Even though Kevin Minusnett had already cursed Coach Steve Cleveland’s entire bloodline in the purest, most fluent street vernacular he could summon, he knew he still had to step up.
In the NCAA, backing down was worse than losing.
“If I die out here today,” he told the teammates who were already grinning like hyenas, “delete my browser history.
Especially the folder labeled ‘Big Bear Cuties.'” He turned toward the court with the grim resolve of a man walking to the gallows.
“Don’t worry, bro.
We’ll take good care of the Porsche and the fiancée.” … “Come on then, kid.
You’re looking at the king of the Fresno paint.” On the floor, Minusnett spread his arms, dropped into a stance, and locked in harder than he ever had in his life.
He swore that the second this freak tried to drive, he would meet him with a full-chest wall of muscle.
Then he learned what a diesel engine felt like when it hit you at full throttle.
Boom.
A dull, bone-deep collision exploded through the gym.
Minusnett felt like he had been run over by a runaway Mack truck dead center in the sternum.
For one split second he actually heard his ribs scream.
Both feet left the floor.
He flew backward like a busted punching bag and crashed to the hardwood.
Clang!
Rex caught the ball with both hands and ripped it through the rim with pure violence.
The entire basket support shuddered like it was about to collapse.
He landed lightly, looked down at Minusnett still clutching his chest and questioning every life choice that had brought him here, then offered a hand and said, completely sincere: “Brother, if you actually respect me, you should go all out.
Don’t insult me with that weak acting.” Minusnett sat on the floor, face black as a burnt pot.
He nearly coughed up blood on the spot.
Letting you win?
I was one push away from rupturing a hemorrhoid.
And you call that letting you win?
… Ball reversed.
Minusnett on offense.
This time he got smart.
After tasting that human bulldozer firsthand, he would rather die than post Rex up.
He caught at the top of the key, gave a few jab steps, then faked a shot and drove.
When he couldn’t fully shake free, he went to the one move every big man keeps for emergencies against elite rim protectors— The floater.
He put extra arc on it, certain no one could touch it.
“Got it—” The corner of his mouth had just started to curl when a massive shadow swallowed him whole, like some dark god blotting out the sun.
Forty-seven inches of vertical showed up in full force.
In Minusnett’s panicked vision, Rex’s head was already level with his own.
Slap!
That arm came down like a giant flyswatter and swatted the ball clean past half-court.
Silence.
Every jaw in the gym hit the floor.
“Holy shit!” “He just pinned that thing to the logo?!” “What carbon-based life form pulls that kind of defense?” “That rim protection… and the bulldozer offense earlier… pure violence as art…” … On the sideline, Coach Steve Cleveland’s mouth twitched like he was having a stroke.
He desperately needed two blood-pressure pills.
At the same time, one decision solidified in his mind.
Even if he had to chain this monster to the bench with actual iron, he was keeping him on the Fresno State roster.
… The rest of the game turned into a one-sided slaughter.
On the third possession, the moment Rex turned and prepared to attack again, Minusnett’s survival instinct overrode pride.
He slid half a step to the side with perfect smoothness, opening a four-lane highway to the rim, and announced with pure theatrical dignity: “Damn.
You saw through my chair-pull defense.” On the next possession he got posterized by a one-handed block for good measure.
“This isn’t even the same dimension of basketball!” “This is like watching Superman dunk on a sidekick.” The teammates on the sideline stopped mourning Minusnett.
They started cheering for Rex instead.
In American campus basketball culture, strength earned respect.
And the dominance Rex had just displayed made every one of them see a deeper March Madness run as suddenly realistic.
4–0.
“Last ball, man,” Rex said while casually dribbling, voice flat.
“I still have to live up to the coach’s expectations.
So this one… I’m not going easy.” Minusnett’s brain short-circuited.
“Going easy?” “So every single one of those earlier baskets you were letting me off?!” Before he could finish the complaint, Rex was already moving.
His ball-handling wasn’t elite, but the pure speed of a guard in a 7’1″ frame erased the space in one explosive dribble.
The paint was empty.
Rex took off just outside the restricted area.
His body uncoiled in the air with ridiculous hang time.
A full 180-degree spin.
Both hands brought the ball down to his waist.
Core power coiled like a drawn bowstring and then released.
“ROAR!” The ancient-beast roar tore out of his chest as he slammed the ball through the rim with both hands in a vicious reverse tomahawk.
KRA-BOOM——————!!
In the stunned, almost airless silence of the gym, the tempered-glass backboard spiderwebbed under the force of that dunk.
Then— BOOM——————!!!
The entire backboard exploded.
Shining shards of glass rained down like a broken chandelier.
… You could have heard a pin drop.
Three full seconds later the gym detonated.
“WHAT THE FUCKING MAN!” Paul George charged in and locked Rex in a bear hug, voice cracking into a higher register.
“Rex… what did you just do?
Do you see what the fuck you just did?” “You shattered the backboard.
You motherfucking shattered the backboard!” “I’ve only ever seen that shit in Shaq highlight reels!
You tyrant!
You property-destroying tyrant!” Kevin Minusnett’s only remaining thought was pure, bottomless relief.
If he had actually been stupid enough to jump and contest that dunk… He would already be lying in Fresno General’s ICU while his family signed the papers to pull the plug.
At the same moment, one new life goal crystallized in his heart: He was going to become the best damn backup center this program had ever seen.