January 9th, 2012. Beverly Hills, California. JEM Community Center.
America really is mind-blowingly huge.
How huge? So huge that someone like me, born and raised in Tokyo my whole life, feels like some small-town hick who just rolled off the turnip truck.
"The goal is Division 2. Got it?" David said.
I nodded silently.
First off, college basketball in America is divided into fifteen different divisions total. Each division is split into anywhere from thirty conferences on the high end to about ten on the low end. And each conference has ten to twenty college basketball teams. At minimum, that means there are roughly 1,100 college basketball teams total.
Holy shit. Does that even make sense?
"The audition's three days total, so don't blow your load early," David continued. "You gotta pace yourself properly."
"Yeah, got it."
Since last year when I was a high school sophomore, my parents and I had been secretly preparing for my move to America. We'd quietly signed an agent contract with David Tanaka, a Japanese-American, and sent game footage to American colleges.
As a result, starting today for three days of workouts, about 200 college basketball scouts were supposed to come check me out.
At first I was pumped about that number, but David said the situation wasn't as rosy as expected. He said only a handful of schools from NCAA Division 1—the top tier—and Division 2, the level right below it, were actually interested.
Still, 200 is more than all the middle school, high school, and college basketball programs in Japan combined.
"Let's warm up nice and easy for now, yeah?" David said, then suddenly his head whipped around. "Hey! JO!!"
David, who'd been encouraging me, suddenly switched to rapid-fire English and walked over to a bald guy. I practiced my advanced skill of pretending not to care while sneaking glances.
Maybe that guy was the person David had told me about.
"Haha! Hold on. Hiroshi! Come over here for a sec!" David called out, laughing cheerfully.
I walked over trying to look as casual as possible. When I grabbed the thick, meaty hand of the white man offering me a handshake, he started talking with a slightly surprised look. I turned to David with a face that screamed "help me."
I had no clue what he was saying.
I'd definitely busted my ass studying English for two years, but the locals talked way too fast. The slang and phrases that weren't in any textbook made things even tougher for me.
But David said I didn't need to sweat it too much—that I'd adapt soon enough. That I'd start picking things up bit by bit. I'm hoping that happens real soon.
"He's saying you're taller than he thought," David translated. "Seem bigger than your profile listed."
"Huh? Oh. I grew about an inch and a half this year."
After David translated what I said, the man immediately widened his eyes and gave me a thumbs up.
"That's nice," the man said.
I can understand that much, at least.
Then he rattled off something else completely incomprehensible.
Damn it! What the hell is he saying?
"He's asking if you're 6'7" now," David explained.
"How tall is 6'7"?"
And why don't people here use centimeters and kilograms? Inches and pounds are completely foreign to me.
"6'7" is about 200 centimeters."
"It's exactly 6'8"."
After another moment of back-and-forth conversation, David translated again: "He's asking if that's without shoes."
"Isn't that how it's supposed to be?"
Oh right! David had taught me tons about American basketball. Among all that info, he'd told me about the physical attributes they consider crucial.
What surprised me was that they didn't think jumping ability was that important. Instead, what they emphasized were athletic abilities like lane agility—basically quickness—and things like how fast you can run the length of the court.
Along with that, pure height without shoes and something called wingspan—your arm span—were key factors.
By the way, when they measure wingspan, they measure the length when you're standing straight with both arms stretched out to your sides.
"Then he's saying with shoes you'd probably be about 6'8"," David said. "Oh right! This guy is Bill Hauser, a scout from the University of San Diego."
Bill. Easy enough to remember.
"He says he wishes you luck," David translated.
"Huh? Oh, um. Thank you?" I managed.
"Hahaha. Good luck, kid," Bill said, patting my shoulder before walking away.
My real warm-up began after that.
It'd been about a week since I'd landed in America, and I'd spent that time frantically trying to get used to American-style workouts. Both the warm-up routine and training methods were completely different and unfamiliar compared to what I'd done in Japan.
But I absolutely had to adapt. I didn't come here to fail.
"Come on, Yamada! Come on!" Bryan Miller shouted.
While I was running and stretching, I felt like a monkey in a zoo exhibit. Every single move I made had scouts snapping pictures or whispering to each other.
Some were whispering into phones, and whenever that happened, Bryan—who was hired to help with the workout—would yell at me to focus.
I could understand those words just fine: "Keep focus!"
"Great! Again!" Bryan called out.
Bryan was actually a really solid guy. Sure, when we started working out he could seem like a drill sergeant sometimes, but he was trying to use only simple English words for me. For example, when asking if I'd eaten, he'd just use two words: "Food. Eat."
So I really appreciated Bryan.
"One more!"
Anyway, the first thing after warm-up was showing off ball-handling skills.
At first Bryan made me put on these weird weighted gloves, which made dribbling way harder. But when I took the gloves off yesterday, handling the basketball felt like a breeze.
"Next!"
After dribbling came shooting drills.
Shooting dozens, hundreds of times from set spots over and over. Both David and Bryan told me that making an impression with my shot was more important than anything else.
So I was trying to lock in even harder now.
Swish.
When this guy named Cory, who came with Bryan, sent me bounce passes, I'd catch them at the wing position and go straight into my shooting motion.
David told me that scouts would be watching my shooting balance and release, plus the consistency of my form.
Japan usually emphasizes textbook-perfect mechanics, but what the American scouts were looking for was totally different from what I'd imagined.
And that turned out to be lucky for me.
"Woo!" someone cheered.
When about five shots went in consecutively, cheers erupted from all over.
"You know, you're good at everything except..." Coach Watanabe's voice suddenly flashed through my head.
Clang!
Agh! Damn it! I told myself not to think about other stuff.
"It's okay, Yamada! It's okay! Again!" Bryan yelled.
I know this about myself—I'm scattered as hell. To put it nicely, I think deeply, but really I'm just complicated and can't keep things simple.
Because I overthink everything, when one thing goes wrong, I can't seem to dig myself out of that hole.
Clang.
Clang.
Clang, clang, clang.
"Hahaha..."
After eight straight bricks, the people who'd been cheering started snickering. They were trying to hold it in, but I guess it was hilarious watching someone miss that many shots in a row at what was supposed to be a showcase.
One guy I spotted seemed to be saying something like: "Well, that's Asians for you."
It might just be my imagination, but my gut instincts are usually dead-on.
"That's Asians for you?" I muttered under my breath.
"Bryan!"
A little pissed off, I decided to turn up the heat.
I went back to where I'd taken my first shot and positioned the ball in my left hand.
Swish!
Good. Next.
The second one: I came around the three-point line from the wing position and caught a pass from straight ahead. Similar to those deep threes my childhood hero Matsui Takeshi used to drain.
If there's a screener, you brush past him and let it fly immediately.
Swish!
Next I ran out to the free-throw line and caught another pass.
Swish!
This time I was near the basket. After making a left-handed baby hook off the backboard, I moved to the opposite side and shot the same way. Then I slipped out to the 45-degree spot and shot again.
Swish!
Finally, I shot from the wing on the opposite side from where I'd started.
Swish!
"Good! Alright... wait, what??" Bryan stammered.
"Bryan!" I called out.
What was I supposed to say at times like this? There was a phrase that Nick, my English teacher back in Tokyo, had taught me. Oh right.
"I'm on fire!!"
"Hahahahahaha..."
What's so damn funny?
The laughter just made me more fired up, so I kept catching passes and shooting from the same spots. And that continued until their laughter turned into dead silence.
I must've drained about thirty in a row.
You want to laugh at me now?
But I think I might've gone a little overboard.
"You idiot," David muttered afterward.
Ugh, this damn personality of mine. Having a personality that bites me in the ass is such a pain.