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Every coach has talent. Some find themselves in the bubble more often then not. Right there knocking on the championship door. The basket no longer has the strength of a backboard. Its just made up of another bubble. Not just one bubble but many. Its finding out the differences in culture of those teams bound for the bubble and those made of something a little different.

The alarm starts before the sun even clocks in. BRRING. Not a cute little phone chime either. Not some gentle woodland fairy sound like, “Good morning, champion.” Nah. This thing sounds like a robot goose getting stepped on. BRRING. BRRING. The room is dark. The floor is cold. Your hoodie is somewhere in the shadow zone, probably plotting against you. Your shoes sit by the door like two silent witnesses. Nobody is watching.

The gym sounds different after everyone leaves. During practice, it is all sneakers, whistles, bouncing balls, water bottles getting kicked over, and somebody yelling, “My bad,” after throwing a pass directly into another person’s kneecap. But after? After is weird. The lights buzz like tired bees. The bleachers sit folded along the wall like giant metal jaws. The scoreboard is dark, except for one red dot that blinks every few seconds...