The Pasadena Collegiate Institute apartment provided to him years ago feels more like a rented motel room than a home. The blinds are crooked, the carpet threadbare, and the air still carries the sour smell of last night's whiskey. An empty bottle of rye on the counter, a glass still half full. He hadn't even bothered to clean up.
On the coffee table lies a folder he didn't bother closing: the letter from the university president, polite and cold, thanking him for his service. Service.Ach, du lieber Himmel! That was the word they used – as if he had been a groundskeeper, not the man who dragged their no-name program from Division II obscurity to the brink of national relevance. Four Elite Eight runs, a style of play copied across the country, and yet Pasadena never gave him the resources – no proper practice facility, no recruiting budget, no serious athletic director behind him. He'd argued with them for years. After last night, there was nothing left to argue about.
The television hums in the corner, muted. Highlights of March Madness roll on: nets cut down, students storming courts, CBS trumpets blaring for coaches who will be remembered. He watches the flickering light but doesn't listen. At sixty, he doesn't have the energy for noise.
No calls came this morning. No NBA front office dialing him up, no big-time Division I school offering a lifeline. For a decade he had been whispered about as the outsider genius, someone who had the potential to finally solve basketball. Now the whispers are gone. His phone sits dark on the counter.
He lowers himself into his old armchair, knees aching, back stiff. His eyes drift to the framed photograph of his playing days in East Germany: a young man in a black-and-white jersey, six feet and seven inches, face sharp and handsome, eyes fierce, standing beneath the flag of a country that no longer exists. He remembers his coach in Leipzig telling him, "The system will eat you alive. You can't fight it forever." Back then, he thought it meant communism. Now he knows better. Systems wear different masks.
"Maybe this is retirement," he mutters to the empty room. "Maybe not. I don't even know."
A knock at the door broke the stillness.
"Who the hell… eviction already?"
No answer. Another knock. Then a woman's voice, lightly accented: "Mr. Kuhlmann? My name is Michiko Okubo. I was sent by my employer to invite you to a private meeting. He has a very special offer."
Curiosity won. He opened the door and immediately regretted it – unshaven, unkempt, smelling of stale liquor. The young pretty Japanese woman in front of him tried not to show her reaction, but her expression shifted between politeness and discomfort.
"Sorry for the look," he said. "Didn't expect company. How can I help you?"
"There is no need to apologize, Mr. Kuhlmann. I should apologize for coming unannounced. But the matter is urgent. My employer wishes to meet you."
"And who might that be?"
"Uchina Goro. He is the owner of Uchina Group."
"A business mogul. Strange company for a washed-up coach."
"I cannot tell you more. But Mr. Goro does not like to be kept waiting."
He considered. He had nothing better to do. "When?"
"Preferably now. But if you need time… an hour and a half at most. Annandale Golf Club. Please make yourself presentable. I'll wait here. A car will take us."
Half an hour later, drowning in cologne, he stepped outside again. Michiko hadn't moved an inch. Without a word, she led him to a waiting Rolls-Royce. The chauffeur bowed deeply to her, then opened the rear door. Students nearby gawked. Kuhlmann ducked inside quickly, preferring not to feed campus gossip.
The ride passed in silence. He drifted into sleep and woke as they arrived. The driver opened his door first. He stretched stiff limbs and followed Michiko onto an eerily empty course.
In the distance, a lone figure hacked at golf balls with more force than skill. Spotting them, the man tossed his club aside with visible relief.
Uchina Goro was tall for a Japanese man – half a head shorter than Kuhlmann's tall frame – but otherwise unremarkable in appearance. His smile, however, was broad and practiced.
"Ah, Mr. Erik Kuhlmann! Finally, I meet the legendary coach himself. I've followed your career since Pasadena's first Division I run – 2006, wasn't it?"
Kuhlmann shook his hand, skeptical. "Mr. Goro. A pleasure. Though I don't think we've crossed paths before."
"No, but I know greatness when I see it." Goro gestured toward a tent set with refreshments. Michiko poured sparkling water.
"Before business," Goro said, raising his glass, "let's talk. How much do you know about Japanese basketball?"
"Not much. It's not the top sport, and from what I've heard, the leagues aren't exactly stable."
"'Unstable' is generous. It's a fucking disaster." His voice cracked like a whip, startling even Michiko. For a moment his hand clenched the glass as if it might shatter. Then he calmed, fixing Kuhlmann with an intense gaze.
"Since 2000, Japan's national team has faced the Philippines fifteen times. We've lost twelve. Economically, we are far stronger, yet on the court we are humiliated. Why, in your view?"
Kuhlmann thought for a moment. "Passion and experience. Filipinos grow up living basketball, competing constantly. Japan emphasizes extracurriculars, but not the same volume of competition. Kids here just don't get enough real games."
Goro's lips curled into a grin. "Exactly. That is why you are perfect." He snapped his fingers. "Michiko, the footage."
She set a laptop before him. On screen: a middle school championship game. A rainbow-haired team of prodigies obliterated their opponents 200–32.
"The 'Generation of Miracles,'" Goro said. "Japan's supposed hope. What do you see?"
Kuhlmann leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Honestly? A mess. Physically dominant, yes, but tactically raw. No team defense, no basic schemes. Individually…" he ticked off names and flaws: undersized point guard, one-dimensional shooter, flashy ball hog, raw streetball athlete, lazy but gifted big man. "At best, two of them could become real players with proper coaching. The rest? Overhyped kids."
Silence. Goro and Michiko stared, stunned. Kuhlmann leaned back, almost regretting his bluntness.
Then Goro laughed – a sharp, hysterical bark. "Perfect! That's why you're here."
Kuhlmann frowned. "So you want me to coach them?"
"Coach them? No. I want you to fuck them up. To show the kids how vast the world is and that they are nothing more but frogs at the bottom of a well."
"…Excuse me?"
"I am founding a new boarding high school in Okinawa. A system to reinvent Japanese basketball, tied to professional reform across Asia and all of the East. Soon, the leagues in Japan will merge – under my guidance. But first, I need a demonstration. Assemble a team of foreign players. Win everything in Japan and Eastern Asia. Prove what real basketball looks like. If you succeed, you'll become the commissioner of the new league."
Kuhlmann raised an eyebrow. "And resources?"
"Whatever you need. Within reason. We'll negotiate details later."
He sat in silence, weighing it. No calls were coming from the NBA. No lifelines from D-I. His old coach's words echoed again: One door closes, another opens.
Finally, he met Goro's gaze. "Na ja… All right. You've got me. Let's start."