People used to ask me all the time: "Is the NBA really that brutal?"
And I'd tell them straight up: "Whatever you're imagining, it's gonna be ten times worse than that."
"So why the hell are you still going overseas?"
"Well, you know what? If I'm gonna do it anyway, might as well take on the toughest challenge out there."
Basketball prodigy. Phenom. The future of Japanese basketball.
I'd been showered with every compliment in the book, and success was basically handed to me on a silver platter.
If I declared for early entry right now and jumped into the draft, everyone said I'd get picked in the top five.
"I don't want people thinking only China can go toe-to-toe with the NBA forever."
Honestly, I was dying to know. How far could my skills really take me? Were American kids actually that damn good at basketball?
From what people who'd studied abroad told me, the skill gap was way bigger than anyone back home could imagine. They said—maybe being a little dramatic—that a high school all-star team could probably demolish our national team. Give them enough time to gel together, and they were dead certain it would happen.
How could that not sting my pride?
"Do you need anything, sir?" the flight attendant asked.
"No, I'm good."
The pretty flight attendant with her hair pulled back, the butterflies in my stomach about heading to unfamiliar territory—none of it seemed to matter because of how pumped I was feeling right now.
Me, Yamada Hiroshi.
I want to find out firsthand whether the NBA really is an impossible dream.
If you're a man, you gotta at least try, right?