Extra Basket-Chapter 54 - 41: Father vs Son

July 3, 2010 – 8:10 PM

Location: Albarado Backyard Court

The evening air was thick with summer heat, but the wind carried a breeze just cool enough to stir the leaves on the tall trees surrounding the Albarado home. A flickering backyard light buzzed softly above the old court.

Now, it stood as the battleground.

A tall man in a sleeveless black shirt adjusted his wristband and rolled his shoulders. Alfred Albarado, age forty-one, was a legend in his own right. A former professional basketball champion with multiple titles under his belt, he now wore the suit of a sports analyst for BAC—Basketball Asian Company. But tonight? He was just a father ready to lace up again.

On the opposite end stood his son, Ethan Albarado, a fourteen-year-old with sweat still clinging to his brow, eyes sharp and determined. He wasn’t just Alfred’s son—he was once Jonathan Brandit, the boy who had lost it all and was now living a second life.

His hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Bring it on, old man."

.......

Twenty Minutes Earlier – Inside the Albarado Home

The wooden floor creaked as Ethan stepped inside the house, his sneakers scuffed, shirt sticking to his skin, and basketball still tucked under one arm.

Standing by the kitchen, arms folded and brows furrowed, Elle Albarado gave him a look that could pierce steel.

"Where were you at this hour?" she demanded.

Ethan blinked, caught off guard, then offered a sheepish smile.

"I was playing basketball with my teammate."

From the couch, Alfred glanced up, a slight smirk curling on his lips.

"Hoh... so who won?"

Ethan tossed the ball onto the floor, letting it roll slightly.

"Of course I did."

Alfred chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Cocky little brat." But there was pride in his eyes, even if he masked it behind a teasing grin.

Elle, however, wasn’t done.

"That’s not the point. The point is why are you out this late? It’s already eight at night!"

Alfred subtly shifted behind the couch, wisely avoiding his wife’s glare. "She’s scary when she’s angry..." he thought.

Ethan tried to stand tall.

"Mom, I’m already fourteen. I can handle myself."

Elle’s eyes widened.

"Are you talking back to your mother, huh, young man?"

Ethan winced, shoulders sinking.

"S-Sorry..."

Elle sighed and stepped closer, placing her hands on his shoulders.

"I was just worried about you, Ethan. Do you understand? I know you’re a boy, and boys your age think they’re invincible—but the world isn’t kind. There are gangs, there are people who don’t care if you’re just a kid... What if something happened to you?"

She pulled him into a sudden, tight hug.

"I can’t bear the thought of losing you..."

Ethan was caught in the warmth of her embrace, and for a moment, his bravado melted away.

"Mom..."

Alfred’s eyes softened as he watched them. His mind drifted to a memory he didn’t want to revisit.

"Elle... she still remembers that day. The day we almost lost him."

Then, breaking the silence, Alfred spoke up with a teasing grin.

"Well, seems like you’ve learned how to dribble a ball. Doesn’t mean you can beat me, though."

Ethan looked up, fire sparking in his golden eyes.

"Hnmmph. You wanna go?"

"You sure you can handle me?"

"Try me, old man."

Alfred raised a brow, smirking.

"Alright. Backyard. Now."

...

The ball echoed as Ethan dribbled, his shoes squeaking slightly against the cracked concrete. The sky above was streaked with the last traces of twilight, stars barely visible through the glow of the streetlights.

Alfred stretched his arms and popped his knuckles.

"First to eleven. No fouls. Street rules."

"Fine by me." Ethan smirked.

They walked to their respective spots. Ethan held the ball, both hands trembling slightly.

"This isn’t just a game."

"This is me proving I belong on the court. Proving I can stand on my own."

"No more being weak. No more regrets."

Alfred crouched slightly, his stance solid and balanced.

"You better not cry when I dunk on you."

"Tch. You’re all talk." Ethan bounced the ball once, then twice.

"Let’s see if you still got it."

"Let’s see if you ever had it, rookie."

Ethan look focus..

"(I’m not the same as before when I was kid.)"

"(I’m Ethan. And I won’t lose—not even to you, Dad.)"

The ball hit the ground again.

Once.

Twice.

Game on.

...

The wind had stilled, the night air silent. All that could be heard now was the rhythm of the game.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Ethan dribbled the ball with sharp control, eyes locked on his father.

Alfred crouched low, his stance grounded, eyes calm—watching Ethan the way a veteran predator watches its prey. Not out of malice, but with the clarity of someone who’s been here too many times before.

"He’s fast," Alfred thought, narrowing his eyes.

"But not enough."

Ethan lunged forward, pretending to drive left then spun right, dribbling past Alfred’s hip.

"Heh!"

He stepped into the paint and jumped, launching a quick floater.

Swish.

"1–0." Ethan grinned.

"What was that about not crying, old man?"

Alfred simply chuckled. "Nice move. But that’s the only freebie you’re getting tonight."

...

Score: 1–1

Alfred now had the ball.

Ethan braced himself, determined to stop him.

But Alfred didn’t rely on tricks. He used weight, timing, and balance. With a steady dribble and a slow pivot, he spun, placed his back to Ethan, and backed him down like a true post player.

Ethan tried to push back.

"Why is he so heavy?!"

Alfred faked left, then turned to fade away.

The shot arced high and smooth, textbook.

Swish.

"Experience always wins round two." Alfred smirked.

"1–1."

.......

The Middle Game

The next few points were a blur of effort, sweat, and competitive fire.

Ethan made it 2–1 with a fast break pull-up jumper.

Alfred tied 2–2 with a no-look spin drive.

Ethan pushed to 3–2 using his speed to do a reverse layup.

Alfred countered to 3–3 by faking a drive and stepping back for a clean jumper.

Each time Ethan thought he had an edge, Alfred responded—not with brute force, but with elegance carved from decades of mastery.

"(He’s not even breaking a sweat...)"

Ethan wiped his forehead.

"(But I won’t give in. I won’t let this court decide who I am. I’m going to win. Even if I have to crawl.)"

.......

The Final Stretch

Score: 6–6

They had been going for nearly twenty minutes. Ethan was breathing heavier now, his shirt drenched, legs burning.

Alfred? Still calm.

"Tired?" he asked casually.

"N-Not even close." Ethan said between gulps of air.

Alfred passed him the ball. "Then show me."

Ethan dribbled aggressively, trying a crossover. Alfred stepped in—timing it just right—and knocked the ball away.

"Too wild," Alfred muttered. He scooped the ball, turned, and laid it in.

7–6.

Ethan clenched his fists.

"(Why does it feel like no matter how hard I try, he always sees through me?)"

"(Is this what it felt like to play against someone like Dad?)"

Alfred passed the ball back to him with a smile.

"You’re not bad, Ethan. You’ve got drive, instinct... heart."

"Then why can’t I win?" Ethan shouted, voice cracking.

"Because heart isn’t everything. Not yet." Alfred’s eyes were serious now.

"You’re good—but I’ve lived this game longer than you’ve been alive. It’s not just about speed or power. You soon understand it"

Score: 10–8

Ethan had fought his way back. He scored off two transition plays, catching Alfred slightly off-guard. But he was near his limit now. His hands trembled as he dribbled.

One more point.

But so did Alfred.

Alfred stood at the top of the key. He bounced the ball once, then twice. Ethan planted his feet.

"(Please... Just let me stop him once.)"

Alfred feinted left.

Ethan moved.

But Alfred wasn’t attacking. He was watching. Reading.

The moment Ethan shifted his weight—

Crossover.

Drive.

Spin.

Layup.

11–8.

Game.

....

Ethan clenched his jaw, looking down at his trembling hands. Sweat trickled down the side of his face, but it wasn’t just from exhaustion. It was from something deeper—frustration, confusion, and the sting of defeat.

"I lost..." he whispered under his breath.

His chest rose and fell with each heavy breath. He looked up slightly and watched his father, Alfred, calmly spinning the ball on his fingertip, like it was nothing.

Ethan’s thoughts swirled.

(I thought I became strong... I thought I could defeat many basketball players because I have the system... I thought I was special. But I lost to someone who’s retired... someone who’s not even in shape for basketball anymore...)

He grit his teeth harder.

(I trained... I unlocked skills... I upgraded my stats... but still...)

His fists clenched at his sides. ƒrēenovelkiss.com

(Was it not enough?)

Alfred walked over to him, dribbling slowly, and finally stopped in front of him. He saw the fire in Ethan’s eyes—the pain of someone who gave everything but still fell short.

"You did good, son."

Ethan didn’t answer.

Alfred crouched down, lowering himself to his son’s eye level.

"You played with heart, Ethan. And trust me, I felt that." He smiled.

"But experience? Experience isn’t something you can download into your body."

"But—"

"No. Listen to me." Alfred’s voice was firm, his expression serious but proud.

"Losing to someone better than you means you’ve still got room to grow. I’ve lost too, Ethan. Many times. But each time I did... I learned."

He placed a hand on Ethan’s shoulder.

"You wanna know what made me get back up after every loss?"

Ethan looked up.

Alfred smiled faintly and said,

"Michael Jordan once said, ’I’ve failed over and over and over again in my life. And that is why I succeed.’"

Ethan’s eyes widened slightly, and the words hit deeper than any dunk or shot.

"I teach," Alfred continued.

"You reach. You rise. You grow. That’s how champions are made—not in games they win, but in games like this. Games that burn. Games that hurt."

Ethan bit his lip.

"I just wanted to prove I’m not weak anymore..."

Alfred meeting his eyes.

"You proved it. Not because you won—because you fought. You didn’t give up. You challenged me. That’s more than most kids your age would do."

"You’re not weak, Ethan."

"You’re just not done yet."

Slowly, a tear slipped down Ethan’s cheek. He wiped it away quickly, embarrassed.

"Tch. You win this time, old man. But next time..."

Alfred smirked.

"Next time, I won’t go easy."

"You didn’t go easy this time!"

They both laughed—father and son.

The ball rolled away, forgotten for now. The lights above the court flickered softly, shining on two shadows—one tall and experienced, the other young and full of potential.

And even though Ethan had lost, something inside him felt stronger...

To be continue