The First 3 Pointer

Disclaimer: I don't own SD boys, Inoue does. The events that follow are not included in the original plot but enjoy anyway.

Summary: Nothing. Just a fic about Mitsui and the story behind how he got to be the great shooter that he is. Neither yaoi nor non-yaoi. Mitsui's POV. One shot.

A/N: Summary says it all. Yeah, it's nothing, really. But for me, well, I love Mitsui and that says a lot.

It's almost miraculous how I remember almost every detail of it. Of course it marked the day of my awakening but hell, that was like eight years ago. They say that I'm being 'rejuvenated' whenever I narrate this seemingly fabricated tale; but back then I didn't sincerely know what 'rejuvenated' meant, much less felt it. I was very young in some sense and when one is young, he doesn't really intend to keep precious moments in his history book to flaunt it to the future one day. I was the kind. My incapacitated memory doesn't hold much of the past regardless how long or short, but this one is an exception.

I was nine and my brother was thirteen. That day I was straddled in a white tank top, my piteous play shirt, and a pair of basketball shorts. Both clothing were stained by a visible wetness; most probably half of it was sweat and the other half was Gatorade, our loyal energy drink. My brother was less haggard looking and needless to say, even less pared down than I was. A four-year difference was the telltale of it; naturally, his physical prowess was sprawled across a greater scale. And he wasn't yet dripping; somehow he looked just as he was the first second he shaved something off his stamina bar. His sleeved top was a little crumpled which was a sign of continuous effort to make a basket; other than that, he was considerably fresh and obviously fresher than my moist appearance.

The local basketball court was daunting. It had the official measurement of the pro league; a ten feet high rim and a proportional fifty foot three point mark. An unqualified lad like me looked at it as an endless pole where the zenith was the goal and once I had the luck to touch it, I'd be for once the man of the hour; the one who moved mountains and swam seven seas. But being intimidated by it was only the tip of the iceberg; first, I had to run on both ends of the floor without panting and if I did, I'd be good enough to guard a splay dribbler for good twenty minutes. As I've said I was nine, and still looking for that which would be the bud of what we call talent.

This time the basketball court was empty. My brother and I careened through the free space with the enthusiasm of first timers. We weren't actually amateurs; my brother was an aficionado of the sport while I was his play-acting chaperone. Meaning, I was the one who picked up the leather to hand it back to him for another shot. Ball boy, like the ones in the official league. But that didn't mean that I couldn't handle a stupid ball with my left hand or even gun a shot with the proper position; I could, like any other guy of my age. But this day, I'd have to perform the assigned duty and watch as my dear brother fire in some unsuccessful shots.

We did this like yesterday, and the day before, and the one before that. He had just released his fifth, the fourth failure, and by this time, he had uttered another low cuss. His teenage year conferred a larger set of vocabulary and along with this came the parallel growth of his verbal profanity. 'Fuck' must've been his favorite word, the one consolation of a missed attempt and once muttered, the ball would be retrieved to his fed up hands, courtesy of me. He was going for the 6th try when he commanded me to stand by the left side of the hedge. That must've been also the 6th time I changed my positional spot. He claimed that it could develop leverage for perfect rebounding but me being the one to shoot was way out of the question. Asking 'what about my shooting?' was a taboo; it was his business alone. Once he tried a shot, he would immediately (without punctuation) ask for a stupid 'beck' which is another shot. And again and again, one after the other, he would request for the fucking beck and that kinda defined very well the meaning of me being a mere ball catcher. So I never really got the windfall. The gargantuan fucker.

So the ball was foul angled and that 6th shot was nothing but a clumsy effort to send it to mid air. It didn't even graze the stupid metal rim, nobody heard a jangle to prove its accuracy; it was just a disgraceful air ball again. The same old status quo. My brother wasn't exactly what one could call average; he was more like below it to be frank, but a self-labeled shooter at that one. The ball ricocheted in a high altitude provided by the large force that moved it, then it bounced again in decrescendo until finally crawling down away from the court.

'Get it, Sashi-chan!' He shouted after letting out a hoarse 'Kuso.'

I ran after it and in a moment, I overtook it, picked it up, and tossed it to him. He smiled slightly as a gesture of gratitude or maybe it was another display of his bravado which was as good as saying 'Come and watch me nail this perimeter shot. You'll drop your jaws after it grazes the net. Swoosh. Take that, Hisashi.' Pathetic; what was more, I knew that this was another one of his demands to pay respect to his physical superiority over me; as if he had any other advantage besides that. The sun was scourging my bare nape like the stupid rashes under my arms and my face was twisting into another apparent frown. The temperature was high enough to send my beaded perspirations to a boiling point. My stubborn skin refused to hold them underneath like Teflon repelling stupid cooking oil. Darn. Watching this for the nth time only resulted to abject expectation and as I brushed my eyes on his act, I knew that this was one of those times that made me grin rather victoriously. Toothy smile between my wobbly lips, he used to call it. Years later that toothy smile would be renamed with a toothless one; thanks to Miyagi. But this time, my brother didn't see it because his mind was focused elsewhere, somewhere between making a perfect shot or a lucky one. He was almost immune to the desert-like heat.

He jumped and slanted his body through the air. A feint; he must've watched someone in the NBA do something like this and tried to mimic his style. Very much the same stance he assumed whenever he fucked up an easy shot. It was a wonder how pertinent he was to convert frustration to a new hope yet in that attitude, anger was present as well. Like he was gonna get it, really. The ball was unleashed by his childish clutches and it flew out. As he landed, I thought that for a split second it was really sinking in judging by that winsome smile. As if he just slaughtered the whole Timberwolves team with a buzzer beater, as if it were really going in and all I have to do was to gawk stupidly at this accomplishment. He would knock it down and the rustle of leather against net would linger in a brief blink through the air. Yeah, that fluid sound like a turtle snapping a minnow. Or something like that. He would make it, and the world would offer its attention…finally.

But contrary enough, the obstinate ball touched instead the plastic board and the sound of it had never seemed so beautiful. Yeah, pretty sound, and it repeated in a different timbre which meant that it was redounding every where now. My guess is that he committed the same fallacy of shooting which is the use of the supporting hand's needless force. This either gets the sling off the trail or exerts a greater push than what is necessary and thus, amazingly gives one a stupid missed shot. Then, he should be thankful that there was no mass audience to witness this stupidity. Another miss from the great brother. Wahoo!

He rooted himself for a moment of shock like the whole heaven just asked him to catch it. The seriousness plastered on his face dispensed me from giving him a mocking applause. Was he the same person who claimed to deserve veneration for his physical prowess? Perhaps now, he ceased to be. But it was just a careless miss; he could renew his hope by the by like he always did.

But the ball rolled on and stumbled on my feet. Where was I then? Uh, on the left side waiting for the rebound or inbound, whatever. But the ball had the initiative to approach me and it seemed to scream the words, 'Pick me up, Sashi! I no longer wanna be stashed by that loser, your brother!'

And I did. I don't know if I really heard it say something stupid like that but hey, I must be dumber to listen to it. I knew that my purpose stood alone for ball catching but this opportunity was not the kind to slur over; I knew right away that this would put an end to the persona of the ball boy Hisashi. My brother was muted for awhile, which gave me enough time to proceed to my next action. If he asked for another fucking beck, I didn't pay heed to it. So I clamped it between by palms, strode forward the arch line on the 3, and heaved the ball up. The ball felt heavy since it was not for little boys like us. So what I did was to ask for the help of my body to exert more inertia. That would mean I had to bend and start the ball below my waist where I can gain momentum. Three point line; boy, I was really ambitious. First time trying it shouldn't really make a big fuss but….

And I sprang up with full force, sent the thing soaring to smack the sun and glint brightly, until finally swishing its way through the space to be wrapped around the net. Clean in, beautiful and graceful; that's how the fire was. When it landed, a less audible sound was heard or perhaps, it was just through my scream that its bounces were scoffed off. Or perhaps also, it was my brother's crazy reaction that made every rumble subdued at the moment. And now I was the one who was sorry for the absence of any spectator. Shit luck.

'OH MY GOD, HISASHI! THAT WAS LIKE THE ISIAH THOMAS SHOT! OH MY GOD! A THREE POINTER FROM DOWNTOWN; IT'S MAGIC!!!'

That was where I stood; downtown left three point lane. The very spot where my brother asked me to grab the board in case he missed a shot. And he always missed a shot. But the ball was magnetized to me after that stupid shot and the next moment, I'd become a three pointer. And I was friggin' nine years old. I never left the spot, that legendary three point mark. Often after that, my brother and I would repeat the incredible feat of the 3rd grader who made a shot fifty feet away. We practiced from there and our statistics which was computed by us alone, showed my precision. Not really that impressive but when you're nine and had a lame shooter for a playmate, you become the expert three pointer without arguments. And I did. Days poured until I was obliged to perform the shot in every side of the fifty foot mark; of course it wasn't that hard to get used in different angles otherwise I wouldn't be the best three point shooter in Kanagawa nor the MVP of the junior league. Talent. Pure talent, it is; and I discovered it one sunny day when I instinctively defied my chronic part as the ball boy to a not-so-competent baler.

That was the day when I hit my first three point bucket and I swore at that time that I would never leave the mark. I never really did.

END

A/N: I'm being deluded to assume that Mitsui is the greatest shooter in Kanagawa; I know it's Kainan's Jin. Hehehe. Sorry, but it's a fic anyway; I'm free to spurt out my delusions. Read and review. Thanks for reading. Have a nice day. Ciao! Bottom of Form

A/N: I'm such a deluded wanker. I know that Kanagawa's best three point shooter is none other than Kainan's Jin. But hell, I love Mitsui.