Saturday morning gave Fergus considerably more time to think about losing than he wanted.
There was no training to distract him, no schoolwork urgent enough to occupy the entire day and no game waiting that evening to provide an immediate opportunity to correct what had gone wrong.
Wallace Memorial had lost 76 – 54 on Friday night, the bus had returned them to school in near silence, and Fergus had gone home carrying a frustration that remained stubbornly intact after a night’s sleep.
Breakfast didn’t improve it.
Hamish had been unable to attend the away game because of work, while Diane had been on shift and Angus had therefore missed the opportunity to provide his usual unreliable statistical analysis.
They knew the result, however, and Fergus discovered that explaining a twenty-two-point defeat was somehow more unpleasant than experiencing it.
“How did you play?” Hamish asked.
Fergus pushed cereal around his bowl.
“All right.” Hamish waited.
Fergus knew that wasn’t going to be enough.
“Four points.
Two for six.
I defended pretty well, I think.
Had two turnovers.” “Your coach angry?” “Not exactly.
He wasn’t happy.” “Those aren’t necessarily the same thing.” Fergus looked up.
“You sound like you know him.” “I’ve met men like him.” Diane sat opposite Fergus with a mug of tea.
“Was it a bad game for you personally, or are you upset because the team lost?” Fergus considered the question.
“Both, I suppose.
I wasn’t terrible, but we got smashed.” “Twenty-two isn’t smashed,” Angus said.
Everyone looked at him.
Angus continued eating.
Fergus frowned.
“What counts as smashed?” “Fifty.” “Thank you for the expert analysis.” “You’re welcome.” The exchange made Fergus smile despite himself, but the feeling didn’t last particularly long.
After breakfast, he returned upstairs, finished the homework he had been putting off and found himself thinking about the game whenever his concentration slipped.
The turnovers bothered him most because both had involved passes he believed he could make.
That distinction was becoming important.
Bullet Passing had been unlocked because Fergus had completed the necessary work.
More than a thousand wall passes during the summer had built the foundation, while tryout scrimmages, team practices and recognised game situations had eventually supplied the competitive passing requirement.
When the skill unlocked, Fergus had initially viewed it as an answer to one of his weaknesses.
Friday had demonstrated that it was nothing of the sort.
It was a resource.
Fergus opened the System while sitting at his desk and navigated towards Bullet Passing.
The description hadn’t changed since he unlocked it, but he read it more carefully now that St Francis had provided context for some of the warnings.
‘Bullet Passing develops the host’s understanding of fundamental direct passing mechanics, including force generation, hand placement, release timing, target selection and pass placement during standard situations.’ Understanding.
That word appeared repeatedly throughout the System.
Even the skill tiers were described that way.
Basic Understanding.
Intermediate Understanding.
Competent Understanding.
Fergus had known that from the beginning, but there was a difference between reading terminology and understanding what it meant in practice.
The System hadn’t moved his arms against St Francis.
It hadn’t stopped him from throwing the first interception towards William, even though Bullet Passing had made the pass itself quick and accurate.
It hadn’t prevented the second turnover when Fergus rushed a transition pass towards Arthur.
In both cases, his body had done approximately what Fergus asked it to do.
The problem was that Fergus had asked it to do the wrong thing.
He leaned back in his chair and looked at the translucent screen.
When the Basketball Development System had first appeared, some part of him had expected something more miraculous.
He had been twelve years old, weeks away from his birthday, mediocre at basketball and desperate to become good enough to make a school team that had already rejected him once.
A magical System had appeared in front of him, offering skills, missions, a library and a shop.
Of course, he had imagined that acquiring enough abilities might eventually make basketball easy.
Nothing since then suggested that would happen.
Mikan Maestro had taught him far more about finishing, but he could still miss layups.
Form Shooter had given him a better understanding of repeatable mechanics, but he had gone two-for-six against St Francis and missed four shots.
Perimeter Pest helped him understand positioning and containment, yet opponents still beat him.
Suicide Sprinter had improved how he trained and managed repeated efforts, but he still became tired.
Bullet Passing simply made the pattern impossible to ignore.
The System could show him how.
It couldn’t guarantee that he would.
That difference stayed with Fergus for most of Saturday.
He eventually went to the public court in the afternoon, although Diane limited how long he could stay after discovering he intended to train.
Fergus spent much of the session working on simple passes against the wall, but instead of trying to make each delivery faster, he experimented with different targets and imagined where a teammate might be moving.
It still wasn’t enough.
A wall didn’t defend.
A painted mark didn’t suddenly anticipate his intention and jump into the passing lane.
That required people.
Experience.
Games.
Mistakes.
Fergus disliked the last item considerably more than the others.
Sunday was quieter.
His frustration with the defeat had softened enough that he could think about St Francis without immediately seeing the final score, although he still replayed certain possessions while doing chores around the house.
Hamish made him help with laundry and cleaning, partly because those were already among Fergus’s responsibilities and partly, Fergus suspected, because his father recognised that leaving him alone to obsess over basketball all weekend wasn’t particularly useful.
By Sunday evening, Fergus was almost looking forward to school.
Monday morning destroyed that enthusiasm quickly.
Mr Sinclair had apparently decided the best way to begin the week was with mathematics, and Fergus found himself sitting beside Arthur while a series of fractions appeared across the board.
William was two rows ahead, while Jaime sat nearer the windows with his head resting against one hand.
The ordinary nature of the classroom felt strange after Friday.
Two days earlier, Fergus had been running around an unfamiliar gym trying to defend the reigning champions while people shouted from the sidelines.
Now he was copying fractions into an exercise book while Mr Sinclair explained how to find a common denominator.
Arthur leaned slightly towards him.
“I’d rather play St Francis again.” Fergus kept his eyes on his book.
“Right now?” “Right now.” “We’d lose by about forty.
Jaime looks half asleep.” From near the window, without lifting his head, Jaime said, “I can hear you.” Arthur looked surprised.
“That’s impressive.” “You’re not quiet.” Mr Sinclair stopped writing.
All three boys immediately looked towards the front.
“Since basketball appears to have become relevant to fractions,” Mr Sinclair said, “perhaps Mr Reid would like to explain how we add these two.” Arthur stared at the board.
Fergus recognised the expression immediately.
He had no idea.
William’s shoulders were shaking several seats ahead.
Arthur eventually attempted an answer, got it wrong and endured Mr Sinclair’s explanation while Fergus concentrated very hard on not laughing.
By break, the defeat had become unavoidable again.
Several students had heard the result.
Some were genuinely curious, while others seemed mostly interested because Wallace had won its opener and St Francis were the defending champions.
“Twenty-two points?” one boy asked.
Arthur frowned.
“Yes, Daniel.
We can subtract.” “I was just asking.” “You already knew the score.” William stepped between them before Arthur could become unnecessarily argumentative.
“Leave it.
We lost.” That simple admission ended the conversation more effectively than anything else could have.
As they walked away, Fergus glanced towards Arthur.
“Still angry?” “Obviously.” “It’s Monday.” “Thank you, Fergus.
I know what day it is.” William joined them.
“He was angry yesterday too.” “How would you know?” “You sent me six messages complaining about their point guard.” “He was annoying.” “He was good.” “That’s why he was annoying.” Fergus understood that more than he wanted to admit.
Lunch provided the first opportunity for the three of them to touch a basketball since Friday.
They went outside with several other students, although the game that developed was considerably less serious than team training.
Jaime joined after several minutes, and Fergus noticed almost immediately that he was playing harder than anyone else.
Too hard.
Jaime attacked every possession as though St Francis were somehow responsible for the lunch game, and after he stripped the ball from another boy and scored at the opposite end, Arthur finally told him to calm down.
“I’m playing,” Jaime replied.
“You’re trying to murder the first year.” “He should protect the ball.” The younger student wisely chose not to participate in the argument.
Fergus received the basketball on the next possession and found William cutting towards the basket.
The passing lane was open, and Bullet Passing made the mechanics of the delivery easy to recognise.
Fergus stepped into it, sent the ball towards William’s path and watched him catch it without slowing before finishing at the rim.
Simple.
That was what the skill could help him do.
A few possessions later, Fergus saw Arthur moving behind a defender and briefly considered trying to thread the ball through the narrow opening.
Friday’s first turnover flashed through his mind.
He held it instead.
The defender recovered, Arthur moved elsewhere, and Fergus passed safely towards Jaime.
No highlight.
No assist.
No turnover either.
For the first time, Fergus began to appreciate that improvement could include learning when not to use a skill.
The thought stayed with him through afternoon lessons and returned during the walk home.
He had spent the first weeks with the System thinking primarily about acquisition.
Unlocking skills felt like progress because the System acknowledged it with messages, requirements and tiers.
A new skill gave him something concrete that he hadn’t possessed the day before.
But possession wasn’t mastery.
Perhaps that was the greatest limitation of the System, although Fergus wasn’t sure limitation was even the correct word.
It didn’t promise perfection anywhere.
Fergus had supplied that expectation himself.
The Basketball Development System was exactly what its name suggested.
Development.
It could give him training methods he would never otherwise discover.
It could organise knowledge, reveal weaknesses, reward work and provide resources that a thirteen-year-old boy from a family with little spare money could never afford to collect on his own.
It could teach him what correct technique felt like and provide paths towards skills that might otherwise take years of poor practice to understand.
What it couldn’t do was play.
Fergus still had to decide when to pass.
He had to recognise the defender shifting towards a lane, judge whether a teammate was actually open and execute the movement while tired, pressured and surrounded by players trying to stop him.
His muscles still needed repetition before an unfamiliar action became comfortable, and his body remained the same body he had possessed before the System appeared.
He could still make stupid decisions.
He could still miss.
He could still lose.
Strangely, understanding that didn’t disappoint him as much as Fergus expected.
If the System simply took control whenever he stepped onto a basketball court, then Friday’s defeat wouldn’t have meant anything.
Neither would the victory over Dalry.
Fergus wouldn’t really be learning to play basketball; he would merely be carrying something that played for him.
Instead, the eight points against Dalry had been his.
So were the two turnovers against St Francis.
He preferred the first part of that arrangement, but he understood that he couldn’t separate them.
When Fergus reached home, he dropped his schoolbag beside the stairs and found Angus sitting on the living-room floor.
“Did you win today?” Angus asked.
Fergus stared at him.
“I was at school.” “I know.” “Then what exactly would I have won?” Angus considered that.
“Lunch basketball?” Fergus laughed.
“I don’t think anyone kept score.” “Then what’s the point?” Fergus started towards the stairs before stopping.
There had been a time when he might have agreed.
Now he thought about the pass to William, the decision not to force the ball towards Arthur and the difference between knowing how to make a pass and understanding whether he should attempt it.
“Practice,” Fergus said.
Angus looked deeply unimpressed.
Fergus headed upstairs smiling.
Wallace’s next game was Friday.
They were 1 – 1, the loss to St Francis still bothered him, and nothing the System offered could guarantee that the next result would be better.
Fergus would have to help make it better himself.