The senior players practically vibrated with anticipation.
They had every advantage—strength, chemistry, game experience.
The freshmen were talented individually but completely uncoordinated.
This should be a blowout.
Captain Ikeda finalized the lineups:
Senior Team:
C: Sato Ichiro (188cm, 73kg, 2nd year)PF: Suzuki Ohno (185cm, 100kg, 2nd year)SF: Ikeda Yuho (183cm, 75kg, 3rd year)SG: Takahashi Itachi (175cm, 65kg, 3rd year)PG: Ito Masaru (167cm, 60kg, 2nd year)
Ikeda was obviously the core—most skilled, best all-around game.
Takahashi was a converted long-distance runner with excellent stamina and explosive speed, perfect for running the break.
Only one year of basketball experience meant limited skills, but his athleticism compensated.
Ito was undersized at point guard but quick with decent shooting ability.
Zero playmaking vision though—basically the “can’t pass” meme personified.
The frontcourt duo of Sato and Suzuki were known as Shohoku’s “Fat and Thin Monks.” One built like a bamboo pole, the other shaped like a beach ball.
Both had glaring weaknesses but got minutes because the senior class only had six total players.
The sixth senior—150cm tall, weak build, no skills—would referee.
Freshman Team:
C: Akagi Takenori (193cm, 85kg, 1st year)PF: Yamamoto Kuma (180cm, 73kg, 1st year)SF: Tanaka Jiro (176cm, 65kg, 1st year)SG: Kogure Kiminobu (174cm, 58kg, 1st year)PG: Okamoto Nobuhiko (170cm, 75kg, 1st year)
Kogure knew the three Takeishi players reasonably well now.
Yamamoto had excellent bounce and could hit open mid-range shots.
Tanaka specialized in cutting and spot-up threes but had pedestrian athleticism.
Okamoto was a stocky point guard—strong in contact, decent shooter, average everything else.
Given development time, all three could become rotation players for strong teams.
Not stars, but solid role players like Muto, Nagano, Kono, Ikegami.
Before tipoff, Kogure gathered his four teammates.
Basketball was a team sport.
Confidence was one thing; hubris was another.
He couldn’t carry alone, not yet.
Better to maximize what they had collectively.
The freshman squad looked disjointed on paper, but they had foundations to build on.
Kogure and Akagi from Kitamura Junior High.
The other three from Takeishi.
Similar to how Ryonan and Shoyo operated in the canon timeline.
Plus five days of practice together had built basic understanding.
“Okamoto,” Kogure started.
“What was Takeishi’s main offensive system?”
Akagi blinked.
“That’s…
a tactic?”
“Makes perfect sense,” Kogure said, straight-faced.
Junior high basketball was simple.
Tactics boiled down to “give your best player the ball and get out of the way.” Especially when that player was a future MVP.
“Listen,” Kogure continued, “I’ve been thinking about a system that fits our strengths.
Something that gives us a real chance to win.”
Four pairs of eyes locked onto him.
“It’s called four-out offense.
Or one-star, four-shooters.
What do you think?”
Blank stares.
Made sense—this era’s basketball knowledge was limited.
Pick-and-roll, fast breaks, maybe some basic zone concepts.
That was it.
The system Kogure described wouldn’t fully emerge until the ’93-’94 Rockets built their championship around Olajuwon and four shooters like Horry and Kenny Smith.
But the core principles were timeless.
“Simple version,” Kogure explained.
“One big man operates inside.
Four shooters space out to their optimal ranges around the perimeter.
This stretches the defense, opens driving lanes, and forces them to choose between doubling the post or giving up open shots.”
“Sounds solid,” Okamoto said, nodding.
Yamamoto scratched his head.
“But who’s the star?”
Kogure’s gaze swept across them before settling on Akagi.
“You.
Your size advantage is obvious, you’ve got vision, and even if they double you can pass out.
You’re the tactical core.”
Surprise flickered across Akagi’s face.
“Me?
I’ll…
I’ll try.”
“Okamoto, you’ll run pick-and-roll with Akagi.
His scoring range is limited to the paint, so timing your entry passes is critical.
If they don’t double—go to work one-on-one, or use the screen for a mismatch.”
He turned to the others.
“Yamamoto, Tanaka, me—we set up at our most reliable shooting spots.
Stretch them thin.
Got it?”
Something shifted in their expressions.
Determination replacing uncertainty.
The system fit them perfectly.
They could actually execute this.
Kogure noticed Akagi’s hands trembling slightly.
Nerves.
Old demons—three years at Kitamura Junior High without knowing what winning felt like.
His mental game was fragile, though better now than it would be in the future before the Five Tigers formed.
Kogure stood and slapped Akagi’s ass hard enough to echo.
“What the—!” Akagi spun, murder in his eyes, hand raising for retaliation.
Kogure ducked back with maxed reaction speed, grinning.
By the time Akagi processed what happened, the tension had drained from his shoulders.
No longer nervous.
Tweeet!
The referee’s whistle.
Game time.
Akagi and Sato met at center circle, eyes locked.
The basketball went up.
As it descended, Akagi exploded upward first, tipping it cleanly to Okamoto.
Okamoto secured it—
Slap!
Ito came from nowhere, lightning-quick hands stripping the ball.
Takahashi scooped up the loose ball and exploded downcourt.
The former track star hit top speed in three strides, crossing halfcourt before most players reacted.
Kogure was already moving.
Maxed reaction meant he’d read the steal attempt the instant Ito shifted his weight.
Now he sprinted in pursuit, calculating angles.
Takahashi crossed the three-point line, gathered for the layup—
One…
two…
now!
Kogure timed his jump perfectly, closing from behind as Takahashi rose.