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He’s four years old, and he sees the court for the first time. There are much bigger boys darting back and forth across the concrete, stunningly quick. He hooks his fingers through the fence and presses his nose against it. Satsuki notices that he’s stopped and comes to stand with him, hooks her own fingers through the fence. Satsuki’s mother is with them. She smiles when she sees them watching, but she doesn’t see what they see.
He’s six years old, and he carries a ball that’s too big for him. The hoops scrape the sky, and it takes all his effort just to throw the ball high enough to reach it, much less aim. His steps are uncertain. His passes are clumsy, and his dribbling flies out of control more often than not. Satsuki matches him step for step, pink hair tied up in long pigtails, and plays with him. She stops to watch the older kids, sees how they play, works out the tricks. Her dress gets dirty. Her mom won’t be happy, but they get to play, and that’s all worth it.
He’s ten years old. He’s taller now, and stronger. The ball fits in his hands, and he can easily launch the ball all the way to the basket. He plays on the neighborhood courts with boys older and taller than him, and their skills are better, but he doesn’t know how to give up. He learns to send the ball spinning effortlessly from his fingers in free throws and layups and perfect passes. Satsuki still comes with him, but she doesn’t play anymore, not like she used to. She likes to watch, and she tells him everything she sees. Patterns and play styles, corrections and changes he can make. He takes her advice and runs with it, practicing until the moves come to him like breathing. His style evolves in the haze of summer, with laughter and sweat and scraped knees and popsicles.
He’s twelve years old. He goes to Teikou for one reason and one reason only: it prizes the game he loves. They’ll let him play for hours there. It’s expected, even—that he’ll give every practice, every pass, every shot his all. He rises to the challenge. He can’t do anything less; it’s not in his nature. Satsuki follows him, and she makes him better, like she always has; she makes everyone better. She watches with sharp eyes and does what she does best. He walks home with her late in the afternoon, when practice is long over, and everyone else is long gone. He wants to be better, like he always has. He wants to be the best.
He’s twelve years old, and he meets a ghost. Tetsu loves basketball just as much as he does, but Tetsu doesn’t have the same skills ingrained in his body, in his mind, in his soul. They spend hours in the empty gym, passing, dribbling, working out basics, working out tricks. Tetsu grows, his passion for the game brightening with every step he takes. Satsuki joins them sometimes. Mostly, she watches, eyes intent as she pulls apart their mistakes and makes them both better. But sometimes, she can be persuaded to come out on the court with them, take a few shots, and laugh when they swish through the net.
He’s thirteen, and he’s poured his heart into the game. He practices, running, running, running, laughing and yelling. He plays until his feet fly, his shots never miss, and it’s like the other players are standing still. He walks home with Satsuki and Tetsu, late into the night after long hours spent honing their unique skills. The others practice just as long and just as hard. They don’t have the same joy embedded in their DNA, but they don’t falter. They run countless drills, play innumerable scrimmages, spend hours upon hours developing and fine-tuning their skills. And it works. They win their first championship. They pour their blood and sweat into the game, pounding down the court and flashing through the plays. They win, and they celebrate, and the world opens up for them, until it feels like they’re walking on air.
He’s fourteen, and he’s head and shoulders above the rest, but he’s not alone. His teammates rise to meet him, just as bright, just as brilliant, and the games get easier. With Akashi on point, and Tetsu tying them together, they dance between their opponents, barely touching the ground, and now it’s only the other team that’s standing still. Akashi pushes them to get better, always reaching for some distant, indefinable goal. Kise chases after him, half-trained but determined to match him in their chosen craft. Midorima’s precision and determination pay off, showing in the way his shots get longer every time he steps onto the court. Murasakibara talks as if he doesn’t care, but he puts in the hours and the sweat and the pain just like the rest of them, and his defense becomes a solid wall. Together, they’re a machine, each of them covering each other’s gaps, leaving their opponents breathless.
The games get easier.
He’s fourteen, and things change. Akashi changes. The practice schedule changes. He no longer bothers with it—only the games are worth the effort. His skills outstrip those of anyone he plays. Even if they didn’t, he’s faster than anyone on the middle school circuit. They can’t beat what they can’t touch. He and Tetsu could beat most teams by themselves. With everyone else on the first string, it’s almost not worth playing. Any game is a foregone conclusion. They’re fast, they’re strong, they’re talented. Teikou goes undefeated. The only question is how they will win this time. The other teams begin to give up. The thrill has slipped away, and now the game he loves, the game he poured his soul into, is growing too easy.
Around them, people start to whisper miracle.
He’s fourteen, and they are blazing stars. It’s no wonder they win their second championship. Undefeated, unmatched, unmatchable. They win, time and again, and they’re walking on air—untouched. Untouchable. They are giants, they are kings, they are gods. No one can compete. Their title is uncontested: Miracle becomes their nickname. The world lays itself at their feet, but he doesn’t care. He’s stopped looking for the rush that he knows is no longer there. He held on for so long, hoping that something can save him, but it just isn’t worth it anymore. Victory means nothing when there is no chance of losing.
He gives up.
It isn’t until later that he realizes Tetsu has disappeared.
He’s fourteen, and everything falls apart.
He’s fifteen. He goes to Touou for one reason and one reason only: it will let him do whatever he wants. Satsuki follows him, like she always has, and becomes the manager, like she always is. She watches, pink hair tied up in a ponytail, and she makes them better, doing what she does best. But she can’t make him better, not anymore, not when he’s already the best. He’s king of any court he stands on, and nothing can alleviate the boredom, not when he can dart past opponents as though they’re standing still. He’s the best, just like he’s always wanted, but the victory is hollow. He wanted to be the best, but he never wanted this.
He’s fifteen, and a challenger rises from nowhere. He’s strong. He has potential. He has Tetsu by his side and fire in his soul, a fierce, breathless love for the game that brings back memories of laughter, scraped knees, and bright, hot summer days.
It isn’t enough.
He’s fifteen, and Kagami rises to meet him on his own ground, just like his teammates did so long ago. Touou has blown effortlessly through the tournament so far, coasting by teams that don’t have the same talent and the same ingrained skill. Seirin is the first real challenge. Kagami is the first real challenge he’s had in years. Kagami has something no one else did, not even his old teammates. No one has the same passion for the game…no one except himself and Tetsu. He has to fight for it, and he grins as he does it, feeling the edge of the rush that he hasn’t felt since his second year at Teikou. Since before the name miracle.
He’s fifteen, and he loses.
He’d forgotten what it felt like.
He’s fifteen. Touou lost, and they have to move on. The third years retire, dreams unrealized, and it’s strange to him. He almost mentions it to Satsuki, but the words stick in his throat. Satsuki doesn’t say anything about the game. They walk home together, and she watches him, but she doesn’t speak. He replays the final moments of the game again in his head, that last ferocious clash between giants. He doesn’t have to ask what she wants from him. Satsuki watches—it’s what she does best. She saw those last few moments as clearly as he did. She knows that he was happier then than he has been since he realized his opponents were giving up before the game began. This game was a struggle. Kagami demanded his full effort. The outcome wasn’t fixed.
It was a game again.
He’s sixteen years old, and he’s back at practice, honing his skills to meet Kagami’s challenge. He’s looking forward to the next game. He thinks he’s even looking forward to meeting the other miracles on the court again, ready to try with fresh determination to push them to their limits. He’s still far above the rest of his team, who are in turn far above the rest of Japan, but he can work with this. The fire is back in his soul—smaller, maybe, and fragile, but it’s there. He steps onto the court with the swish of the net echoing in his ears, and he looks to the future.
He’s sixteen years old, and he’s not bored anymore.