Tweeet!
The referee’s whistle stopped play immediately.
“Ow—my face!” Uozumi clutched his head, having face-planted hard onto the floor without getting his hands up to protect himself.
His face felt like it had been flattened against the hardwood.
But when he looked up and saw Akagi lying in front of him, horror replaced pain.
Uozumi’s heart sank as reality crashed down.
He’d accidentally pulled off Akagi’s shorts.
And his underwear.
Catastrophic accident didn’t begin to cover it.
Akagi raised his head, registered his current state of undress, and scrambled to pull his shorts back up.
Panic and fury warred across his face.
Kogure arrived to help and unfortunately had a direct line of sight to…
everything.
He saw things no teammate should see.
Kogure quickly averted his eyes, pretending he’d noticed nothing.
He glanced down at his own pinky finger involuntarily.
Huh.
Never realized how slender my pinky is.
Thank god Aida Hikoichi won’t join Ryonan for another two years, Kogure thought.
Otherwise they’d be treated to an endless stream of “I’ll write this down!” and “Observe carefully!” and “Unbelievable!”
Near courtside, Haruko and Fujii had turned scarlet, covering their eyes—though possibly too late to avoid a stye.
Matsui, on the other hand, watched with completely shameless interest, arms folded casually.
“YOU—” Akagi’s voice shook with rage.
“Did you do that ON PURPOSE?!”
His breathing came in sharp bursts, eyes bloodshot, fists clenched.
Getting stripped in front of an audience—minimal though it was—constituted psychological warfare of the cruelest kind.
Even with the limited crowd, the damage to Akagi’s pride was astronomical.
“I-I didn’t mean to!” Uozumi trembled, panic overwhelming him.
“It was an accident!
A complete accident!”
“Accident?” Akagi raised his fist, clearly unconvinced.
“Seems like you need a beating to understand—”
“Please, I really didn’t mean it!” Desperation colored Uozumi’s voice.
Regret and helplessness consumed him.
The Ryonan players exchanged uncertain glances.
Nobody knew how to defuse this.
As captain, Ozawa stepped between them.
“Akagi-san, I understand your feelings.
But I believe Uozumi didn’t do this intentionally.
ahem.” Ozawa barely caught himself before saying something worse.
He straightened, expression serious.
“I sincerely apologize on his behalf.
Please forgive this mistake.”
He bowed deeply.
“I’m so sorry!” Uozumi hung his head, bracing for Akagi’s retaliation.
The genuine remorse and Ozawa’s intervention slowly penetrated Akagi’s fury.
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to calm down.
“Fine.
This time.
But watch yourself going forward.”
Relief flooded Uozumi’s features, though Akagi’s glare could’ve melted steel.
The referee made his call: “White Team, Number 15—technical foul!”
Unintentional or not, the nature of the incident was serious.
Under FIBA rules, technical fouls meant two free throws and possession.
Two technicals equaled ejection.
Akagi stepped to the free throw line.
Dribbled twice.
Set his feet.
Clang.
First shot hit backboard, didn’t even graze the rim.
Akagi exhaled slowly, trying to clear his mind.
Forget what just happened.
Focus on basketball.
He shot again.
The ball sailed past the rim entirely, landing out of bounds behind the baseline.
Airball.
Complete whiff.
Zero-for-two on free throws, including one that didn’t touch anything.
The embarrassment compounded itself.
“Akagi, shake it off.” Kogure approached quickly, concern evident.
“You got this.”
But he could see Akagi’s muscles were locked tight.
The tension wasn’t just physical—his mental state was completely rattled.
The incident had shattered his focus.
Ball still belonged to Shohoku.
Captain Ikeda swung it to Kogure beyond the arc.
Maybe the earlier shock still clouded his judgment, or maybe Ozawa genuinely didn’t respect Kogure’s three-point range—either way, he gave Kogure two full steps of space. Read this novel at NovelPing for the best experience.
Fatal mistake.
Kogure didn’t hesitate.
Catch-and-shoot in one fluid motion.
Ozawa lunged to contest.
Too late.
Swish.
Perfect rotation.
Three-point dagger.
“Didn’t expect you to have range like that,” Ozawa muttered, shaking his head at his own carelessness.
Tweeet!
Coach Taoka called timeout.
When play resumed, Uozumi remained on the bench.
Inoue Toyosu entered as the new center.
Instead of disappointment, Uozumi felt overwhelming relief.
The thought of facing Akagi after that incident—he’d honestly prefer never playing again this game.
Beyond not knowing how to face his opponent, his confidence had been completely destroyed.
First-year Uozumi wasn’t just weak skillwise.
He was mentally fragile.
Put simply: still an honest, gentle kid.
Of course, the performance gap didn’t help.
Akagi had dominated him completely, leaving Uozumi with zero answers.
The disparity traced back to experience.
According to Aota’s flashbacks, Akagi had started playing basketball in elementary school.
Uozumi, conversely, only began receiving professional training after joining Ryonan.
Which made Uozumi’s growth trajectory even more impressive, becoming Kanagawa’s second-best center in just two years demonstrated incredible work ethic.
Was Uozumi more talented than Akagi?
Actually, no.
Akagi’s natural gifts exceeded Uozumi’s.
In canon, Uozumi himself had acknowledged that Akagi’s scoring ability around the basket was innate talent.
He’d praised Akagi’s interior defense as flawless—the product of both natural ability and relentless effort.
But Uozumi had advantages too: elite defense, rebounding prowess, rim protection.
His one-on-one defense and help defense were both excellent.
His rebounding never got outworked by Sakuragi.
He’d even snatched boards while sandwiched between Akagi and Sakuragi simultaneously.
Most importantly, Uozumi had something Akagi lacked: a responsible, dedicated coach.
His replacement, Ikegami Ryoji, was the player Takehiko Inoue himself had ranked first in pure muscle strength among all Slam Dunk characters.
This was about to get interesting.