The Northwood locker room after the Southside game was a place of strange, conflicting energies. It wasn't the morgue of their previous sixteen losses. A low hum of conversation filled the air, punctuated by the clatter of gear being stuffed into bags and sidelong glances thrown Alex's way. They had lost, but they had also seen a ghost—the ghost of a chance.
Marcus was the first to break the unspoken truce. "We still lost," he announced to the room, slamming his locker shut. The metallic bang silenced the murmurs. "All that number crap, and we still lost. We looked like robots."
A few players grunted in agreement. Diego, still riding the high of his three-pointers, shrugged. "We scored more in the second half than we did in the whole first. My shot was feeling good."
"Because he told you it would be!" Marcus shot back, pointing a thumb at Alex, who was quietly observing from the corner. "You didn't feel it. You just obeyed. Since when are we drones?"
The fragile curiosity was about to shatter into rebellion. Alex knew this was the moment. He couldn't just be a strategist; he had to be a leader. He had to make them believe in the one thing they couldn't see.
"Ben," Alex said, his voice cutting through the tension. All eyes turned to him, then to the tall, lumbering center. Ben flinched, as if being called out was a punishment.
"Y-yeah, Coach?"
"At the start of the fourth quarter," Alex began, his tone flat and analytical, "you got an offensive rebound. You were two feet from the hoop, unguarded. What was the play?"
Ben's face scrunched in confusion. "I... I passed it out to Samir."
"Why?"
"Because... Marcus was cutting," Ben said, less sure now.
Alex shook his head. "No. Marcus was covered. His defender was right on his hip. If you had passed it to him, the probability of a turnover was eighty-seven percent. The probability of him making a contested layup was thirty-two percent." He paused, letting the numbers hang in the air. "But if you had gone straight back up with the ball, your probability of scoring was ninety-eight percent."
The locker room was dead silent. They weren't just hearing criticism; they were hearing a different language, a replay of the game they had just played, narrated by a cold, all-seeing eye.
"A ninety-eight percent layup," Alex repeated, looking not just at Ben, but at every player. "That's not a good shot. That's a guaranteed two points. We left at least six of those on the court tonight. That's twelve points. We lost by sixteen. You do the math."
He let that sink in. The loss wasn't because of his system; it was because they had failed to fully trust it.
"On Monday," Alex continued, "we're not working on flashy crossovers or contested jumpers. We're going to do one drill. We're going to practice ninety-eight percent layups. Until making them is a reflex. Until passing one up feels as wrong as kicking a basketball."
He stood up, grabbing his worn-out clipboard. "Marcus is right. This only works if you believe it. But belief starts with proof. I just gave you the proof. The choice is yours."
He walked out of the locker room, leaving them in a silence louder than any crowd.
The following Monday, the energy in the Northwood gym was different. There was a reluctant purpose. Alex stood under the basket, a ball in his hand.
"The Ninety-Eight Percent Drill," he announced. "It's simple."
He had Diego drive the lane and, instead of attempting a difficult, acrobatic layup, drop-passed it to Ben, who was planted under the rim. Ben caught it, jumped straight up, and laid the ball gently off the glass. Swish.
99%.
"Again," Alex commanded.
They ran it over and over. Drive, draw the defender, drop-pass, simple finish. It was boring. It was fundamental. It was the antithesis of everything highlight-reel culture had taught them.
Marcus went through the motions with a theatrical sigh. "This is baby stuff, Coach."
"Is it?" Alex retorted, not taking the bait. "Then you should be able to do it perfectly every time. Let's see it."
Grudgingly, the team practiced. At first, the passes were off. The finishes were rushed. But slowly, a rhythm emerged. They started to see the openings Alex was talking about—not the flashy paths, but the simple, efficient ones. The geometry of victory.
During a water break, Samir, the timid point guard, approached Alex. "Coach? That pass from the high post... the ninety-one percent one. Can we... can we practice that too?"
It was a small question. But it was a seismic shift. It was the first time a player had actively asked for the system.
Alex looked at Samir, a flicker of something warm cutting through the constant cold analysis in his mind. "Yeah, Samir," he said. "We can."
As practice resumed, Alex watched them. He saw Marcus, still scowling, but making the correct, boring pass instead of the difficult, heroic shot. He saw Ben's shoulders slowly un-hunch, a tiny spark of confidence igniting every time a 99% turned into two points.
They weren't a team yet. But they were no longer just ten individuals. They were becoming a system. A machine learning to execute its code.
And in the quiet of the gym, surrounded by the echoing sounds of simple, fundamental basketball, Alex Corbin allowed himself a single, private thought.
This might actually work.