Novak still didn't understand what Kuhlmann meant.
He'd barely slept, but his mind was clearer than usual – like the tide had gone out and left the sand bare. The morning sun bled through the palm shadows on the court, the others already training, sneakers squeaking against the floor.
He sat on the bench, watching Ector drill one-on-one drives with Adrian, each move explosive, precise. No hesitation. That was what Coach wanted – action.
Maybe that's what he meant, Novak thought. No fear. No thinking. Just doing.
But it didn't click.
Finally, he stood up, dusted off his shorts, and walked toward Daniel, who was checking practice footage on his tablet.
"Coach," Novak started. "Can I ask you something?"
Daniel looked up. "Shoot."
"I talked to Kuhlmann last night."
"About what?"
"Dancing stars, strong trees, Nietzsche, this type of stuff."
Daniel chuckled. "Oh, he gave you that talk too, huh? Then congrats. He sees potential in you."
Novak blinked. "That's what that was?"
"Oh yeah," Daniel said, smirking. "That's his way of saying you might be worth the trouble."
"I didn't really get it," Novak admitted. "All that… eternal stuff. Fear, death, cages. I'm not good with philosophy."
Daniel nodded. "You're not supposed to get it overnight. Took me half a year."
Novak frowned. "So what did he mean?"
Daniel leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. "Alright. You're a basketball guy. Let's speak that language."
He pointed toward the court. "You know how with guys like Ector or Jesus, we spend half of practice teaching them what a good shot is and what a bad shot is?"
Novak nodded.
"They're gifted," Daniel continued. "Athletic freaks. But raw. They have to learn discipline – structure. When to shoot, when to pass. Because if you let them do whatever they want, the game is fumbled."
He paused, eyes glinting. "But with players like you – it's different. You have the skill. You've got court vision. You see the rhythm. You think five-ten steps ahead. For guys like you, Novak… a bad shot is the one that isn't taken."
Novak blinked, processing. "So you're saying–"
"I'm saying you overthink," Daniel interrupted. "You let your brain become the referee of your own instincts. You analyze angles, probabilities, defender reactions – and by the time you've decided, the play's already dead."
He gestured toward the others. "You've got skill, understanding, and timing – but you lack one thing: trust. In yourself."
Daniel picked up a stray ball, spinning it in his palm. "Do you remember Ben Gordon? Guy could shoot the lights out but got lost when he started second-guessing his role. Or Michael Beasley – all the talent in the world, but he'd freeze because he couldn't decide if he deserved the shot. Even Andre Iguodala early in Philly – he'd defer every big moment, waiting for someone else to take it."
He bounced the ball once, the echo sharp. "Thinking is good. But when the game starts, thinking kills."
Novak watched the ball, mesmerized. "So… what am I supposed to do?"
Daniel's expression softened. "You remember what Kuhlmann said – about living each choice like it'll repeat forever?"
"Yeah."
"That's basketball too," Daniel said. "Every possession is eternity compressed into 24 seconds. If you hesitate, it dies. But if you trust yourself and act – even if you miss – the moment lives. You get another chance, and another. That's how players grow."
He tossed Novak the ball. "You don't need perfect. You need presence. Don't chase the right shot. Make the shot right."
Novak caught it instinctively. The rubber felt different now – heavier somehow, alive.
Daniel smiled faintly. "Stop being afraid to miss, Novak. Perfection is a myth. Fear is only in your head."
Novak nodded slowly. Something about it made sense – not fully, but enough. Enough to feel lighter.
"Thanks, Coach," he said.
Daniel patted his shoulder. "Don't thank me yet. Wait till you start playing like it."
As Novak walked back toward the court, he felt something inside settle – not peace, but purpose. He dribbled once, twice. The sound echoed. Bad shot is the one you don't take.
He looked up at the rim, exhaled, and shot. The ball spun – perfect arc, perfect release – swish.
For the first time in years, he didn't think about the next one.
Novak was still spinning the ball in his hands when Daniel leaned in closer, lowering his voice.
"Oh, and by the way," Daniel said in a conspiratorial tone, "don't talk about this with Ector or Jesus, okay? You know how they are – they'll start getting the wrong ideas."
Before Novak could even nod, a shout came from across the gym.
"I hear everything!"
Ector's voice echoed off the rafters. "Are you discussing me and Chapo behind our backs? And you're not gonna tell us?!"
Jesus cupped his hands like a megaphone. "Damn, I feel betrayed!"
Daniel groaned, rubbing his temples. "Not for your ears, boys."
"Oh, so that's how it is!" Jesus shouted back dramatically. "Okay then! Me and Ector will start having secret talks about you two!"
Ector nodded solemnly. "Yeah. Real secret, top-level stuff. You'll never know."
Jesus didn't even lower his voice. "You know both of them stink? Especially Daniel. He smells like chalk and regret."
Daniel straightened up. "Keep talking, Iglesia, and I'll make you run suicides till Christmas!"
"See, Ector?" Jesus said innocently. "He's already defensive. Classic guilt."
Ector grinned. "Coach Daniel hiding philosophy lessons from us, huh? I bet he told Novak the secret of the universe."
Novak couldn't help but laugh, shaking his head. "You guys are idiots."
Jesus pointed a finger dramatically. "Ah, but we're confident idiots. Big difference."