Like any other love story, he tested his feelings in stages.
He started by simulating the sport on a sofa chair. He knelt on the floor and aimed a crumpled cartolina held together with Scotch tape at a paper cup hoop. The ball didn’t even resemble a sphere as he was hopeless at arts. His hands played two teams of two, switching identities in his head as the game unfolded. He narrated every move like a live broadcast, complete with timeouts where imaginary players huddled over game plans. It was as complicated as it sounded, but his wildly conservative parents had trained his young mind to invent distractions just to survive boredom—at least until a friend finally invited him to play Famicom like a normal kid.
Next stage. He attached a cut-up wood glue container to the window grills outside his house, turning it into a makeshift hoop. It resembled the sport’s earliest version when players shot into wooden buckets instead of metal rims with nets. This time, he crafted a bigger ball from taped-up newspaper. He still couldn’t dribble since the ball wouldn’t bounce. But at least he could run, jump, and shoot with both hands instead of three fingers. It lasted a few weeks. Then one morning, the hoop was gone. He figured his mother didn’t appreciate the aesthetic upgrade. Later that day, he spotted it on top of the trash can. There was no point arguing. That was just how things worked in their household.
Then he saw a kid on the street shooting a real basketball through a tire laid flat on the ground. It looked odd, but compared to his own setup, it was a clear step up so he asked to join. The floor-level hoop ruined his shooting form even before he stepped into a real court, but at least he got to hold and dribble an actual basketball, not something made from recycled craft materials. The thrill of that moment made him realize he needed the real thing.
One night, his parents were relaxing in front of the television. His mother was in a good mood, laughing, mostly because his father hadn’t done anything goofy enough to get on her nerves. Sensing the rare window, he asked for a full-size basketball. To his surprise, they agreed instantly. He’d even prepared counterarguments, knowing leisure requests usually ended in rejection. He took the quick win and retreated to his room before they could change their minds. It was far easier than asking for a Lego set, which he was still waiting for to this day.
He was playing tag on the street one cloudy afternoon when he saw his mother riding home on a tricycle sidecar, a plastic bag in her lap. Unless it was an oversized watermelon, it looked unmistakably like a basketball. The world slowed down. It was like seeing the girl of his dreams for the first time, when nothing mattered except watching her blink. A couple of his friends saw it too and urged him to go home and get it while the open court was still free.
He ran home without wasting a second. It was probably the fastest sprint of his young life, even quicker than the time he fled from a possibly rabid dog. He reached the house with a few seconds to spare before the tricycle pulled up. Before his mother could get off, he grabbed the ball and took off again, no greeting or thanks. He wouldn’t have blamed the driver for tackling him. To be fair, he did look like a snatcher.
He was too excited to pull the ball out of the plastic bag. The court was just ten row houses away. He ran, clutching it without dribbling, afraid it might slow him down. His friends saw him and followed.
When he finally stepped onto the playing field, he realized it was the first time he held a real basketball on a real court. It felt right. It felt satisfying. It felt like he was meant to be there. Like the universe had cleared the way for something great to begin.
He tore off the plastic bag, ran to the free throw line, and launched the ball with all his spirit. His first official shot sailed over the backboard and smacked a random boy on the head, sending him face-first to the ground.
It didn’t count. But definitely an early sign of unimaginable accuracy.