The mood on the bus to St.
Francis was considerably different from the atmosphere Fergus remembered before the opening game.
A week earlier, nobody had known exactly what Wallace Memorial would look like once the season began.
They had talked confidently, of course, because thirteen-year-old boys were perfectly capable of being confident without possessing any evidence to justify it, but underneath the jokes had been uncertainty.
The victory over Dalry had changed that.
Wallace was 1 – 0, Jaime had looked capable of carrying the offence when necessary, Arthur had handled the responsibility of running the team well, and even Fergus had discovered a role that Coach McKenzie trusted enough to use during important stretches.
One win hadn’t transformed Wallace into anything special, but it had given the boys something tangible to believe in.
St Francis represented the first serious test of that belief.
“They won it last year, didn’t they?” Fergus asked, sitting beside William as the bus moved through Edinburgh.
William nodded.
“League and Cup.” Arthur twisted around from the seat in front.
“Doesn’t mean they’ll win it this year.” “No one said it did.” “You were thinking it.” William stared at him.
“That’s an impressive skill.” “What is?” “Knowing what I’m thinking.” Arthur turned back around.
“You’re welcome.” Fergus smiled and looked out the window.
St Francis had already been discussed several times during training that week.
McKenzie hadn’t treated them as some unbeatable monster, but he hadn’t hidden their quality either.
They were the defending champions and had retained enough of the previous season’s players that nobody expected a dramatic decline.
Their teams had a reputation for being disciplined, physical and difficult to hurry, and McKenzie had spent much of Thursday’s training emphasising how important it would be to avoid careless turnovers.
That particular warning had interested Fergus more than it would have a few weeks earlier.
Bullet Passing was still new enough that every training session seemed to expose another detail he hadn’t previously understood.
His passes were becoming cleaner, particularly when the target was obvious, but the skill did nothing to solve the harder part of passing.
Fergus still had to recognise when a teammate was actually open, and he had already learned that delivering the basketball accurately into a bad passing lane simply created a more accurate turnover.
McKenzie stood when the bus stopped outside St Francis and waited for everyone to collect their belongings.
“Before anyone gets excited about what they did last year, remember something,” he said.
“They’ve got five players on the floor.
So do we.
Respect them enough to play properly, but if I see anyone acting beaten before the ball goes up, you’ll have plenty of time on this bus afterwards to think about why I took you off.” That eliminated most of the remaining conversation.
The St Francis gym was larger than Wallace’s, although not dramatically so, and the unfamiliar surroundings made it feel more imposing than it probably was.
Their colours were red and white, and the banners hanging along one wall included last year’s championship.
Fergus tried not to stare at them during warm-ups.
He also tried not to notice how organised St Francis looked.
There wasn’t anything extraordinary about their players individually.
Their tallest boy wasn’t enormous, their guards weren’t performing ridiculous tricks with the basketball, and nobody looked as though he had accidentally wandered down from an older age group.
What stood out was how little time they wasted.
Passing drills moved crisply, layup lines remained organised, and their shooting warm-up seemed almost silent compared with Wallace’s.
McKenzie gathered the Barbarians before the introductions.
“First five minutes matter.
Don’t give them anything cheap.” Unfortunately, Wallace did exactly that.
St Francis scored first after forcing Arthur towards the sideline and trapping him near halfway.
His attempted pass back towards Finn was deflected, and the home side converted before Wallace could recover.
On the next possession, Jaime missed a contested jumper.
St Francis came down the other way, moved the ball three times and scored from the corner.
5 – 0.
Wallace answered through William, who finished after Arthur found him cutting towards the rim, but St Francis never appeared bothered by the basket.
They brought the ball up, ran their offence and created another clean look.
7 – 2.
The pattern became increasingly uncomfortable.
Wallace wasn’t being overwhelmed by spectacular individual play.
St Francis simply made fewer mistakes.
When Arthur penetrated, a second defender arrived without completely abandoning another assignment.
When Jaime isolated on the wing, the defender gave him enough room to prevent the drive without conceding an easy jumper.
When Merrick received the ball inside, help came from an angle that forced him towards his weaker side.
At the other end, St Francis kept moving.
Finn struggled again when forced through multiple screens, although the problem was broader than one defender this time.
Wallace’s rotations were half a second slower, and against St Francis half a second seemed to be enough.
14 – 6.
McKenzie called timeout.
“You’re trying to solve everything on the first action,” he told them.
“Move the ball.
Make them defend longer than five seconds.
Douglas, you don’t have to beat your man every time you touch it.
Reid, stop dribbling towards the bloody sideline when they’re showing you the trap.” Arthur nodded, visibly irritated with himself.
McKenzie looked towards the bench.
“Robertson, you’re in for Morrison.” Fergus stood immediately.
There was none of the shock he had experienced when his name was called against Dalry.
He removed his warm-up top and headed towards the scorer’s table, knowing exactly what McKenzie wanted from him.
Defend.
Keep things simple.
Don’t make the situation worse.
Fergus picked up one of St Francis’s guards as soon as he entered, settling into the defensive stance that had earned him minutes the previous week.
The guard tested him with a quick change of direction before using a screen near the top, but Fergus stayed close enough to prevent a clean drive.
St Francis moved the ball elsewhere rather than forcing the matchup.
That was Fergus’s first lesson in the difference between Dalry and St Francis.
Dalry’s number twenty-three had become increasingly frustrated when Fergus denied his preferred route towards the basket.
St Francis didn’t seem to care.
If one option disappeared, they simply used another.
The possession continued for several more seconds before their forward scored near the rim.
16 – 6.
Fergus hadn’t defended badly.
Wallace had still conceded.
That happened repeatedly during his first stint.
Fergus contained his own assignment well enough, denied a cut and forced one difficult pass towards the sideline, but St Francis rarely allowed the possession to die simply because the first action failed.
They reset, moved the basketball and attacked another part of Wallace’s defence.
Fergus did manage to contribute offensively.
Arthur drove into the lane and found Jaime, who drew help before kicking the ball towards Fergus near the baseline.
Fergus’s defender was recovering quickly, leaving no time for a jumper, so he attacked the space instead.
One dribble carried him towards the basket, and he finished with his left hand before the taller help defender could arrive.
18 – 10.
It felt good for approximately ten seconds.
St Francis scored at the other end.
The lead continued growing gradually rather than explosively.
Wallace would score twice and convince themselves they were beginning a run, only for St Francis to answer with three productive possessions.
Jaime found points increasingly difficult to create against a defence prepared for his drives, while Arthur was being forced into decisions more quickly than he liked.
Fergus’s first turnover came midway through the half.
He received the ball on the wing and saw William moving towards the high post.
The passing lane appeared available, and Bullet Passing helped Fergus deliver the ball with exactly the sort of speed he intended.
The problem was that the defender had been waiting for it.
A St Francis player stepped across just before the basketball reached William and intercepted the pass cleanly.
Two passes later, St Francis scored in transition.
Fergus grimaced as he ran back.
McKenzie didn’t call a timeout, but his voice reached Fergus from the sideline.
“Read it first, Robertson!
The pass doesn’t matter if you’re throwing it to the wrong place!” Fergus knew that.
Knowing it didn’t make the mistake feel any better.
By halftime, Wallace was in trouble.
39 – 25.
The St Francis crowd applauded as the teams left the floor, while the Wallace players entered the visitors’ changing room with considerably less energy than they had carried onto the bus.
McKenzie didn’t shout.
That somehow made the situation feel worse.
“We’re fourteen down because they’ve been better than us,” he said once everyone had settled.
“Not because they’re champions.
Not because we’re away.
They’ve defended better, they’ve moved the ball better, and they’ve punished mistakes better.
If that bothers you, good.
Do something about it.” Jaime sat forward with his elbows on his knees, breathing heavily.
He had been forced into several difficult shots and looked angrier about each miss than the one before it.
“We can still get back,” Merrick said.
McKenzie nodded.
“Of course we can.
But not by trying to score fourteen points on the first possession.
Win the next five minutes.
Then we’ll see where we are.” For a while, Wallace did exactly that.
They opened the second half with far greater discipline.
Arthur stopped trying to split traps and moved the basketball earlier, while Jaime attacked after the defence had already shifted rather than attempting to create everything from a stationary position.
William scored twice around the basket, and Merrick forced St Francis into a difficult attempt by staying vertical instead of chasing a block.
The deficit came down.
43 – 33.
For the first time since the opening minutes, the St Francis coach called timeout.
The Wallace bench came alive.
Arthur slapped William’s hand as they returned, while Jaime paced near the sideline rather than sitting down.
“They don’t like pressure either,” Jaime said.
“Keep going at them.” McKenzie heard him.
“Correct.
Just remember they’re saying exactly the same thing about us.” That warning proved accurate.
St Francis emerged from the timeout and responded with the composure Wallace had been trying to develop.
They created an open jumper on their first possession, forced Jaime into a turnover on the next Wallace attack and scored again after an offensive rebound.
The gap returned almost as quickly as it had disappeared.
48 – 33.
Fergus checked back in soon afterwards.
His second stint began well.
He stayed in front of his assignment on consecutive possessions and collected a rebound after forcing a difficult jumper.
At the other end, Wallace moved the ball around the perimeter until it reached Fergus several steps inside the arc.
The defender expected him to pass.
Fergus recognised the space before it disappeared.
He rose into the close jumper he had been practising and released before the defender could properly contest it.
The ball struck the rim and dropped through.
50 – 37.
Four points.
Fergus didn’t know at the time that they would be his last points of the game.
His next attempt came from almost the same area but hit the back rim.
Later, he missed a layup after trying to finish around a defender whose length bothered him more than expected.
Another jumper fell short, and his final attempt of the evening rolled around the rim before coming out.
Two makes from six attempts.
It wasn’t terrible, particularly for a player whose primary value remained defensive, but Fergus could feel the difference between contributing during a victory and trying to contribute while the game slowly escaped them.
His second turnover hurt more than the missed shots.
Wallace had an opportunity to cut the deficit after Jaime forced a steal, and Fergus received the ball during the transition.
Arthur was ahead on the left side, and Fergus attempted to lead him with the pass rather than forcing him to slow down.
The mechanics were fine.
The decision was rushed.
A St Francis defender recovered from behind and got a hand onto the ball, sending it out towards the sideline before another red jersey collected it.
Fergus stopped for half a second in frustration.
That was enough for McKenzie to roar at him.
“Get back!” Fergus sprinted.
St Francis scored anyway.
The mistake stayed with him for the next several possessions.
He hated turnovers more than missed shots because a missed shot at least felt like an attempt to score.
A turnover felt like giving the opponent something for nothing, particularly when the whole purpose of Bullet Passing was supposed to help him become more reliable with the ball.
Then he remembered what the System had actually told him.
Bullet Passing didn’t make decisions for him.
Both turnovers had come from the same underlying weakness McKenzie had identified weeks earlier.
Fergus could deliver the basketball better than before, but he was still learning when the pass was truly available.
That problem wasn’t going to disappear because he had unlocked a Grey skill.
The game gradually moved beyond Wallace’s reach.
St Francis never produced one devastating twenty-point run.
Instead, they kept adding two or three points to the margin whenever Wallace threatened to reduce it.
Every small mistake seemed to become another possession, another basket or another opportunity lost.
60 – 43.
Then 66 – 47.
McKenzie continued rotating players, but he never emptied the bench completely.
There was no surrender in the way he coached the final minutes, even as the result became obvious.
Fergus returned once more for a short defensive stint and managed to force his assignment into a difficult miss, while William intercepted another pass after Fergus prevented penetration along the baseline.
Those moments still mattered to Fergus.
They simply didn’t change the result.
When the final buzzer sounded, the scoreboard above the St Francis court displayed the number none of the Wallace players wanted to look at.
76 – 54.
St Francis.
Wallace had lost by twenty-two.
There was polite applause from the home crowd, followed by the usual handshake line.
Fergus forced himself to look each St Francis player in the eye and say good game, even though the words tasted strangely unpleasant after spending the previous hour trying to beat them.
The walk towards the changing room was almost silent.
Arthur kicked lightly at the bottom of the bench after entering before dropping into his seat.
Finn pulled his jersey over his face and remained that way for several seconds.
William sat with his elbows resting on his knees, staring at the floor, while Merrick looked less angry than the others but somehow more disappointed.
Jaime was furious.
He threw his towel into his bag hard enough that it bounced back out.
“Twenty-two bloody points.” Nobody answered.
“We’re better than that.” Arthur looked up.
“Didn’t look like it tonight.” Jaime turned towards him.
“You think I don’t know that?” “I didn’t say that.” “Sounds like you did.” “Enough,” Merrick said.
Jaime ignored him.
“We gave them half their points.
Every time we got close, someone did something stupid.” Fergus felt both of his turnovers immediately.
Arthur stood.
“You had turnovers too.” “I know I did!” The volume of Jaime’s answer silenced the room.
For a moment Fergus thought the argument might become something worse, but Jaime turned away and planted both hands against the lockers instead.
His head lowered between his shoulders.
McKenzie had been standing near the doorway throughout the exchange.
He finally stepped inside.
“If you’re angry, be angry.” Nobody spoke.
“If you’re disappointed, you should be.
We came here to win and got beaten by twenty-two points.
I’m not going to stand here and tell you that’s secretly a wonderful achievement because you tried hard.” Fergus looked towards him.
McKenzie’s voice remained controlled rather than furious.
“But don’t confuse being angry with learning something.
Sitting here kicking benches and blaming each other won’t make us one point better next week.
St Francis showed you where the standard is.
You can hate that standard, or you can chase it.” Jaime turned away from the lockers.
McKenzie continued.
“They weren’t twenty-two points more talented than you.
They were better organised, made decisions faster and punished mistakes more consistently.
Every time we had a good spell, they stayed calm.
Every time they had a good spell, half of you started trying to fix the game by yourselves.” His eyes moved around the room.
“Remember how this feels.
Then use it.” That was all.
There was no inspirational speech about revenge, no promise that Wallace would beat St Francis next time and no attempt to convince them that the score hadn’t mattered.
It had mattered.
That was why losing hurt.
Fergus showered and changed without saying much.
His final line sat uncomfortably in his thoughts: four points on two makes from six attempts, along with two turnovers.
He had contributed defensively and hadn’t been Wallace’s biggest problem, but that provided less comfort than he expected.
He didn’t want to be able to say he had played all right while his team lost by twenty-two.
Arthur was still irritated when they returned to the bus.
Jaime sat alone near the back with his headphones on, while Finn stared through the window and William took the seat beside Fergus without their usual argument over who was getting the window.
The journey home began in near silence.
Wallace Memorial was now 1 – 1.
One victory.
One defeat.
Fergus had known before the season began that they weren’t going to win every game.
McKenzie had told them the league would punish inconsistency, and nobody had realistically expected a team that finished tenth the previous year to suddenly stroll through fifteen opponents without difficulty.
Knowing defeat would eventually happen hadn’t prepared Fergus for how miserable it felt.
Against Dalry, every successful defensive possession had seemed important because Wallace eventually won.
Tonight Fergus had defended well in stretches, scored four points and found ways to contribute, yet none of it changed the twenty-two-point difference glowing on the scoreboard when the buzzer sounded.
He looked towards the darkening streets beyond the bus window and thought about St Francis.
They hadn’t looked unbeatable.
That was almost the worst part.
Wallace had been close enough to see what made them better.
Their passes came earlier, their rotations were sharper, their players rarely allowed one mistake to become two, and when Wallace threatened to make the game competitive, St Francis responded without panicking.
Fergus thought about his two turnovers and understood exactly where they belonged within that difference.
Bullet Passing had improved the physical act of passing, but the game had shown him how much more there was to learn.
Delivering the ball cleanly meant very little if he chose the wrong moment to release it, and against better opposition the time available to make that decision became much shorter.
Beside him, William finally broke the silence.
“I hate losing.” Fergus looked over.
William was still staring ahead.
“Yeah,” Fergus said.
“Me too.” William was quiet for a moment before adding, “Twenty-two points is worse.” Fergus couldn’t disagree.
Across the aisle, Arthur had apparently been listening.
“Next training is going to be horrible.” That earned the first small laugh Fergus had heard since the buzzer.
William leaned his head against the seat.
“Definitely.” Fergus smiled faintly before looking back through the window.
The defeat still hurt.
He suspected it was supposed to.
Wallace had started the season believing that reaching the top eight was realistic, and nothing about one loss changed that goal.
What St Francis had done was show them how far the gap could become when they faced a team that already played at the level Wallace wanted to reach.
The Barbarians had won their first game and felt as though the season had opened in front of them.
Their second had provided something less enjoyable but perhaps just as useful.
A standard to chase.