"Thump, thump, thump!"
In the stillness of midnight, the rhythmic sound of a basketball striking the hardwood echoed through the empty Stockton gym.
Dejounte Murray, who had just been reassigned that afternoon, was training hard in a black compression shirt, sweat streaming down his face.
"Still here?"
A sudden voice broke through the silence.
Caris LeVert walked in slowly, a huge basketball backpack slung over his shoulder.
"Couldn't sleep anyway, so I figured I'd get some extra work in."
Murray stopped his drills when he saw him and walked over.
"The moment I heard you were back in Stockton, I knew you'd be here tonight. Knew it."
LeVert set his bag down, pulled out a sports drink, and tossed it to Murray.
"Don't stress about it too much. You're back now—just play your game. You'll get another shot in Sacramento."
Murray took a sip from the bottle. "I'm not upset. Actually, I'm excited!"
"Excited?!"
LeVert looked at him in disbelief.
Ever since Murray joined the team, he'd always carried that cold, cocky attitude—someone you couldn't easily approach. Usually, only LeVert, the easygoing one, could get a few words out of him.
Word was, Coach Malone had torn into him yesterday, sending him packing back to Stockton.
And now he's excited?
Wait... could this guy secretly be one of those weirdos who gets off on punishment or something?
"What the hell are you thinking?"
Murray cut him off sharply, catching the confused look on LeVert's face.
He glanced at the clock. "Whatever, I've got time tonight. Let me tell you my story."
"Alright, I'm all ears."
LeVert perked up and followed him to the sideline benches, eager for a story.
"Hmm... where should I start?"
Murray thought for a moment, then began.
"You probably know—I'm from Seattle. Grew up in one of those rough, mostly Black neighborhoods."
"Where I come from, kids usually only have two choices: sell drugs or join a gang. Back then, I figured I'd end up in a gang too."
"Until I met someone in middle school."
"I know who that is!" LeVert cut in. "Seattle's basketball godfather—Jamal Crawford!"
If Seattle had a "Son of the City," that would be Kevin Durant, the former Sonics prodigy.
But if you asked Seattle's kids who the greatest player was, ninety-nine percent would say Jamal Crawford.
Born on the streets, Crawford made his name in local pickup games and became a mentor to countless Seattle youths, guiding them away from drugs and crime toward professional basketball.
"That's him."
Murray nodded. "Back when I was just a punk hanging around the streets, he brought me into his camp—free training, free meals, free place to stay. Later, thanks to his recommendation, I got into a semi-pro league in Seattle."
Murray's tone softened slightly.
"I don't know if you've ever played in a semi-pro league—especially one that feels like streetball—but that place was like the Roman Colosseum."
"The refs barely called fouls. Everyone played like wild beasts, clawing at each other. You only won by completely breaking your opponent."
"So when I got out of that league, I understood something—basketball is about destruction. Victory is the only reason you step onto the court."
A sharp gleam flashed in Murray's eyes, wild and predatory, like a tiger ready to pounce.
"So, Caris," he said, looking straight at LeVert. "You know what hit me hardest during my time with the first team?"
"What?"
LeVert leaned in, curious about the team he'd always dreamed of joining.
"How strong they are. Unbelievably strong."
Murray's voice trembled, a mix of awe and excitement.
"Before the season started, I trained with them and played in an intra-squad scrimmage. They were monsters! I couldn't keep up. No open looks. Couldn't even dribble past half court!"
"That's when I realized—I'd been a frog in a well this whole time. The world out there is so much bigger!"
He turned to LeVert, eyes burning with passion.
"Do you get it? That's where I belong! I'm going to fight my way back—become one of them, and one day, surpass them! That's what a real man does!"
LeVert stared at the ecstatic Murray, one thought crossing his mind.
Basketball lunatic.
This guy's insane! Doesn't he have anything else in his life?
Then again, his mentor Crawford once played basketball on the night of his bachelor party. So, yeah... maybe it runs in the blood.
Still, LeVert felt his own fighting spirit stir.
Every NBA player had their own Jordan story. And as the pride of his hometown, LeVert wanted to write his own.
"That's the spirit!"
LeVert stood up, stretching his arms.
"Dejounte! Since we're both here, how about some one-on-one?"
"Bring it on! Who's afraid of who?"
The streetballer in Murray lit up immediately, and he jumped to his feet.
"I thought you were just a nice guy who played off-ball. You really think you can take me? I'll have you shaved bald by the end of this!"
"We'll see who ends up bald!" LeVert shot back with a grin.
"Don't forget—I was the 20th pick! You're just a 29th pick acting all tough!"
...
This wasn't an isolated scene. Similar moments were happening all over—across Stockton, across Sacramento.
One after another, young players were out under the night sky, pushing their limits, honing their craft.
Starters, rotation players, benchwarmers, even G League prospects—all of them were grinding, desperate to earn their place on this roaring, steam-whistling Galactic Warship that was about to set sail.