The manager practically bounced toward the back room, energy radiating off him.
He clearly hadn’t touched a basketball in far too long.
When he emerged, Kogure had to suppress a grin.
The manager wore a Chicago Bulls #23 jersey—Jordan’s number, naturally—and a pair of AJ6s that looked suspiciously like the ones that would eventually sell to Sakuragi for 30 yen.
A Jordan superfan through and through.
The manager flipped the store sign to “Closed” and locked the door with the enthusiasm of a kid ditching school.
The basketball court was two blocks away, wedged between apartment buildings.
Not bad for a neighborhood court—decent asphalt, painted lines mostly intact, chain nets that actually had most of their links.
Unfortunately, it was occupied.
On one end, elementary school kids were throwing up wild shots.
On the other, a three-on-three game was in progress—competitive from the sound of it, players calling for the ball and talking trash in equal measure.
Under a tree at courtside, a middle-aged man sat watching the action.
“Matsui-san!” The manager waved.
“Didn’t expect to see you here!”
The man stood, and Kogure had to crane his neck to take him in.
Matsui Koji was enormous—easily over two meters tall, built like a mountain with thick limbs and broad shoulders.
His smile was surprisingly gentle for someone so physically imposing.
“Nothing better to do, so I came to watch.” Matsui’s voice was deep but friendly.
“Seeing them play made me nostalgic.”
Matsui, Kogure thought, studying the man’s features.
Thick lips, similar facial structure to Akagi…
This has to be Matsui’s father.
In the original timeline, Matsui had once commented that Kawata Mikio was taller than her father.
She’d seen Uozumi at 202cm without much reaction, which meant her father was somewhere between 202 and 210cm.
The man in front of Kogure fit that profile perfectly.
More importantly, someone with that size and apparent basketball experience might have skills worth learning.
“Matsui-san, want to team up with us?” Kogure gestured toward the court.
“Three-on-three?”
The manager jumped on the idea immediately.
“Come on, it’ll be fun!”
Matsui shrugged, but his eyes gleamed with interest.
“Why not.”
As the three of them approached the court, Kogure called out to one of the players—a familiar face that made him stop short.
“Godai?
What are you doing here?”
Godai Tomokazu turned, surprise crossing his features.
Long time no see!”
They’d played together at Kitamura Junior High, where Godai had been captain of the basketball team.
After graduation, he’d chosen Tsukubu High School—a decent program, though not elite.
In the original timeline, Godai would eventually become an excellent three-point specialist under Coach Kawasaki’s guidance, though right now he was still finding his way.
“Our school organized a spring outing,” Godai explained.
“We didn’t want to participate, but we couldn’t stay at school either, so…” He gestured at the court with a sheepish grin.
Kogure noticed the other five players all wore Tsukubu jerseys.
“Can we join?” He nodded toward the manager and Matsui.
“We need a run.”
“Let me ask the captain.”
Godai jogged over to a player about Kogure’s height but noticeably more muscular—Matsushita Yukigoro, Tsukubu’s current captain.
After a brief conversation, Matsushita walked over.
“I’m Captain Matsushita Yukigoro.” He looked the three of them over, his eyes widening slightly when he got to Matsui.
“You want to run with us?”
“I’m Kogure Kiminobu from Shohoku.” Kogure kept his tone respectful—this was a third-year, after all.
“If that’s alright with you.”
Matsushita studied Matsui’s imposing frame for another moment, then shrugged.
“It’s a public court.
Let’s play.”
Warm-ups first—light jogging, dynamic stretching, a few practice shots.
The manager might be rusty, but he knew proper preparation.
Injury prevention 101.
While they stretched, the manager sketched out basic tactics based on their strengths: Matsui would anchor the paint with his size, the manager would handle playmaking, and Kogure would space the floor and move without the ball.
Simple, but it would work against unorganized competition.
One of the Tsukubu teams lost their game and rotated off.
The remaining squad featured Matsushita, Godai, and a lanky center named Kimura Hiroshi who looked about 190cm—respectable size, though dwarfed by Matsui.
“Our ball first,” Matsushita called, gesturing for them to check it up.
Kogure stood at the top of the key, basketball in hand.
He scanned the defense—Godai was guarding him, Matsushita had picked up the manager, and Kimura was trying to front Matsui.
Trying being the operative word.
Matsui was a full head taller and at least twenty kilos heavier.
Kogure passed to the manager, who immediately swung it to Matsui in the post.
Kogure and the manager cleared out, taking their defenders to the perimeter and leaving the paint empty.
Matsui pinned Kimura behind him with pure mass, established deep position, then went to work.
Bang.
The first back-down drove Kimura back half a step.
Bang.
The second forced him even farther from the basket. This story is hosted at g.com.
Matsui’s technique was crude—stiff footwork, no fakes, just raw power pushing through resistance.
It reminded Kogure of Uozumi’s style: overwhelm with physicality rather than finesse.
But when you had that much size advantage, finesse was optional.
Bang.
One more bump, and Matsui was under the basket.
He turned, elevated, and slammed the ball through the rim with enough force to drag the whole backboard down.
CLANG.
The sound echoed across the court.
The chain net rattled violently.
For a moment, Kogure thought the whole structure might collapse.
“Matsui-san, take it easy!” The manager laughed nervously.
“You break it, you buy it!”
Outdoor courts weren’t built for that kind of abuse—rusty supports, weather-damaged equipment, zero maintenance.
One too many dunks and the whole thing might come down.
Matsui landed with an apologetic grin.
“My bad.
Got carried away.”
Kimura looked shellshocked, still processing what had just happened.
“Don’t worry about it, Kimura.” Matsushita clapped him on the shoulder.
“Our ball.
Let’s answer back.”
Godai inbounded to Matsushita at the top of the key.
Immediately, Kimura sprinted to the corner—Matsui tried to follow, but his footwork was too slow, his conditioning shot after years away from competitive play.
Forty years old and over 200 pounds didn’t make for quick lateral movement.
Matsushita fired a pass to the open Kimura in the corner.
The lanky center caught, set his feet, and rose for the jumper before Matsui could recover.
Swish.
Perfect rotation, nothing but net.
“Nice shot!” Godai called.
Matsushita nodded in satisfaction.
As captain, he knew his teammates’ tendencies—Kimura’s corner three was his most reliable weapon.
Offense-defense transition.
Kogure caught the check and looked at the manager.
“Want to take this one?”
The manager’s eyes lit up with competitive fire.
“Absolutely.
Time to show you why they called me the ‘Tiger of Minowa’!”
He crouched into a ready stance, the Bulls #23 jersey stretching across shoulders that still remembered what it felt like to carry a team to a prefecture final.