Demarre Carroll has heated up. Are you conscious of it?”

“Not particularly.”

I said it, but of course I was conscious of it. Korver’s expected return was the very next game—the home opener against Indiana. If Carroll outperformed me tomorrow, I would be coming off the bench for the home opener. Therefore, I absolutely had to post better numbers than Carroll tomorrow.

I have no choice but to be conscious of it.

The same would be true for Carroll.

“Toronto is a well-built team. They finished third last season, and with Miami declining and Indiana’s Paul George out for the season with an unexpected injury, they’re expected to contend for first place this year. What are your thoughts on facing them?”

“I’m not thinking about it in any special way.”

“Does that mean Toronto isn’t even on your radar?”

“Not exactly. It’s no different from preparing for any other team. The only team I feel we need to clearly watch out for is Cleveland. Of course, that’s just my personal opinion.”

The reporters laughed, calling me bold. Up to this point they seemed to take it as a rookie’s bravado.

But the next question crossed the line.

It was the one that summoned the storm.

“By securing an opening-night start, you’ve placed yourself on equal footing with Andrew Wiggins in the Rookie of the Year race. What do you think about competing with him?”

“Well… I’m not really thinking about competing with him right now.”

“Does that mean you’re not aiming for Rookie of the Year?”

“It’s not that I’m not aiming for it. I believe that if I achieve the personal goal I’ve set, Rookie of the Year will naturally come as a bonus.”

“……? And that goal is?”

I answered.

“All-NBA Third Team.”

My goal had not changed. I had no intention of lowering it like some weak-willed coward. The reporters buzzed. Perhaps my preseason performances had given weight to my words. The Korean reporters who had previously laughed it off as a joke were no longer laughing.

“That’s an incredibly arrogant statement.”

“Why? It’s not an unprecedented record, is it?”

Since 1980, only four players had achieved both Rookie of the Year and an All-NBA selection: Larry Bird (Rookie of the Year + First Team), Michael Jordan (Rookie of the Year + Second Team), Tim Duncan (Rookie of the Year + First Team), and David Robinson (Rookie of the Year + Third Team). I wasn’t even claiming I would make the First Team like Bird or Duncan. I believed it was a perfectly reasonable goal.

Yet the reporters clearly disagreed. Arrogant. A rookie who doesn’t know his place. Trouble maker. The reactions were all negative.

So it’s true that America doesn’t like players who stand out.

Even so, I had no desire to bow and scrape. That wasn’t humility—it was simply something I despised. I hated living while constantly watching other people’s eyes.

…Well, Seo-eun was the exception, of course.

“I am the Adriatic League champion and Finals MVP. I am also a champion of the Serbian Super League. Of course I know the NBA is the best league in the world, but I have my pride as a champion. Therefore, I cannot be satisfied with just the Rookie of the Year title.”

When I pushed back with pride, the American reporters’ expressions turned venomous. Their faces clearly said, How dare you? They had decided to break my spirit no matter what.

“That statement will provoke every player who has never made an All-NBA team. Do you have any intention of retracting it?”

“The results will speak for themselves. Whether I was an idiot who didn’t know his place, or whether people have been underestimating me. If I turn out to be an idiot, feel free to laugh at me all you want. I will gladly accept it. …Shall we end here?”

The press conference concluded.

This interview created a far bigger ripple than I had anticipated.

Negative reactions flooded in after Seo-jun’s interview.

In that atmosphere, the October 29th season opener between the Toronto Raptors and Atlanta Hawks began. The popular program Inside the NBA focused heavily on Seo-jun’s comments. One of the panelists, Shaquille O’Neal, shook his head as he spoke.

Charles Barkley quickly jumped in.

They burst into roaring laughter, declaring that Seo-jun’s statement would become one of the greatest black marks in history. At that moment Kenny Smith cut in with a strong voice.

However, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the very person who had rebuked them tilted his head and continued.

The panelists grew even more excited as they mocked Seo-jun. Charles Barkley made a declaration.

After the pregame show that had chewed up, torn apart, tasted, and enjoyed Seo-jun, the actual game was about to begin.

The Atlanta lineup that took the floor was as follows.

Seo-jun had been listed as the shooting guard in place of Kyle Korver. Local broadcasters gave positive reviews of his defensive ability but expressed concern over the lack of perimeter shooting with Korver out.

When Seo-jun was introduced and stepped onto the court, Toronto fans showered him with boos.

“BOOOOOOOOOO—!!”

The reason was obviously his recent interview. The broadcast team mentioned it as well.

The Toronto lineup for the opener was:

Every time a player’s name was called, the home fans erupted in passionate cheers.

The Toronto players generally didn’t think highly of Seo-jun, but one was different. Jonas Valančiūnas patted Seo-jun on the back and spoke.

“Your interview yesterday was refreshing. After all, if you’re the Adriatic League MVP, you should show that kind of spirit.”

Seo-jun’s interview had provoked backlash from American players, but not from Europeans. It was a ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠case of American players’ favorability ↓, European players’ favorability ↑↑.

“Haha. Nice to meet you. I heard a lot about you when I was in Europe.”

“Yeah, let’s both play well today.”

Valančiūnas headed to the center circle for the jump ball. Toronto won the tip, and the game began.

Seo-jun checked his mark, DeRozan, from the left wing at the 45-degree angle and called out.

“Ten, okay!”

“…”

DeRozan was staring holes through him. He was one of the players whose pride had been wounded by Seo-jun’s interview—an elite scorer who had never made a Third Team despite his outstanding numbers.

“Hey.”

“…?”

“In this league, you need to be humble.”

Having said that, DeRozan took one step back, received the ball from Lowry, and immediately drove. With a single crisp dribble he blew past Seo-jun and rose for a mid-range jumper from the elbow.

Seo-jun’s contest wasn’t bad, but he had prioritized stopping the drive, and DeRozan’s shooting concentration was excellent. The ball swished through the net. The game’s first points.

DeRozan backpedaled to the other end while locking eyes with Seo-jun. Then he scoffed.

“Third Team? Hah.”

He shook his head with a sneer.

“Welcome to the NBA, kid.”

He had just delivered a cold “Welcome to the NBA.” It was a frosty reminder of the gap between them.

Seo-jun smiled.

And then he radiated an overwhelming competitive fire.

He didn’t care that DeRozan had laughed at the Third Team comment. As he had said in the interview, he would let the results speak. But—

I already received my “Welcome to the NBA” from LeBron. One is more than enough.

He had already been baptized by the league’s best player. He had zero intention of accepting another “welcome” from someone like DeRozan. And it wasn’t just DeRozan. Seo-jun had no plans to let anyone give him a “Welcome to the NBA” for the rest of the season.

I’ll wipe that smug look off your face right away.

Seo-jun was burning up.

The starting competition with Carroll, his NBA debut, proving himself, the matchup against DeRozan—every element in this game was fuel for his fire.

“Huu… Haa! Let’s go.”

Seo-jun steadied his breathing, determined to pay him back in full.

This was the prelude to an all-time debut performance.