What's the point of all this?
The question echoed in Markus Reinhart's mind as his worn Nikes slapped against cracked concrete. He dribbled mechanically down the empty court, the dying sunlight casting long shadows across the aging asphalt. The public court in east Detroit had seen better days – chainlink fencing partially collapsed, rims bent just enough to reject anything but a perfect swish, bullet holes decorating the backboard like morbid confetti.
Fifteen years old, and already tired. Not the physical fatigue that came from running suicides or the burning in his legs after a tough game. A deeper exhaustion. The kind that settled in your bones and whispered that some dreams weren't meant for kids from neighborhoods like his.
What if this is as good as it gets?
His shot clanked off the rim, the basketball bouncing away with seeming indifference. Markus didn't chase it. Instead, he stared at the orange sphere as if it held answers to questions he couldn't even properly form.
Five-thirty. He needed to get home. His mom would be leaving for her night shift soon.
Their apartment occupied the third floor of a building that had once been stately, now crumbling under decades of neglect. The elevator hadn't worked since Markus was in elementary school. He took the stairs two at a time, passing graffiti that marked territory, messages scrawled by people desperate to claim ownership of something.
"Mom?" He called out as he entered, tossing his backpack onto the threadbare couch.
Lisa Reinhart appeared from the narrow kitchen, hair already pulled back for her shift at the hospital. Not a nurse – though she'd once dreamed of it – but part of the cleaning staff. The job paid just enough to keep them afloat, especially with her weekend shifts at the convenience store.
"There you are," she said, eyes tired but warm. Always warm when they looked at him. "Dinner's in the microwave. Just pasta tonight."
"That's fine."
"Did you practice today?" She asked the question casually, but Markus knew what sat beneath it. His mother had sacrificed everything for him, worked herself to exhaustion so he could have a shot at something better. Basketball had always been that something. His ticket out.
"Yeah," he lied, the word bitter on his tongue. He had gone to the court, yes, but had mostly just stood there, wondering if any of it mattered.
She nodded, glancing at the clock on the microwave. "I've got to go. Don't stay up too late, okay? Coach Rivera said the scouts from Central might come to your game next week."
Central High School – not a basketball powerhouse, but better than East Side, where gunshots sometimes interrupted practice. A transfer there would mean better coaching, better exposure, perhaps even a path to a decent college.
"I know, Mom. I'll be ready."
She kissed his forehead – he was already taller than her – and grabbed her purse. "There's money for lunch tomorrow on the counter. Your cousin might stop by. He said something about new shoes for you."
Marcus, his mother's nephew, the only family member who hadn't written them off after his father left. A decent guy who ran with people who weren't. But he looked out for Markus, especially where basketball was concerned.
"Thanks, Mom."
When the door closed behind her, the apartment felt suddenly vast and empty. Markus heated his pasta, ate mechanically, then sprawled on the couch, textbook open but unread on his chest as the TV murmured in the background.
His phone buzzed. DeAndre from school.
U coming to Rico's tonight? Everyone's gonna be there
Rico's meant drinking. Meant guys from the neighbourhood showing off guns they had no business owning. Meant girls who looked for boys headed somewhere other than jail or the cemetery.
Can't. Studying.
DeAndre's response came quickly: Since when u care about school? Thought u was gonna be NBA
The words stung more than they should have. Markus turned off his phone.
On the TV, NBA highlights played. Men who seemed to defy gravity, earning more money in a game than his mother would see in years. Once, he'd believed he could be one of them. Lately, the gap between their reality and his felt like the Grand Canyon – unbridgeable.
His gaze drifted to the window, to the flickering sign of the convenience store across the street. Maybe he should just quit now. Get a job. Help his mother with bills. Stop chasing something that moved further away with each passing day.
By sixteen, his father had already been slinging drugs on these same streets. By nineteen, he'd vanished back to Switzerland, leaving behind a pregnant girlfriend and promises as worthless as counterfeit bills.
Maybe that's all Reinhart men are good for – disappearing when things get hard.
The thought was interrupted by a knock at the door.
Markus tensed. Nobody visited this late except trouble. He considered ignoring it, but the knock came again, more insistent.
"Who is it?" he called, approaching cautiously.
"Your cousin," came the reply, but it wasn't Marcus's voice.
Markus peered through the peephole. A man stood there, Asian, maybe fifty, with close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair and posture like a steel rod. He wore a simple black jacket and jeans, nothing flashy. No one Markus recognized.
"I don't have a cousin who looks like you," Markus called through the door.
A small smile creased the man's face. "Marcus sent me. My name is Hiroshi Tanaka. I would like to speak with you about your future, Markus Reinhart."
Something in the man's calm certainty gave Markus pause. He should send him away. Instead, curiosity overcame caution, and he opened the door, though only partway, ready to slam it shut if needed.
"How do you know Marcus?" Markus demanded.
"His car needed repair. I own the garage on Vernor Highway." The man—Hiroshi—spoke with a faint accent, his English precise. "He speaks highly of his cousin, the basketball player. Says you have potential but are losing your way."
Markus scowled. "Marcus should mind his business."
"Perhaps. May I come in?"
"No." Markus wasn't that foolish. "Say what you need to say."
Hiroshi nodded, seemingly unsurprised by the suspicion. "I saw you play last month against Western. You move differently than the others. Economy of motion. Good spatial awareness. But your mind betrays you."
Markus bristled. "You don't know anything about me."
"I know you're considering quitting. I know you believe your ceiling is lower than it actually is."
The accuracy of the statement left Markus momentarily speechless. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," Hiroshi said simply. "I have a proposition. Come to my dojo tomorrow after school. See if what I offer has value to you."
"Your dojo? I'm not interested in karate or whatever."
"Neither am I, in the way you're thinking." Hiroshi reached into his pocket. Markus tensed, but the man only produced a simple business card. "Tomorrow. Four o'clock. One visit. If you find no value, you never have to see me again."
Markus took the card reluctantly. "Tanaka's Auto Repair & Martial Arts."
"An unusual combination, I know." For the first time, humour flickered in Hiroshi's eyes.
"I don't have money for lessons."
"Did I mention payment?" Hiroshi stepped back. "Four o'clock, Markus Reinhart. One hour of your time. Then decide if you wish to disappear like your father, or become something else entirely."
The mention of his father sent a jolt of anger through Markus. "You don't know shit about my father."
"I know enough." Hiroshi's gaze was steady, unflinching. "I know that bloodlines are suggestions, not destinies. Tomorrow, four o'clock."
He turned and walked away, his footsteps eerily quiet on the creaking hallway floor.
Markus closed the door, his heart racing with indignation and, beneath it, a flicker of something he hadn't felt in months.
Curiosity.
School the next day passed in a blur. East Side High was a place of metal detectors and teachers who had long ago replaced passion with survival. Markus moved through it like a ghost, the business card burning a hole in his pocket.
He wouldn't go. It was stupid. Some strange man appears at his door, talking cryptically about potential and destiny? Probably running some scam. Or worse. It was Detroid after all.
Yet at 3:50, he found himself walking down Vernor Highway, toward the address on the card.
Tanaka's occupied a corner lot – an auto repair shop connected to what had once been a small storefront, now converted into something else. No flashy signs advertising martial arts, just a simple character painted beside the door that hadn't been visible in the business card's tiny print.
Markus hesitated at the entrance, then pushed through the door.
A bell chimed softly. The interior was nothing like he'd expected. No mirrors or workout equipment. Just a large open space with wooden floors worn smooth by years of use. At the far end, surrounded by potted plants that seemed out of place in Detroit's urban landscape, Hiroshi Tanaka sat cross-legged on a mat, eyes closed.
"You're early," he said without opening his eyes.
"I can come back later," Markus replied, already retreating.
"I said you're early. I didn't say you weren't welcome." Hiroshi's eyes opened. "Remove your shoes and join me."
"Look, I don't think—"
"That is the problem," Hiroshi interrupted. "Too much thinking. Not enough feeling." He gestured to the space across from him. "Sit."
Something in his tone brooked no argument. Markus found himself removing his shoes, crossing the polished floor, and awkwardly lowering himself to sit cross-legged opposite the man.
"Your posture is terrible," Hiroshi observed. "Shoulders curved inward. Protecting yourself from imagined blows."
"I didn't come here for a posture lesson."
"Why did you come?"
The question hung in the air. Markus didn't have a good answer. "Marcus thought—"
"Not Marcus. You. Why are you here, Markus Reinhart?"
The question seemed simple but felt impossible to answer. Finally, Markus offered the only truth he could. "I don't know."
Hiroshi nodded, as if this were the correct response. "Good. Honesty is where we begin."
"Begin what?"
Instead of answering, Hiroshi rose to his feet in a single fluid motion that seemed to defy his age. "Stand up."
Markus complied, feeling awkward and gangly next to the man's composed presence.
"You wish to quit basketball," Hiroshi stated.
"I never said that."
"You didn't need to. It's in how you move, how you hold yourself. The passion is dying." Hiroshi began to circle him slowly. "You have unusual gifts. Your height is not exceptional, but your proportions are ideal. Your hands are made for precise control. Your center of gravity is naturally low for someone your height. But your mind..."
He tapped Markus lightly on the temple. "Your mind betrays your body. It tells you lies about your limitations."
"You don't know what my mind tells me," Markus snapped.
"Then tell me. What does it say when you stand on that court?"
The direct question caught Markus off guard. He could lie, but something about Hiroshi's unwavering gaze made him uncomfortable with dishonesty.
"It says... it says I'm not good enough. That I'm wasting my time. That guys like me don't make it out."
"And you believe these thoughts?"
"They're not just thoughts. They're facts. Look at the odds, man. Thousands of kids playing ball, and what, maybe five from a city like Detroit make it to the league each year? And those guys are freaks. Seven-footers or dudes who can jump out of the gym."
Hiroshi nodded. "The mind loves statistics. Probability. It seeks to protect you from disappointment by lowering expectations." He stepped closer. "But what does your body tell you? When you're alone on the court at dawn, when thought is quiet, what do you feel?"
The question struck a chord. Markus remembered mornings from years ago, before doubt had crept in, when he'd sneak out to practice while the neighbourhood still slept. The ball an extension of his hands, his body knowing where to move before his mind could direct it.
"It used to feel... right." The words came reluctantly. "Like I was doing what I was supposed to do."
"And now?"
"Now it feels pointless."
Hiroshi's expression didn't change, but disappointment seemed to radiate from him. "I see."
He walked to a closet, opened it, and pulled out what looked like a bamboo sword. "Catch."
He tossed it casually. Markus's hand shot up, catching it mid-air without thought.
"Good reflexes," Hiroshi noted. "Now, hit me with it."
Markus blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Strike me with the bokken."
"I'm not going to hit an old man with a stick."
Hiroshi's eyebrow raised slightly. "Try. I insist."
It was absurd, but Markus stepped forward and made a half-hearted swing, deliberately slow and telegraphed.
Hiroshi didn't move until the last second, then simply wasn't there. The bokken met empty air, throwing Markus off-balance.
"Again," Hiroshi commanded. "This time, mean it."
Markus frowned, then swung with more purpose. Somehow, Hiroshi slipped past the wooden sword and tapped Markus lightly on the ribs.
"Your kidneys are now ruptured," he said matter-of-factly. "In a real fight, you would be urinating blood within the hour."
"This is stupid," Markus said, lowering the bokken. "What does this have to do with basketball?"
"Everything and nothing," Hiroshi replied cryptically. "Again. This time, don't think about striking me. Feel where I will be, not where I am."
For the next ten minutes, Markus swung the wooden sword while Hiroshi moved like water around every attack. It was humiliating and confusing. Sweat beaded on Markus's forehead, anger building with each miss.
Finally, he threw the bokken down. "This is a waste of time."
"Is it? Your movement improved with each attempt. Your awareness expanded. You began to anticipate rather than react." Hiroshi retrieved the bokken. "The problem is not your ability, Markus Reinhart. It is your impatience. Your lack of discipline."
"I came here because I thought this had something to do with basketball."
"It has everything to do with basketball. But first, you must learn to be present in your body. To quiet the mind that tells you what you cannot do." Hiroshi returned the bokken to the closet. "You wish to leave?"
"Yeah, I do."
"Then leave. But know this – what I offer is not some secret technique or shortcut to success. I offer a path to discipline. To understanding yourself beyond the limitations others have placed upon you." He turned away. "If that doesn't interest you, the door is there."
Markus stood rooted to the spot, conflicted. Part of him wanted to walk out, to dismiss this as the ramblings of an eccentric old man. But another part recognized something in Hiroshi's words that resonated with truth.
"What exactly are you offering?" he finally asked.
Hiroshi turned back. "Work. Hard work, without shortcuts. I will teach you to understand your body, to move with intention, to find stillness in chaos. In return, you will help in my garage. Three hours, three days a week."
"That's it? You'll train me in martial arts so I can what... fight better?"
"No. I will train you in discipline. In presence. In understanding the connection between mind, body, and spirit. What you do with that training is your choice." Hiroshi's gaze was penetrating. "But I suspect, when you learn to quiet the doubting mind, basketball will call to you again."
Markus shifted uncomfortably. "And if it doesn't?"
"Then you will still have gained discipline, focus, and self-respect. Are these worthless things?"
They weren't, of course. But Markus had one more question. "Why me? Why offer this to some kid you don't even know?"
For the first time, a genuine smile crossed Hiroshi's face. "Perhaps I see something in you that reminds me of myself at your age. Lost. Angry. Full of potential being squandered." He approached and placed a hand on Markus shoulder. "Or perhaps I am simply an old man seeking to pass on what I know before I cannot. Does the reason matter if the offer has value?"
It was the most honest anyone had been with Markus in a log time. No platitudes about his potential, no empty encouragement, no dire warnings about wasted talent. Just a clear-eyed assessment and an offer of work.
"When do we start?" Markus asked.
"We already have."
A year passed like water through cupped hands
Three days a week became five, then six. The garage provided Markus with legitimate income – his mother had been suspicious at first, interrogating Hiroshi thoroughly before allowing the arrangement. Now she saw the changes in her son and approved, even if she didn't fully understand.
Basketball had not been mentioned for months. Instead, Markus learned to stand properly. To breathe consciously. To move with intention rather than habit. The lessons seemed mundane, sometimes maddeningly simple, yet Hiroshi accepted nothing less than complete presence.
"Again," Hiroshi commanded, watching as Markus moved through a kata for the thirtieth time that evening. "Your mind wanders on seventh position."
"It's perfect," Markus protested, sweat dripping down his face. "I've done this exact pattern a thousand times."
"And you will do it a thousand more until you can maintain presence throughout. Perfect form executed mindlessly is worthless."
Markus bit back frustration. At sixteen, his body had continued to develop, adding muscle and definition to his lanky frame. The work in the garage built practical strength; the martial arts training had given him a coordination that made his previous athletic abilities seem clumsy by comparison.
Yet not once had Hiroshi mentioned basketball. Sometimes, Markus would catch himself absentmindedly dribbling an imaginary ball, muscle memory asserting itself when his conscious mind was occupied. But he hadn't set foot on a court in months.
East Side High had noticed his absence from the team. Coach Rivera had cornered him in hallways, promising playing time, exposure to scouts. Markus had politely declined. His mother had questioned his decision, worry creasing her brow as she saw a potential scholarship slipping away. Even Marcus had asked if he'd lost his mind, giving up the one thing he'd been good at.
Only Hiroshi accepted his choice without comment.
After finishing the kata to Hiroshi's satisfaction, Markus towelled off his face. "Can I ask you something?"
"You just did," Hiroshi replied with the hint of a smile.
"Why haven't you asked me about basketball? Everyone else won't shut up about it."
Hiroshi considered the question. "Would asking change your decision?"
"No. I mean, I don't think so."
"Then why waste breath on questions whose answers don't matter?" Hiroshi began straightening the dojo, a nightly ritual he insisted they complete together. "When you are ready to speak of basketball, you will. Or you won't. Either way, our work continues."
Markus helped in silence for a moment, then spoke again. "I miss it sometimes."
Hiroshi didn't look up. "What do you miss?"
It was a deeper question than it appeared. Markus had to think before answering. "The feeling. When everything clicks and you're not thinking, just doing. When the game flows through you instead of you forcing it."
"And when did you last feel this?"
"Not for a long time. Before..." He trailed off.
"Before doubts became louder than the joy," Hiroshi finished for him. "This is natural. All paths have such valleys."
They finished cleaning in silence. As they prepared to leave, Hiroshi paused at the door. "Tomorrow, bring appropriate clothes for exercise. Outdoors."
"We going somewhere?"
"Yes. It's time for the next phase of your training."
Dawn broke over Detroit with reluctant fingers of light pushing through cloud cover. Markus met Hiroshi at the dojo as instructed, wearing sweats and running shoes. To his surprise, Hiroshi handed him a basketball.
"Today," Hiroshi said, "we integrate."
He led Markus to a park Markus had never visited, far from his neighbourhood. The court was well-maintained, empty at this early hour. Dew still clung to the chain-link fence surrounding it.
"Show me," Hiroshi said simply, gesturing to the court.
Markus hesitated, the ball feeling both familiar and strange in his hands. "Show you what?"
"Whatever you wish. But do so with presence."
It was an odd request, but Markus stepped onto the court. He bounced the ball experimentally, feeling its texture, its weight. He began to dribble, slowly at first, then with increasing complexity. Crossovers, behind-the-back, between the legs. Moves that had once been automatic now executed with a new awareness.
He moved to shooting, starting close to the basket, then gradually stepping back. The mechanics felt different – his posture more balanced, his release more consistent. Shots that once would have rimmed out now snapped through the net with satisfying precision.
For nearly an hour, he worked through an improvised routine, occasionally glancing at Hiroshi, who watched with the same impassive attention he gave to kata practice. No praise, no criticism. Just an observation.
Finally, sweating and slightly winded, Markus stopped. "Well?"
"You move differently now," Hiroshi noted. "More efficiently. Less wasted energy."
"I feel different," Markus admitted. "It's like... I can feel the court better. My body knows where everything is."
"This is spatial awareness. We've been developing it for months." Hiroshi approached and took the ball. "But there is much more to learn. This was merely a test to see if the foundation is solid. It is."
"So now we add basketball to the training?"
"Now we integrate everything." Hiroshi bounced the ball once, caught it. "The principles are the same – presence, awareness, intention. But the application becomes specific." He returned the ball to Markus. "From now on, half our training will focus on integrating these principles into your game."
Hope flickered in Markus's chest. "You think I can still make something of it? Basketball, I mean."
For the first time, Hiroshi's expression softened into something like fondness. "Markus, I have never doubted your potential. Only your readiness to fulfill it without being destroyed by it."
He gestured for Markus to follow him to a bench at the side of the court. "There is something you must understand. Talent without discipline is a flame that burns brightly, then extinguishes. The world is full of talented failures. What I have been teaching you is how to sustain the fire without consuming the fuel."
Markus absorbed this, turning the ball in his hands. "So what happens now?"
"Now the real work begins." Hiroshi's expression turned serious. "Are you prepared for that? Because what comes next will make the past year seem easy by comparison."
Something in his tone sent a chill through Markus despite the exertion's warmth. "What exactly are we going to do?"
Hiroshi stood. "We're going to rebuild your game from the ground up. Everything you know, everything you think you know, we will question. We will break it apart and reconstruct it with intention." His eyes held Markus's. "It will be painful. Frustrating. There will be days you hate me for it."
"Sounds fun," Markus said dryly.
"It won't be. But one day, you will step onto a court and understand what you were meant to become." Hiroshi checked his watch. "We start tomorrow. Five AM. Don't be late."
The months that followed tested every limit Markus thought he had.
Hiroshi's training regimen defied conventional wisdom. Rather than endless drills repeating the same movements, he focused on awareness under pressure. Markus practiced shooting while Hiroshi threw tennis balls at his legs. He learned to dribble blindfolded, developing a sense of the ball that transcended vision.
"Why am I doing this?" Markus demanded one day, after Hiroshi had him practicing three-pointers from ridiculous distances – the parking lot behind the court, between cars, over obstacles.
"Because the game you will play exists in chaos, not in perfect conditions," Hiroshi replied. "Any fool can make a shot in an empty gym with perfect form. I am training you to maintain presence when everything around you conspires to break it."
The strangest element was how little Markus played actual basketball. Their sessions were fragmented into components that often seemed unrelated – meditation followed by reaction drills, followed by shooting from impossible angles, followed by martial arts movements that emphasized balance and body control.
Sometimes days would pass without touching a basketball at all. Instead, Hiroshi would have him work on hand-eye coordination through entirely different means – catching pebbles Hiroshi would suddenly throw, practicing calligraphy to develop fine motor control, even learning simple sleight-of-hand magic tricks to increase dexterity.
"Basketball is not about basketball," Hiroshi would say cryptically when Markus questioned these methods. "It is about developing mastery of yourself. The application comes later."
School became secondary. Markus maintained passing grades, but his focus had narrowed to Hiroshi's training and the gradual, sometimes imperceptible improvements it yielded. His mother worried about his single-minded intensity but couldn't deny the positive changes in him – the newfound discipline, the quiet confidence that had replaced his earlier uncertainty.
Marcus stopped by occasionally, watching portions of their training with undisguised scepticism. "This some Karate Kid bullshit," he commented once, after seeing Markus practicing shooting while standing on a wobble board. "When you gonna play in actual games again?"
It was a question Markus increasingly asked himself. The East Side High basketball season had come and gone without him. Whispers circulated – he'd lost his nerve, gotten into drugs, joined some weird cult. None of it bothered him as much as it once might have.
As Markus approached his seventeenth birthday, something shifted in Hiroshi's demeanour. The training intensified, but now included more conventional basketball elements. Specifically, shooting. Hours upon hours of shooting from every conceivable angle and distance.
"Ten thousand shots," Hiroshi announced one morning. "That is what remains before you are ready."
"Ready for what?"
"The test."
No further explanation was forthcoming. Just endless shooting drills, performed to Hiroshi's exacting standards. Not just makes and misses, but the quality of each attempt – the rotation of the ball, the arc, the follow-through. Perfection demanded with each repetition.
By the time summer arrived, Markus had transformed. Nearly six-foot-two now, his body a lean instrument of precision rather than the gangly teenager who had first entered Hiroshi's dojo. His movement on a basketball court bore little resemblance to his former self – more fluid, more decisive, more present.
Yet still, Hiroshi pushed.
"Why?" Markus finally demanded after a particularly gruelling session. "What's the point of all this if I never actually play?"
Hiroshi, rather than dismissing the question as he often did, nodded thoughtfully. "A fair question. One that deserves an answer." He sat on the court, gesturing for Markus to join him. "Tell me, what do you believe your ceiling is now? Not what others tell you, but what you feel in moments of truth."
Markus considered the question honestly. A year ago, he'd been ready to quit, convinced his dream was a childish fantasy. Now...
"I don't know," he admitted. "Sometimes, when everything clicks, it feels like there isn't one."
"And other times?"
"Other times I wonder if I'm wasting my life on something that will never pay off."
Hiroshi nodded. "Doubt still lives in you. This is natural. Healthy, even, in moderation." He looked directly at Markus. "But there is a difference between humility and self-delusion. One is wisdom; the other, fear disguised as practicality."
He stood, retrieving the basketball. "Your test comes next weekend. A tournament in Chicago. College players. Good ones. Marcus has arranged it."
Markus's heart rate accelerated. "College players? I haven't played a real game in over a year."
"Yes. That is the point." Hiroshi tossed him the ball. "You will discover what you have become. Not in this protected environment we have created, but in the chaos of true competition."
Fear and excitement battled in Markus's chest. "What if I'm not ready?"
"Then you will know that too," Hiroshi said simply. "Both outcomes have value."
He walked to center court. "One more thing. Until the tournament, you will not touch a basketball."
"What? But—"
"No. You will rest. You will visualize. You will prepare mentally. But your body has done the work. Now we must allow integration."
Markus wanted to protest but had learned enough to recognize when Hiroshi's decisions, however counterintuitive, contained wisdom he couldn't yet grasp.
"Fine," he agreed reluctantly. "No basketball until Chicago."
Hiroshi nodded, satisfied. "Good. Now, let us discuss how you will approach this test..."