WEEK 4
By the fourth week, Mico's patience had reached its expiration date. His clipboard was filled with crossed-out plans, half-baked strategies, and doodles that looked suspiciously like stress spirals.
"This is it," he announced one morning, slamming the clipboard onto the bleachers. "Mandatory practice. No excuses. No distractions. No delays."
Lynx raised a hand lazily. "Define mandatory."
"Means you show up," Mico replied flatly.
"Ah," Lynx said, nodding. "So… optional."
Before Mico could strangle him, Jairo cut in. "Whoever attends gets free food after practice!"
In an instant, Lynx sat up straight. Uno suddenly appeared, already in uniform. Felix just sighed and muttered, "You could've said that three weeks ago."
For the first time in what felt like months, the Castillian team actually looked like a basketball team — sort of.
Mico blew the whistle. "Passing drills. Go!"
Jairo caught the ball and passed perfectly to Felix. Felix passed to Uno. Uno spun around dramatically before tossing it behind his back — straight into Lynx's face.
"Precision," Mico groaned, rubbing his temples. "We need precision."
Lynx grinned. "That was precision. I was aiming for that."
Defense drills were next. Felix held his stance like a statue, calm and balanced. Jairo powered through every movement like his life depended on it. Lynx half-heartedly waved his arms around, claiming he was "manifesting intimidation."
Uno, meanwhile, was too busy talking to the cheer squad practicing across the court.
"Ladies," he said between reps, "motivation is half the game."
One of them threw a towel at him.
Footwork followed. Mico demonstrated, slow and exact, each pivot and shuffle crisp. When it was their turn, Uno moonwalked, Lynx twirled, and Jairo added a loud "HA!" to every step. Felix just quietly adjusted their forms — like a patient father correcting toddlers who thought they were experts.
Prof. Damaso, as always, sat courtside. But instead of watching the drills, he was surrounded by a pile of papers — philosophy essays from his morning class. Every so often, he'd glance up, sip his coffee, and comment vaguely.
"Nice form," he said as Felix blocked Jairo cleanly.
"Prof, are we improving?" Uno called out.
"Philosophically?" The professor replied, flipping a page. "Debatable."
Lynx tossed the ball back toward Mico. "Translation: we're doomed."
"No," Mico muttered, catching it. "Just undisciplined."
When the final whistle blew, the team collapsed onto the floor, gasping for air but laughing anyway. Sweat dripped, the court echoed with scattered chatter, and even Mico's stern expression softened a little.
"See?" He said, half-smiling. "Progress."
"Progress?" Uno wheezed. "My soul left my body three drills ago."
"Then bring it back tomorrow," Mico replied.
As they packed up, Jairo proudly announced, "Food time!" And the entire team suddenly regained energy.
Prof. Damaso closed his notebook, stood, and said, "You know, Aristotle once said—"
Lynx interrupted, "Does he play point guard?"
The professor sighed deeply. "Forget it."
And yet, as the team filed out of the gym — laughing, arguing, tripping over one another — even Mico couldn't deny it.
They were still messy. Still unpredictable. Still Castillian.
But for the first time… they were starting to look like a real team.
---
WEEK 5
Their first practice match was supposed to be a simple scrimmage — a quiet warm-up against another university team to test coordination.
It became legendary madness.
The opposing team arrived early, serious and organized, matching uniforms pressed and shoes spotless. Meanwhile, Castillian showed up ten minutes late — Lynx skateboarding, Uno fixing his hair, Felix carrying water for everyone, Jairo bouncing with energy, and Mico looking like he regretted every decision that led to this moment.
"Remember," Mico said, clutching his clipboard like a shield. "We follow the plan. Structure wins games."
Lynx grinned. "So does personality."
Prof. Damaso, sipping his coffee from the bleachers, mumbled, "And caffeine. Don't forget caffeine."
The whistle blew. The game began.
Within the first two minutes, Lynx had already scored eight points… all from solo drives that ignored every single play Mico drew.
"Discipline!" Mico shouted, for the first of many times.
Lynx shouted back, "We're improvising greatness!"
Uno, of course, turned every possession into a performance. He threw a no-look pass to nobody, winked at the stands, then attempted a fadeaway three that didn't even touch the rim.
Felix, unbothered, grabbed the rebound, pivoted calmly, and passed — textbook perfect.
"Balance, gentlemen," Felix reminded.
"Balance is overrated!" Lynx yelled, flying for another dunk attempt.
And then there was Jairo — the storm of energy. He chased every loose ball like it owed him money. When he actually made a dunk, he screamed so loud that the buzzer broke from the vibration.
"Worth it!" Jairo yelled, flexing.
Mico buried his face in his hands. "I'm surrounded by circus acts."
By halftime, they were down by ten. Felix had blocked so many shots that the other team just stopped shooting near him. Uno had missed five free throws, each one followed by him dramatically holding his chest like a wounded actor.
Lynx had twenty-seven points, no assists, and no regrets. Jairo had two fouls, one accidental tackle, and a broken water bottle.
Mico gathered them in a huddle. "Listen! You're all over the place. We need formation, control—"
"—and more snacks," Jairo added.
"—and more assists," Felix corrected.
"—and better lighting," Uno said, adjusting his hair.
Lynx just shrugged. "We're losing beautifully. That's what matters."
Despite everything, they clawed back in the last few minutes. Felix anchored the defense, Jairo's energy fired up the crowd, Uno actually made a shot with his eyes open this time, and Lynx hit a ridiculous fadeaway three that had no business going in.
The gym exploded. Students filled the bleachers, cheering and laughing. Even people from outside the court gathered to watch the chaos unfold.
They lost by three points.
But when the buzzer rang, the crowd stood and clapped anyway — cheering for them.
Mico stood still for a moment, hands on his waist. He looked at his team — sweaty, grinning, arguing about who had the best dunk.
They'd broken half the rules, missed too many plays, and ignored his strategies entirely.
And yet… they'd made everyone in that gym feel something.
Uno wiped sweat off his forehead and said, "We might've lost, but admit it — we looked good doing it."
Felix nodded once. "Entertaining. Unorthodox. But effective… in spirit."
Lynx smirked. "Told you. We don't just play the game. We perform it."
Mico sighed, then smiled despite himself. "Next time," he said, "we win."
Prof. Damaso raised his coffee cup from the stands. "Gentlemen," he called out, "you may not have won the game… but you won the audience."
And that was the day Castillian realized something powerful: Even in defeat, they were unforgettable.
---
They were the Imperium Griffons — the pride of their university, known for structure, rhythm, and respect for the playbook. Every motion was measured, every call clean. Their warm-ups looked like synchronized choreography: perfect layup lines, crisp passes, precise footwork. They moved like a single organism trained to dominate through discipline.
Everything was smooth, calm, efficient—
Until Castillian arrived.
Ten minutes late.
One of them — later identified as Lynx — rolled in on a skateboard. Another (Uno) was using the gym window as a mirror for selfies. Jairo was doing jumping jacks to a rhythm only he could hear. Felix carried everyone's bags and a water jug the size of a small child. And their leader, Mico, looked like he'd rather be swallowed by the earth.
The Griffon captain turned to their coach. "Wait… these are the guys we're playing?"
The point guard snorted. "They look like influencers, not athletes."
The coach, calm and authoritative, said, "Don't underestimate them. Focus on the game."
He would regret that later.
The whistle blew — and the madness began.
Within the first two minutes, Lynx had already scored eight points. Not through strategy or spacing — just pure, improvised madness. He spun, jumped, and twisted through defenders like physics didn't apply to him.
"Does he even see us?" One Griffon asked, winded.
"I don't think he sees physics," another replied.
Then came Uno. No one knew if he was serious. He winked after every miss, celebrated imaginary fouls, and made a no-look pass to empty air. Half the Griffons stopped guarding him just to see what he'd do next.
Meanwhile, Felix stood quietly under the rim, calm as a statue. He didn't taunt, didn't rush — just blocked shots with surgical precision.
The Griffon center, panting after being denied three times, whispered, "Why is he so calm? It's making me nervous."
And Jairo—
The Griffons started calling him "The Earthquake."
He played like every rebound was life or death, screaming after every dunk until the buzzer actually broke.
"Did the buzzer just die?" A forward asked.
"Yes," the captain said flatly. "Yes, it did."
The Griffons led by ten at halftime. No one celebrated. No one even talked.
They weren't sure what they were up against. This wasn't a basketball team. It was performance art wrapped in athletic chaos.
The coach gathered them in a huddle, voice uncertain for the first time. "Stick to fundamentals. Stay calm."
"Sir," the shooting guard said, "how do you guard someone who skateboards to practice?"
"…I'll get back to you on that."
He didn't.
Then came the shift.
Felix's silent intensity steadied the court.
Jairo's energy turned contagious. Uno — somehow — made a shot that sent the crowd roaring. And Lynx? He hit a ridiculous fadeaway three that looked like something out of a movie trailer.
The Griffons looked at each other, stunned. The crowd was no longer theirs. Students who had come to support Imperium were now chanting for Castillian. Even the Griffons' bench players started laughing between plays.
"Okay," said one power forward, grinning despite himself. "This is actually fun."
The captain scowled. "Fun? They're clowns!"
"Yeah," the forward said, "clowns who almost caught up."
When the final buzzer rang — or what was left of it — the Griffons had barely won by three points.
No one celebrated. They were too busy laughing in disbelief.
In the locker room, the captain sat on the bench, towel over his head.
"That wasn't basketball," he said. "That was… a circus with highlights."
A teammate chuckled. "A good circus, though."
"Yeah," the captain admitted, "infuriatingly good."
Their coach, shaking his head, muttered, "I've coached twenty years. I've never seen anyone disrespect a playbook so beautifully."
"Do you think they even had a plan?" Someone asked.
"No," the coach said. "That's what makes it worse. They didn't need one."
When students asked what it was like to face Castillian, the Griffons gave the same answer every time:
"It felt like guarding madness, flirting with insanity, and somehow… loving every second of it."
In a later interview, the Griffon captain summed it up best: "They broke every rule of the game. But I couldn't stop smiling. You can't hate a team that turns basketball into art and comedy at the same time."
And soon, across campus, a quiet rumor began spreading through every locker room and group chat: "You won't just play Castillian. You'll survive them."