“You mean a change in playstyle?” Sugiyama Shouta’s gaze shifted from under the basket to Karazawa Kazuo’s face.
Uozumi had just been called for a foul by the referee and was bent over, supporting his knees and gasping for breath, sweat trickling down his neck into his jersey. But his eyes were still fixed on Keita Takahashi’s back, as if trying to burn two holes into him.
Karazawa Kazuo shook his head, his knuckles tapping lightly on the railing. “A center’s battlefield is under the basket. It’s all about straightforward toughness. There’s no room for variation.”
He raised a hand and pointed at the court. “Look at Uozumi these two times—knocked down by Miyazaki, and just now fouled for position. A softer player would have retreated beyond the free-throw line long ago. But him? He’s still fighting in the paint, not giving an inch.”
Sugiyama’s brow twitched.
He had seen too many centers who, after being repeatedly outplayed, would start to get cold feet, either avoiding confrontation or constantly trying to find opportunities outside the paint. But Uozumi was not like that.
When Takahashi had pushed him just now, the force was enough to send an ordinary person flying, but Uozumi’s knees only bent slightly, and he managed to steady his center of gravity.
Karazawa Kazuo watched Uozumi’s unyielding stance on the court and suddenly said to Sugiyama, “The most terrifying thing for a center is not losing, but being afraid to fight!!!”
In the original work, when Shohoku played against Sannoh, Akagi Takenori was being dominated by Masashi Kawata, but Karazawa never thought of giving up on Akagi.
Furthermore, he had told Sugiyama that even if Shohoku couldn’t make it to the quarterfinals, he still wanted to make an exception for Akagi.
But later, Akagi adapted. He avoided Masashi Kawata, gave up confronting Masashi Kawata, and started passing and setting screens to create many opportunities for his teammates. This was good in itself.
However, he completely lost the courage to confront Masashi Kawata!
This meant he didn’t possess the qualities of a top-tier center.
Ultimately, he also missed out on Fukazawa Sports University.
Even if a center learns to pass and move, appearing clever, if he loses that fierce drive to go all out under the basket, he can’t hold his ground.
Losing a game is nothing, but being afraid—that’s what truly prevents one from becoming formidable.
At that moment, Karazawa Kazuo understood: Akagi Takenori was simply not his type.
After Ryonan scored a point, the score was 4:6.
On Jinshan’s offensive end, Takahashi was posting up under the basket, his elbow jutting out half an inch, right into Uozumi’s ribs.
Uozumi didn’t dodge. Instead, he pushed his shoulder forward, forcefully reclaiming half an inch of position.
The referee didn’t blow the whistle. Takahashi looked a little anxious, suddenly turning to try a strong drive, but Uozumi extended his long arm, his fingertips just brushing the ball, tipping it out of bounds.
“Good!” The Ryonan bench erupted in cheers, Sakuragi tossing his towel high into the air.
Uozumi straightened up and wiped his face, his hand still stained with the skin he had just scraped off.
He didn’t look at Takahashi, nor at the referee; he just stared at the basket, as if in a silent contest with someone.
In the stands, Karazawa Kazuo suddenly smiled, the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes forming a slit: “See? You can train for strength, you can adjust your footwork, but this fierce determination to hold your position, even if it means fouling—that’s not something you can teach.”
He turned to Sugiyama, “This is what a center should have—even if you lose, you have to lose standing up.”
Sugiyama said nothing, only gazing at Uozumi’s back, a hint of admiration growing in his eyes.
The inbound pass from the baseline came back to Takahashi.
Uozumi held him firmly.
“Still daring to push hard?” Takahashi was a bit surprised, suddenly turning to try a hook shot, but Uozumi seemed to have anticipated it, extending his long arm, his fingertips just touching the basketball.
The ball slipped from his hand and flew out. Gu Jin, with quick eyes and hands, snatched the rebound and immediately tossed it to Sendo in the frontcourt.
“Great defense!” Taoka Moichi shouted from the sideline, waving his tactical board, his voice cracking.
Uozumi stood upright, wiped the sweat from his face, and looked at Takahashi with no trace of retreat in his eyes.
His arm was still numb from that last confrontation, but the fire in his heart burned even brighter—just as Karazawa had said, even if his strength was inferior, even if he was at a disadvantage again and again, he had to stand there and clash with his opponent in the most direct way.
In the stands, Karazawa Kazuo’s lips curled into a smile: “You see, this is what I want to see. Strength can be trained, skills can be learned, but this tenacity to go head-to-head with an opponent—not everyone has it. I’m liking this Uozumi more and more!”
Sugiyama said nothing, only staring at Uozumi’s back, slowly nodding.
He suddenly remembered his own youth, when he too had battled opponents under the basket again and again, never thinking of retreating, even when covered in injuries—perhaps this was what a center truly should be like.
Ryonan’s fast break was like an arrow released from a bow.
Sendo dribbled past half-court, his peripheral vision catching Gu Jin, who was darting in from the right like a dark shadow. He flicked his wrist and passed the ball.
The moment Gu Jin received the ball, Miyazaki Ken and Yamamoto Sho immediately double-teamed him from both sides, their arms spread, almost completely blocking all routes.
“Trying to stop me?” Gu Jin growled, deliberately dropping his shoulder as if to forcefully push past Miyazaki Ken. As his shoulder just hit Miyazaki’s chest, he suddenly flipped his wrist back, tossing the ball behind him—“Uozumi, go!”
The basketball, as if it had eyes, landed precisely in the hands of the trailing Uozumi.
Keita Takahashi was just about to turn to defend, but Uozumi had already gripped the ball tightly and leaped up, his muscles bulging, slamming the ball fiercely into the hoop with all his pent-up frustration!
“Clang!”
The hoop vibrated with a piercing sound. Uozumi hung on the rim, swaying twice before landing, the feel oppressed in his chest completely exploding with that dunk.
“Roar!!!”
He turned to Gu Jin, and the two slapped hands with a loud crack that was especially clear in the noisy arena.
6:6. Ryonan tied the score.
“Well done, Uozumi, keep playing like that!” Taoka Moichi vigorously pumped his fist at the sideline, the veins on his forehead throbbing with his shouts. His previously furrowed brow finally relaxed a bit. “That’s the spirit! No matter how strong they are, if they dare to enter the paint, send them back!”
He grabbed his tactical board and slapped his palm twice, his voice cutting through the court’s clamor: “Gu Jin’s pass was brilliant! Keep this rhythm, don’t be timid in the paint—Uozumi, let them see what you can do!”
“You still have some tricks up your sleeve?” Keita Takahashi turned around, pressing his broad back firmly against Uozumi, his elbow subtly jutting out half an inch.
“Hmph.” Uozumi said nothing, letting out a heavy snort from his nostrils, and suddenly pushed back with his knees, the sound of their muscles colliding dull.
“Let’s see how you defend this one.” Takahashi gritted his teeth, his wrist just about to flip up to prepare for a turn-around hook shot—
“Takahashi, watch your back!” Uesugi Yu’s shout exploded in his ear, but it was already too late.
“Idiot.” Gu Jin’s cold voice, as if laced with ice, suddenly came from diagonally behind him.
Takahashi felt his wrist lighten. Gu Jin had somehow gotten behind him, his fingertips precisely hooking the bottom of the basketball. The ball instantly slipped from his grasp and flew out.
Gu Jin scooped the ball into his arms and turned to rush to the frontcourt.
Takahashi was both startled and enraged, sharply turning to glare at Gu Jin, who only left him with a cold, unyielding back.