The video was titled: "IS THIS THE FUTURE OF BASKETBALL? MEET THE ROBOT COACH." It had been uploaded to a local sports vlog channel late Sunday night. By Monday afternoon, it had ten thousand views.
Alex found out about it when Principal Evans summoned him to his office. The principal's face was pale, his computer screen tilted toward Alex. On it, the vlogger was narrating clips from the Southside game, his voice dripping with mockery.
"...and here we see the Northwood Titans, or as I'm calling them, the 'Algorithm All-Stars.' Watch their coach, former NBA pariah Alex Corbin, literally screaming percentages from the sideline. 'Force him left! Thirty-four percent!' Is he coaching a basketball team or day-trading stocks?"
The clip cut to Alex during a timeout, drawing on his board with frantic intensity. "He's not giving a pep talk, folks. He's running a regression analysis. And the result? A 16-point loss. So much for the power of data."
The video ended with a smug conclusion. "Maybe Coach Corbin should learn that sports are played with heart, not a calculator. What do you think, folks? Robot or revolutionary? Let us know in the comments!"
The comments were a bloodbath.
"This is so sad. Let the kids play!"
"LMAO he benched his star for taking a 'low percentage shot' in a high school game!"
"This is why he got fired from the NBA. Dude has the emotional intelligence of a toaster."
"Northwood should be embarrassed."
Principal Evans massaged his temples. "Mr. Corbin, what is this?"
"It's a selective edit from a game where we competed against the best team in the conference," Alex said, his voice tight. He could feel the walls closing in again. The narrative was being written, and it was the same one that had destroyed him before.
"He calls you a 'robot'," Evans said, gesturing weakly at the screen. "The comments… the parents are calling. The school board is asking questions. This is not the kind of attention we need."
"We lost by sixteen. The spread was thirty-five," Alex countered, the analyst in him seizing the most defensible metric. "We beat the expectation by nineteen points. That's a statistical victory."
"This isn't about statistics!" Evans snapped, his composure breaking. "This is about perception! This is about the soul of our school!"
The same old argument. The same unbridgeable canyon between his truth and theirs.
"What would you have me do?" Alex asked, a cold edge to his voice.
"Just… tone it down," Evans pleaded. "Be a normal coach. Give a speech about teamwork. Stop yelling numbers."
Alex left the office, the familiar weight of public disgrace settling on his shoulders. It followed him down the hall, where students whispered and pointed. It was in the gym, where his team was already waiting, their phones in their hands. They had seen it.
The atmosphere was toxic. Marcus stood at the center of a small group, a triumphant smirk on his face. "Told you," he said loudly. "We're a laughingstock."
Ben was hunched on the bleachers, looking like he wanted to disappear. Diego was uncharacteristically quiet, scrolling through the comments on his phone.
Alex walked to the center of the court and blew his whistle. The sound was sharp, final.
"I assume you've all seen the video," he began, dispensing with any pretense.
"Yeah, we've seen it," Marcus said, crossing his arms. "They're calling you a robot. They're calling us drones."
"And what do you think?" Alex asked, his gaze sweeping over them. "When you were in the corner against Southside, Diego, and you hit that three, did you feel like a drone? Or did you feel confident because you knew, based on the defensive alignment, that it was the right shot?"
Diego looked up, conflicted. "I… I felt good."
"When you forced Reynolds left, Marcus, and he missed that jumper, did you feel like a robot? Or did you feel like you'd executed a winning strategy?"
Marcus scowled, but didn't have a retort.
"The outside noise doesn't matter," Alex said, and for the first time, he almost believed it. He was defending his system, not just to them, but to himself. "The only thing that matters is what happens in this gym. The only opinion that matters is the one of the guy standing next to you. They can call me whatever they want. But they aren't in the fight. We are."
He picked up a basketball. "The video is right about one thing. We did lose. But we lost because we only trusted the system for one half. Today, we're going to learn to trust it for a full thirty-two minutes. Now, line up. We're running the Ninety-Eight Percent Drill until it's all you dream about."
The grumbling started again, but it was weaker. The mockery from the outside world had, paradoxically, given Alex's internal battle a common enemy. They were being mocked together.
As they began the drill, Alex's phone buzzed. It was an unknown number. He almost ignored it, but a gut feeling made him answer.
"Alex Corbin?" a smooth, familiar voice said. It was a voice from his nightmares.
"Who is this?"
"It's Vance Sterling. Saw a fascinating video pop up on my feed. It seems you've found a new… laboratory for your experiments."
Alex's blood ran cold. Vance Sterling. The GM who had blacklisted him. The architect of his ruin.
"What do you want, Vance?"
"Just checking in, Alex. It's a small world. And the basketball world is even smaller. I'd hate to see you get everyone's hopes up again." The line went dead.
Sterling wasn't just watching. He was sending a message. The past wasn't done with him. The fight wasn't just on the court anymore. It was everywhere.
And as Alex watched Ben confidently catch a pass and score another 99% layup, he knew one thing with absolute certainty: he couldn't afford to lose this time.