Los Angeles | 2008
Bradley's POV
It happened when I was eight. It had been two years since I started playing ball, and I discovered I had a talent for it. My shot accuracy was around 54% from anywhere between the three-point line and the hoop. While that might seem bad when you're standing right below the rim, in the overall aspect, I was good—a little too good for a kid with no extreme athletic genes to speak of. Even when I checked my family history, nobody had been a well-known athlete. Sure, my father was six feet tall, but even in the army that was average. My mom was on the taller side for women at 5'9", but they were nothing like the muscled beasts that existed in the NBA or the WNBA.
With those things in mind, while slightly demotivated, I continued my path towards basketball in the hopes of becoming athletic and good enough to gain a scholarship to a good university. A luxury I did not have in my past life. Now it seemed possible, so I played to my heart's content, taking things as seriously as I could. I was good enough.
That's the thing, though, isn't it? I was just good enough, never a bar above it. No matter the amount of effort I put in, I was always considered just a good player, not a smart player or an athletic one. "Prodigy" was as far from my dictionary as America is from China. It never quite sat well with me. I had literally been given another chance by the divine, and yet I was still the drab old me. A better head-start, yes, but still… ordinary.
I wanted to be great like my Dad. He was a role model to me, and I wanted him to be proud. Being an orphan the last time around, my family in this life meant everything to me. That's why this ordinary existence cut so deep. Still, I chose to look at the positives and continued to give my all. I won local championships with my teammates, even went to the county level once, but that was it. All my dreams, perseverance, relentlessness, and ambitions amounted to being just good enough to be a county-level basketball player.
Who knows, maybe in the future when I grow more, I may be able to be better. Most basketball prodigies are only unearthed after puberty hits them hard and they become tall and lanky. I'd sometimes look in the mirror, searching for a sign of that future athlete. All I saw was a quiet kid with brown hair that never quite did what it was told and light blue eyes that probably saw more than they let on. My face was starting to take on a lean, angular shape, with a sharp, aquiline nose that Mom said gave me a "noble" look. It was the face of a thinker, a strategist—not the face of a powerhouse destined for the NBA. My genetic history did not give me much hope there either, so I focused on being a Point Guard. I loved it, too—formulating plays, executing them, being the King who manoeuvres the court as if it were my chessboard. Yet it was only good enough.
Then, on my eighth birthday, it happened.
STATUS
Name: Bradley Mark Naird
STR: 4
VIT: 6
AGI: 4
END: 5
DEX: 6
INT: 8
TITLES: TRANSMIGRATOR
TALENTS:SHARPSHOOTER...
It was the greatest shock of both my lives, even more than being reborn. I had read about this stuff in fiction, but to be a part of it was completely different. I tried talking to it, calling out, thinking—anything to make it heed my commands. But the only thing it did was appear when I thought of it and disappear when I wanted it to. There was no system, no AI, no entity, nothing. Not even so much as a tutorial or an expanded guide to help me understand the talents, the titles, or even any of the stats being displayed. It was just a hovering screen.
I decided then, if I couldn't mentally influence it, I would do so physically. I set up a training regimen just to see if my stats would change with time. That was the day I told my dad I wanted to go pro. I was unsure of it myself; despite the status screen, I had no guarantee I could achieve my ambition. Yet I felt the need to give voice and form to my dreams, to not be idle even after all the advantages I'd been given in this life.
Over the course of the next few months, I discovered that it did indeed reflect my physical attributes. When I exerted myself by running to the limit, my endurance would climb by a point. I experimented with my own status relative to other humans by using my Dad's gym equipment to quantify his strength. He could lift 176 lbs (80kg) in a bench press; I, on the other hand, could only do 20 lbs (9kg). This made me realize that each stat point represented around 5 lbs in strength, making my dad's STR approximately 35. He was nearly nine times stronger than I was. I later found out the national average for men was around 135 lbs, which puts the strength stat at 27 for an average human being.
Based on that, I calculated that all average stats would range anywhere between 23-27, and beyond 30 were people who were considered fit and healthy relative to their age. Myself, being an 8-year-old, couldn't have stats in the 30s because my body was not capable of it. Similarly, elderly people too would not have stats in the 30s because they were past their primes. I also surmised that high-level athletes had stats in the early 40s, while elite athletes were in the late 40s. Only legends like MJ, Kobe, LeBron, Giannis, Bolt, Phelps, and the like would touch the 50-point barrier.
I also realized that only a legendary few could maintain all their stats at 45 or above because no one can be good at everything all at once. Basketball players would have high END, AGI, and DEX, and maybe some like Shaq would have high STR, but it all depended on how one sculpted their body. When I stopped my rigorous study to understand my stats, I saw my endurance dropped because I wasn't working as hard as I used to.
With all this information in hand, I realized how much I would have to work in order to achieve my goals. The Stat window wasn't the cheat most fictional protagonists get to speedrun their way to the top. It was an edge, just like Michael Phelps having double the wingspan was his edge in becoming the greatest Olympian. Similar to how Shaq with his physique could dominate the NBA without having the same finesse as MJ or Kobe.
My edge was greater. It allowed me to have a map to focus on and transform myself into the perfect basketball player, and I would damn sure abuse it.
…
After three years of work, as I stood in my new room in LA, I could finally say that I now stood a chance of not only entering the NBA but also becoming a great player. That chance was enough to make me want to be not just great, but the greatest. After all, what's the point of playing if you don't have the ambition to be the best?
'Stats', I thought, and the screen appeared before me—a transparent, glass-like window, twelve inches diagonally, with letters printed in golden hues.
STATUS
Name: Bradley Mark Naird
STR: 11
VIT: 12
AGI: 13
END: 12
DEX: 11
INT: 25
TITLES: TRANSMIGRATOR
TALENTS:SHARPSHOOTER, MASTER STRATEGIST
Three years of regular work and eating as healthy as I possibly could had given me a fit body. It was only last year, after I started playing chess and grand strategy games, that I finally unlocked the Master Strategist talent. It was essentially a representation of my INT stat. Being a point guard, I had devised multiple plays with my teammates to better my gameplay. Both, coupled with my objective mind, had unveiled the talent. It also helped me be better at school with regard to my classes and other activities that required great use of the mind.
"BRADLEY MARK NAIRD, YOU GET DOWN RIGHT THIS INSTANT OR SO HELP ME GOD…" I was jolted from my thoughts as I heard Mom scream for me from downstairs. Ever since I got the Stat Window, I was prone to occasional bouts of being lost in my own head. My parents chalked it up to me just being a kid, but there were times where it would be too much even for them.
"SORRY MOM, I'LL BE RIGHT THERE!" I screamed back, jogging out of my room and heading down the stairs.
As I reached the bottom step, I saw my mom in the entryway talking to three adults I knew instantly, a jolt going through me that had nothing to do with a stat screen.
"There you are," Maggie said, her strained expression softening as she beckoned me over. "Bradley, honey, come say hello. We have guests."
I walked over, my mind racing. It's them. The Pritchetts and the Dunphys. Right here. I'm starting to really love this world, who knows how many more characters I will get to meet.
"Bradley," my mom continued, placing a hand on my shoulder, "these are some of our neighbours. This is Jay Pritchett, and this is Phil and Claire Dunphy."
"Hey there, champ!" a man with an impossibly enthusiastic grin—Phil Dunphy—said, extending his hand. "Great to finally meet the man of the hour! I see that basketball court got finished. It looks awesome!"
"It's nice to meet you, Bradley," Claire said with a polite, friendly smile that was a bit more reserved than her husband's.
"You remember me talking about Mr. Dunphy, Brad," Mom explained. "He was the wonderful realtor who helped us find this house." Then she gestured to the older man standing with his arms crossed. "And Jay lives right across the street."
Jay Pritchett looked exactly as I expected: gruff, imposing, and sizing me up with a critical eye. He offered a firm, no-nonsense handshake. "Mark's kid, huh? He's mentioned you play ball."
"Yes, sir," I managed, trying to keep my expression neutral despite the surrealness of the situation. "It's nice to meet you all."
"It's nice to meet you, Bradley," Claire said, her eyes warm. "So you'll be starting at Northwood Junior High next month?"
My mom's face lit up. "Oh, yes, he is! We were a little worried about him starting fresh."
Claire's smile widened. "Well, don't you worry. Our daughter, Alex, is in the same year. She can show him the ropes. It's a great school, though you have to stay on top of the PTA."
"Finally, someone who gets it!" Maggie said, and just like that, the two of them were off, diving into a conversation about class schedules and extracurriculars. It was a language I knew well, the instant camaraderie of mothers navigating the school system.
Just then, my dad walked in from the patio, a towel slung over his shoulder and a grinning Erin perched on his hip.
"Oh, and who is this little darling?" Claire gushed, her attention immediately captured. "You are just adorable!"
Erin gave a shy smile and buried her face in Dad's shoulder, her hair still damp from the pool.
While the women fussed over my sister, Jay's gaze met my father's across the room. He gave a short, respectful nod. "General."
Dad returned it with a small, appreciative smile. "Sergeant Major. Good to see you."
Sergeant Major? I never knew Jay's rank from the show, I thought, filing the new piece of information away.
Phil, seeing the exchange, clearly felt the need to join in. He puffed out his chest and threw a clumsy, enthusiastic salute in their direction. "Realtor Dunphy, reporting for... neighbourhood duty, sirs! Ready to welcome our new allies!"
Both Dad and Jay turned to look at him with the exact same, flat, stoic expression. A solid three seconds of awkward silence hung in the air, so thick I could practically see it.
Dad finally broke it with a slow blink, a flicker of amusement in his eyes. "Right," he said, shifting Erin in his arms. "Why don't we all head into the bar room? First round's on the Air Force."
As he walked away he signalled for me to join them as well.
Dad nodded towards a set of double doors. "Right this way."
He led the group into a room with rich, dark wood panelling and comfortable leather chairs. A well-stocked bar stood against the far wall. Still carrying Erin, Mark walked over to a plush sofa and gently set her down in front of a large television, handing her the remote and a small juice box from the mini fridge. "Apple juice, Captain," he said softly.
With Erin settled, he moved behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of single malt Scotch and three glasses. He poured a generous two fingers for himself and Jay, then hesitated for a moment before pouring one for Phil. He slid the glasses across the polished wood. "Scotch?"
"Don't mind if I do," Jay said, taking his glass. Phil beamed and accepted his.
Dad then looked at me. "Brad?"
"I'll take a sparkling water," I said. "Mojito flavoured, if you have it."
Dad smiled in amusement and pulled a can from the fridge, pouring it into a glass for me. As we all settled with our drinks, Jay swirled the amber liquid in his glass, his expression thoughtful.
"So, Mark," he began, his voice direct. "You'll have to forgive me for being blunt. What's a General doing buying a house out here? Figured you'd be living on-base."
Dad took a slow sip of his Scotch before answering, his gaze distant for a moment. "It was time," he said simply. "Maggie wanted a permanent home, a real one, away from the military clamour. A place the kids could actually grow up in without worrying about the next transfer order." He shrugged. "She was right. They needed some stability."
Phil, who had been listening intently, nodded enthusiastically. "Well, you can't argue with that logic. Family comes first, right?" He raised his glass. "And when the Mrs. puts her foot down, you put a 'SOLD' sign down."
A genuine chuckle escaped my dad's lips as he looked at Phil. "You're not wrong there, Phil. Not wrong at all."
Jay took a thoughtful sip of his Scotch, swirling the ice in his glass. "So, I've got a tee time at the club on Saturday. You play?"
Dad nodded. "I play. But I'll warn you, Jay, I'm not there to network. I've spent my life in a world where your rank is what you've earned, not who you know. I'm not much for kissing the rings of the rich and famous."
"Hey, no pressure!" Phil interjected, ever the cheerful mediator. "If the club's not your scene, there's plenty of other stuff. We've got the PTA, school fundraisers... a whole new battlefield of our own! It's going to be great, you'll see. With your Brad and our Alex in the same year at Northwood, and our Luke and your Erin in the same grade, they'll have a whole crew!"
Alex and Luke Dunphy, I thought, the pieces clicking into place. Of course.
Jay cleared his throat, taking the floor back from Phil. "And the school's about to get more crowded. Gloria's Manny will be starting there after the spring." He paused, a rare, almost shy look on his face. "I asked her to marry me last week."
This is it. This is the start of everything.
Jay looked directly at Dad, his expression serious. "Which brings me to my next point. The wedding's in the spring. I'd consider it an honour if you and your family would be there." He then glanced pointedly at Phil, a smirk playing on his lips. "Honestly, Mark, I'm going to need some real soldier energy around. The guest list is... soft."
I watched it all with fascination and felt myself becoming part of something truly exciting. I couldn't wait to interact with Alex, Hailey, Luke and Manny.