March 16, 2007 | Austin, Texas — Texas Basketball Facility
The film room was cold enough to make breath show. Metal chairs scraped against the tile as the Longhorns settled in, hoodies up, legs stretched out, paper cups steaming in their hands. The adrenaline from Spokane had burned off somewhere between the flight and the hotel beds.
Coach Rick Barnes stood in the doorway, entering with a clipboard tucked under his arm, remote in hand. "I want you guys to forget about Spokane," he said finally, voice steady but firm.
A few heads lifted. The room went still.
"That game's over," Barnes continued, stepping to the front. "You celebrate wins in March for about five minutes. Then you move on. Because the next one?" He clicked the remote. "The next one's always harder."
The lights dimmed. The projector hummed to life, throwing red jerseys across the white screen. The film began to roll, a blur of bodies pressing full-court, traps snapping shut in corners, deflections turning into dunks.
"Louisville," Barnes said flatly. "That's who we've got next."
He paused as the assistants spread out along the walls, markers squeaking across the whiteboards, arrows, rotations, pressure points.
"They come at you for forty straight minutes," Barnes went on. "Made shot, missed shot, doesn't matter, they're pressing. You inbound it, they trap you. You break the trap, they send another. They're relentless."
The film cut to a clip: a point guard barely across half court before two Cardinals slammed him into the sideline, hands hacking, feet chopping, ball ripped loose. Fast break. Dunk.
Coach Hayes stepped closer to the screen, marker raised. "1–2–1–1 diamond press. It breaks when you refuse to stand still."
The clip rolled. A guard hesitated, threw a lazy pass across the court. Interception. Dunk the other way. The Louisville bench erupted.
"Again," Barnes said.
The same possession replayed in slow motion. Hayes drew invisible lanes in the air, his pen tracing windows that opened and shut in half-seconds.
"First pass goes to safety," he said. "No bounce passes across the trap. Ever. You pick up your dribble on our side of half, you're dead. Beat it with the second pass — diagonal, middle, opposite."
A.J. raised a hand from two rows back. "What if they face-guard me on the inbound?"
Hayes didn't hesitate. "Then you're the decoy. Screen for the screener. Ethan handles, D.J. becomes the middle release."
Ethan leaned forward, eyes still on the film. "Middle's open if their backline cheats to the sideline. If he stays home, we short-middle to Damion and we're 3-on-2."
"Exactly," Barnes said, nodding once.
He clicked the remote. The film jumped to a new sequence — Louisville flowing from full-court press into a 2–3 matchup zone. Wings high, guards active, hands everywhere.
"Looks like zone, plays like man," Coach Daniels said. "They'll stunt, recover, and bait you into floaters. Don't take it. You want to hurt 'em? Get the ball below the free-throw line without dribbling yourself into jail."
The frame froze on a big catching the ball at the nail, four red jerseys creeping inward.
"Short corner," Daniels continued. "Corner-corner-skip. Make 'em turn their heads, then slip behind their backline."
KD's voice came from the front row, quiet but deliberate. "If the nail steps, I go high-low. If they bring the low man to me, A.J.'s open strong-side corner."
Barnes pointed with his pen. "Perfect. Read it early, not late."
The film flipped again — now Louisville's offense, horns set, wings flat.
"Horns twist into Spain pick-and-roll," Hayes said. "Watch the second screener — they're hiding a shooter in the back screen."
The tape sped up. Guard came off, roll man dove, second screener clipped the big trying to recover, shooter popped weak side. Clean look.
"Terrence Williams," Daniels said, circling the wing with a laser. "Six-six, strong, aggressive. He'll chase Kevin over every screen. He tries to blow up the first pick and switch late on the second. Predictable, but violent."
"Edgar Sosa," Hayes added, circling the top. "Shooter. Go under, and you're giving him three points. We top-lock him. Force every catch above the break, never inside it."
"Fronts on the post?" Damion asked.
"Three-quarter on the high side," Barnes replied instantly. "If you get sealed, we X-out weak side and crack down on the roll. Talk through it or it dies."
The gym sounded like a metronome, whistles, sneakers, the thud of balls finding hardwood in perfect rhythm. Cones lined the baseline. Resistance bands looped around ankles. A rack of towels steamed near the Gatorade table.
"Warm up to your windows!" Coach Hayes barked. "No hero reps!"
Groups split to stations. Kevin and the wings ran movement shooting. The bigs battled for post seals against pads. Ethan peeled off toward the far basket, two trainers and the strength coach waiting.
"Feet first," said Reece, the S&C lead, clipboard in hand. "Land soft. Own the stop."
Ethan nodded. He'd weighed in at 200 that morning, 6'5", lean, elastic. He rocked into a one-two, rose for a midrange, and stuck the landing on two feet, knees over toes.
Reece tapped the floor markers. "Hit that wedge. Abs on. Don't fold your chest."
Again. Up. Down. Stick. Again.
The development coach, Daniels, stepped in with a bag of balls and a voice just above the sneakers' squeak. "We're living off spots today," he said. "Less crash, more carve. Ball in two, out in three, no extra sugar."
Ethan bounced once, eyes locked on the elbow. Less crash, more carve. He liked that.
He jabbed middle, slid baseline, rose into a short fade. Net. Daniels didn't praise, just reset the cones tighter.
"Defense in the League's longer," Daniels said. "Your first step's gold, but it's not a lifestyle. You don't need to win the collision. Win the space. Use the dribble to open air, not to fight bodies."
Ethan caught, two hard pounds, hang dribble, side-step three. Net. He felt his feet land quiet like brakes that listened.
This was specialized training, something he'd started tweaking months ago. He couldn't keep playing at a collision rate forever, he thought. Six-five, two hundred now. Maybe two-oh-eight by October. But he wasn't a linebacker. In the NBA, the defense around the rim was a lot harder and physical. He didn't want to be another Rose that never bloomed.
Reece tossed him a mini-hurdle. "Decel series. Two reps each. Let your hips do the work, not your knees."
Ethan moved through the drill, shuffle, plant, gather, rise. He felt the weight land in the right places, glutes taking the load instead of his knees. The last two days had been highlight reels for the world. For his joints, they'd been invoices.
Across the gym, Kevin's jumper whispered through the net — again, again, again. A.J. chased his own rebounds, talking trash between gasps. Managers clapped a steady rhythm like a metronome.
Ethan caught the ball at the slot, held it against his hip. His mind drifted to the league, about his future club. Boston was probably his best option in most regards. He could almost see Ainge's red-circled draft board. If they move Pierce if they drafted him,, he was the day-one ballhandler. Eighty pick-and-rolls a night. Great for numbers. Bad for knees.
He dribbled twice, hung the ball in place, then slid into a pull-up. Net.
Another rep — cross, counter, pause, rise. Daniels raised a hand. "Two dribbles max," he said."Third one brings help. If you need a third, you needed a screen."
Ethan nodded, catching his breath. "Two dribbles."
"Two dribbles," Daniels echoed, matter-of-fact.
They ran the sequence — catch → hang → rise. Catch → jab → one-dribble pull. Catch → stride stop → inside pivot → rise. Every rep landed balanced, two feet, no noise.
Reece slid a resistance band up Ethan's thighs. "Ten lateral drives," he said. "Knees out. Square hips. You cheat, you pay at the rim."
Daniels snapped his fingers. "Pick-and-roll pocket. Snake it. Two feet. Pull. Again."
Ethan took the imaginary screen, slithered into the lane, planted at the nail, and rose before the tag came. Fifteen-footer. Pure net.
"Again," Daniels said.
Ethan ran the set both sides — snake, veer, stop. Finish. Jump-stop. Pull-up. Every rep smoother than the last.
Kevin drifted by for water, towel hanging from his neck. He stopped long enough to watch. "You're getting off it quicker," Kevin said.
Ethan smiled faintly. "I'm tired of running through people."
Kevin chuckled, low and lazy. "Welcome to the good life."
They bumped fists — quick, quiet — and Kevin walked on.
Daniels rolled a pad to the mid-post. "Small-guard punishment package," he said. "You'll see six-two guys in the League who hate this."
Ethan squared up, one-dribble middle, shoulder check, fade. Then bump baseline, pivot, rise. Daniels met him with the pad each time, just enough to remind him of contact.
"Think Kobe and MJ," Daniels said. "They didn't dribble to prove they could. They dribbled to get to their space. You've got a better bag than even them. Use it to keep your legs, not lose them."
Ethan exhaled slowly, nodding. He was basing some of his game from Paul Geroge in his thunder days using his dribbling and body to get his space and shoot. He was taller and bigger than AI and Kyrie. He couldn't use their styles forever without getting injured so he was mixing with players that fitted him.
He set his feet, took one last rep. Two dribbles. Pull-up. Net. The shot barely touched the rim — quiet, sharp, controlled.
They moved to movement threes—lift from corner to slot, catch on the hop, rise on balance. Ethan felt the fatigue creep to his shoulders but kept the feet right. On the sixth make in a row, Daniels threw a defender at him—a manager with long arms and eager feet.
"Two dribbles," Daniels said.
Ethan went pound → drift → pull. The defender's contest brushed his vision. Net. Again. Hang → side-step → pull. Net. He landed soft, heard Reece's satisfied grunt without looking.
He toweled his face and looked up at the rafters' shadow lines. Atlanta next to Joe would be clean shared usage, a second closer with length. Seattle with Ray and Rashard if they keep them would be nice as well. But sadly he had no control over what club drafted him. He can only prepare himself for the future.
Daniels rolled the pad away and took the ball himself. "Last set," he said. "Late-clock. Two dribbles max, any direction."
Ethan nodded. The gym fell to a dull hush—only KD's net and a trainer's counting on the far baseline. He took the pass, felt the beat of the imaginary shot clock in his ribs, and went: cross → pause to bend an invisible help defender's stance, one step left into a pull.
Across the gym, Barnes watched the groups rotate, arms folded. There would be another film. Another flight. Another band of defenders who tried to talk them into mistakes.
For now, everything was perfect.
By the time practice wrapped, everyone was starving. The plan was simple: eat, laugh, breathe, then pack for Louisville.
"Where we eating?" D.J. asked, tossing a towel around his neck.
"Anywhere that's not the dining hall," A.J. said immediately. "If I see one more piece of grilled chicken, I'm transferring."
That got a chorus of "facts" from the locker room.
Kevin grinned, tugging on his hoodie. "Let's hit Torchy's. I'm craving something fried."
"KD, you always craving something fried," Ethan said, sliding his duffel over his shoulder. "You eat like you trying to fail a physical."
Kevin laughed. "Man, relax. I'll just shoot the cholesterol out."
"Yeah, I'm sure that's how biology works," Ethan said, deadpan.
They piled into two vans, the ones the university loaned them for local stuff. The radio played low, the windows cracked, the air carrying that Austin spring warmth.
Torchy's was packed, students everywhere, music thumping, fryers popping. But once the Longhorns walked in, the volume changed. Heads turned. Phones came out. A few whispers turned into a full ripple across the room.
"Yo, that's KD!"
"Ethan right there, bro dropped twenty-eight last night!"
"No way, they're actually here?"
The guys tried to play it cool, but the attention followed them to every table. KD just grinned and waved; Ethan kept it easy, polite, used to it by now.
One brave student approached with a tray in hand. "Uh, can I… can I get a picture with you guys?"
"Sure," Ethan said, standing. "Just make it quick before KD eats all the queso."
KD threw a chip at him. The student nearly dropped his phone laughing.
"Hey, hey," D.J. called from the line. "Who ordered four tacos and one drink?
"That's mine," A.J. said, unapologetic. "Double tortilla counts as carbs and protein. I'm bulking."
Tristan, always the clown, leaned over the counter and called to the cooks: "Yo! If y'all got any leftover fame, we can't fit all this ego in the van back!"
Kevin cracked up so hard he nearly dropped his soda. Ethan shook his head, but the corners of his mouth tugged up.
They found a corner table big enough to cram around. The noise was loud, students pointing, a few sneaking photos, but the team fell into their own rhythm, jokes, fries, stories.
A.J. leaned back, phone buzzing with notifications. "Man, we trending again. ESPN just posted the highlight of Ethan's windmill like five times."
Ethan looked up, unimpressed. "You mean the dunk where I bailed you out after you turned it over?"
The table exploded in laughter.
D.J. wiped his mouth. "Nah, that was teamwork, my boy. You got the glory; I got the assist in spirit."
Kevin leaned in, smirking. "Yeah, in spirit. That ball was halfway to Spokane before Ethan saved your career."
Even Ethan couldn't hold back the laugh this time.
For a few minutes, it didn't feel like pressure or March or NBA chatter. Just kids in hoodies, eating tacos, clowning each other before the next battle.
As they stood to leave, a freshman girl near the door called out shyly, "Good luck!"
Ethan smiled, tapping his chest. "Appreciate it."
KD threw her a wave and a grin. "We got you."
Outside, as they headed for the vans, Tristan pointed to a billboard down the street — TEXAS BASKETBALL: MARCH CONTINUES.
"Look at that!" he said. "That's us! They need to put me on there though. I'm photogenic."
Ethan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, you're the reason the bench gets national exposure."
"Hey, bench mobs matter," Tristan said, hand over heart. "We're the emotional backbone of this program."
KD clapped him on the back. "You're the noise pollution of this program."
The van filled with laughter again as they climbed in. Ethan glanced out the window one last time before they pulled off, the billboard glowing against the night, their faces frozen mid-yell, mid-celebration.
One game at a time.
.