Basketball System: Rebound of the Underdog

Jian grew up in a picture-perfect life that most people could only dream of. His family was not just good—they were the kind of good that made others believe in happy endings. His parents were high school sweethearts who turned into successful business partners, running a well-known bookstore chain. They were present, loving, and supportive, yet never overbearing. They attended every parent-teacher conference and every school event. Jian's mother, in particular, had this way of making every meal feel like a family gathering. She'd laugh about the smallest things, recounting anecdotes from her day with a smile so warm it could melt the coldest heart. His father was the type who'd slip in a new book or a new game under Jian's pillow every time he had a bad day as if he knew when Jian needed an escape from the world without even asking. Jian's childhood was marked by laughter and stability. They were the kind of family who had movie nights every Friday, where they'd spread a picnic blanket on the living room floor and eat popcorn until they couldn't move. His older sister, Anhe, was the typical overachiever but in the most genuine way. She was his first friend, his confidant, the one who'd wait at the school gate for him when he was still too little to walk home alone. They'd hold hands, swinging them back and forth, her telling him stories she'd made up on the spot, filled with dragons and warriors, making the ordinary walk feel like a journey to a distant land. At school, Jian was everything a parent could wish for in a child. He wasn't just smart. He was the kind of naturally intelligent kid who didn't need to study too hard to understand things. He'd breeze through tests with an ease that made his friends groan in exaggerated frustration. "Jian, do you even try?" his friends would complain, throwing their pencils down in mock defeat after another math test result came back. Jian would laugh it off, shrugging. "I'm just good at guessing," he'd joke, though everyone knew it was more than that. Friendship came easily to Jian. He had a way about him that drew people in, a natural charisma that wasn't showy. He was always in the center of his friend group, not because he sought attention, but because it was where he naturally fit. Jian's life was a straight line of success. He was good at everything—school, sports, making friends. He excelled without effort, and it wasn't that he was arrogant about it. He was just frank. He was truthful. Teachers loved him, and they always used him as an example in class. "Look at how Jian approached this problem," they'd say, pointing to his paper. He'd pursed his lips. It wasn't that he disliked the attention—it was that it didn't mean anything to him. It was as though he was moving through life on autopilot, checking off the boxes of what a 'good' life should look like without ever feeling like it was really his. Junior secondary school came around, and nothing changed. If anything, the pressure only decreased. Jian became the student council vice president, a role he took on not because he particularly wanted it but because he'd been nominated unanimously. "You're a natural leader," his teacher had told him with a smile, handing him the badge. Jian smiled back, a polite, expected kind of smile, but inside, there was nothing. He wasn't unhappy—he had everything, after all. It just didn't spark anything in him. All the pieces of his life fit perfectly together, yet they formed a picture he couldn't relate to. His junior year of secondary school, however, brought something new. Basketball. Jian had always been athletic. He'd played casually before but never seriously. The school's basketball coach saw him playing one day during gym class and immediately asked him to try out for the team. "You've got talent, kid," the coach had said. Jian had felt the pressure of that touch. He agreed, not because he had any real interest, but because it was something to do—something different. Without any surprise, Jian was good at it. He was not just good—he was exceptional. It came naturally, like everything else in his life, but this time, it was different. For the first time, he found himself looking forward to something. Practices became the highlight of his week. He loved the way the ball felt in his hands, the sound it made as it hit the hardwood floor, and the sharp squeak of sneakers during a fast break. It was a language he hadn't known he could speak. By his first year, Jian was made captain. He became the star player almost immediately, the one everyone looked to during critical moments in the game. His coach would nod at him from the sidelines, eyes gleaming with pride. "You've got this, Jian," he'd say. Jian would nod back, a smile stretching across his lips. It was the first time he'd felt that rush, that flutter in his chest that wasn't anxiety or boredom—it was excitement. It was the closest he'd ever come to feeling alive. But even that feeling began to fade. The thrill he got from the game was dulled by the expectations that came with it. People started treating him differently, as if he were a star they couldn't touch. His friends, included, began to see him as the 'basketball guy,' the one destined for greatness. "Man, you're gonna go pro," they would say. Jian would laugh, but it never reached his eyes. It felt like he was living a script, one that everyone else had written for him. He was playing in a tournament one day, and the crowd's cheers were so loud they rattled his bones. Jian dribbled the ball down the court, the defenders blurring into shadows as he sprinted past them. He made the shot—a perfect three-pointer that had the crowd on its feet. He raised his arms in victory, grinning. For a moment, he felt that rush again, that fleeting sense of exhilaration. But as he walked back to the bench, it slipped away, leaving him emptier than before. He realized then that this was the closest he'd gotten to feeling alive, yet it wasn't enough. It was like tasting a drop of water after wandering a desert—it quenched his thirst for a second before reminding him how much more he needed. Jian sat on the bench, staring at the court. The crowd was still cheering his name, but it was muffled like he was underwater. He wasn't unhappy. He wasn't struggling. He wasn't anything. He was just there, existing, doing what he was good at, excelling without feeling. He looked up at the scoreboard, his name flashing with the points he'd scored. It was what everyone wanted, what everyone told him he should be proud of. So why did it feel like nothing at all?