Coach dropped a surprise: mandatory "heritage drill" at Old Man Joe's original court, now preserved as a community landmark. The rim still sagged left, the paint chipped, a rusted sign reading NO DUNKING hanging crookedly.
"100 makes," he said. "First to finish picks dinner."
Wembanyama went first, lining up with military precision. His first shot clanged off the right rim. Second, same spot. By the 15th miss, he was red-faced, muttering in French. "This isn't basketball," he said, kicking the court's cracked concrete. "It's a farce."
Lin Mo, leaning against the rusted sign, tossed him a ball. "Joe used to say, 'A hoop that don't fight back ain't worth shooting on.'" He demonstrated: a lazy arc, left of center, letting the rim's warp guide it in. "You're aiming for perfect. Aim for this rim."
Wembanyama tried, his arm stiff as a board. The ball hit the backboard, bounced off the rim, and rolled away. "I don't aim for flaws," he said. "I eliminate them."
Lin Mo nodded at a group of kids watching from the fence, one in a wheelchair cheering. "That kid? He can't reach the standard hoop. Joe raised this one 6 inches for him. Flaws aren't mistakes. They're just… space for someone else."
Something flickered in Wembanyama's eyes. He watched the kid in the wheelchair, then the rim, then adjusted his stance—slightly left, elbow looser. The ball grazed the rim, spun once, and fell through.
He stared at his hands, like they'd betrayed him. "One make," he mumbled.
Lin Mo grinned. "Now you're learning to see the rim. Not the idea of it."
That night, Wembanyama's wristband got a new stitch: a tiny, sagging hoop. He didn't tell anyone, but he traced it before bed, like a secret.