Above the Rim, Below the proverty line

The limited minutes against Virtus Bologna were a cage. Kyle felt it with every cautious cut, every hesitant closeout. The medical staff's mandate was a leash, and the specter of Delow's trip—the sharp, sickening twist of the knee—played on a loop in his mind every time a defender closed out too aggressively. He finished the game with a stat line that was the very definition of fine: 8 points, 4 assists, 3 rebounds in 18 minutes. They won comfortably. He was a non-factor in the best way, and it chafed.

The real work began when everyone else had gone home.

The WiZink Center, empty at 10:30 PM, was a cathedral of silence. The only light came from the scoreboard, casting a dim, ghostly glow over the hardwood. The only sounds were the hum of the cooling system and the rhythmic, solitary thump… swish… thump… swish of a basketball.

Kyle Wilson, drenched in sweat, was alone.

This wasn't about practice. This was about exorcism.

He started at the three-point line, right wing. Thump… swish.

Left wing. Thump… swish.

Top of the key. Thump… swish.

He wasn't just shooting. He was reprogramming. With each shot, he was trying to overwrite the neural pathway that now linked the act of rising for a jumper with the fear of a foot snaking out, of a knee buckling. He moved around the arc, catch-and-shoot, until his arms burned and his breath came in ragged gasps.

Then came the harder part. The drives.

He set up a training dummy—a tall, padded cylinder on a base—at the spot where Delow had tripped him. He dribbled at it full speed, practicing the footwork to navigate the traffic, to protect his landing leg, to finish through imaginary contact. He worked on his gather step, making it quicker, more explosive, to minimize the time his plant foot was vulnerable.

Explode up. Not out. Land soft. Balanced.

He repeated the drill until the movements were no longer conscious thoughts but ingrained reflexes. He was teaching his body to be brave again, to trust the surgically repaired knee not just to hold, but to perform under duress.

He was midway through a series of floaters, the ball kissing high off the glass, when a voice cut through the silence.

"The doctors said limited minutes. They did not say limited sleep."

Kyle turned, startled. Coach Laso stood at the entrance to the court, still in his suit pants and a dress shirt, the tie loosened. He held two coffee cups in a cardboard carrier.

"Couldn't sleep," Kyle said, catching his breath.

"Neither could I," Laso replied, walking onto the court. He handed Kyle a coffee. It was black and strong, just how he took it. "I am always thinking. Always worrying. Tonight, I was worrying about you."

Kyle took the coffee, the heat seeping into his sore hands. "I'm fine. Just getting some reps in."

"You are not fine," Laso said bluntly, sipping his own coffee. "You are scared. It is written all over your face when you play. You are waiting for the next bad thing to happen."

The honesty was jarring. Kyle looked away, toward the basket. "It's a logical fear."

"It is a loser's fear," Laso countered, his voice not unkind, but firm. "Fear is a tool. It tells you where the danger is. But you cannot let it be the driver. Right now, fear is driving your game. You are playing not to get hurt. You must play to hurt the other team."

"How?" The word came out quieter than he intended.

Laso set his coffee down on the floor and picked up the spare ball. He dribbled it once, the sound unnaturally loud in the empty arena.

"You think this game is about X's and O's. About jump shots and defensive rotations. It is. But it is also about this." He tapped his own temple. "The team that is more afraid to lose… usually does. ALBA was not afraid of you. They were not afraid of us. They played free. You are afraid of your own body. You are playing in a prison."

He passed the ball hard to Kyle. "So, we break you out."

For the next hour, Laso put him through a unique drill. It wasn't about plays or sets. It was about confrontation.

"Drive at me," Laso commanded, positioning himself under the basket.

"Coach, I'm not gonna—"

"Drive at me!" Laso yelled, slapping the floor. "Now!"

Kyle drove, and as he went up for a layup, Laso, a former point guard himself, swiped hard at the ball, making contact with Kyle's arm, bumping him with his body.

"No call!" Laso shouted. "Again!"

They did it again. And again. Laso fouled him harder each time, pushing, grabbing, hacking.

"Finish through it! Expect it! Use it!"

Kyle's frustration grew. Then his anger. The fear was being burned away by pure competitiveness. He started initiating contact, using his shoulder to create space, shielding the ball with his body. He stopped trying to avoid the hit and started using it to his advantage.

"Yes! That is it! You are stronger than them! Act like it!"

They moved outside. Laso guarded him on the perimeter, playing physical, hand-checking, mirroring the style he'd see in every EuroLeague game from now on.

"They will be physical! Be more physical! They will try to intimidate you! Intimidate them back!"

The solitary shooting session had been therapy. This was boot camp. And it was exactly what he needed.

When they finally stopped, both men were breathing heavily, sweat staining Laso's dress shirt.

"The knee is a fact," Laso said, leaning on his knees. "It is not an excuse. It is a part of you now, like your height or your shooting touch. You must accept it. Respect its limits. But do not let it define you. You are not Kyle Wilson with a bad knee. You are Kyle Wilson. The knee is just along for the ride."

He picked up his coffee cup. "Now, go home. See your beautiful family. Sleep. Tomorrow, we have a real practice. And you will not be afraid."

The next game was against Anadolu Efes Istanbul, a perennial EuroLeague powerhouse. They were a tough, veteran team, known for their own physical brand of basketball. Their star, Shane Larkin, was a lightning-quick guard who would undoubtedly test Kyle's lateral movement.

The first play of the game was a test. Larkin came off a high screen, forcing the switch, and now Kyle was isolated on him at the top of the key. The crowd leaned forward.

Larkin is a blur. He gave a series of crossovers, trying to break Kyle down. The old fear whispered, Your knee, don't let him blow by you.

But Kyle heard Laso's voice louder. Be more physical.

Instead of backpedaling, Kyle stepped up, chest-to-chest with Larkin, using his hands to disrupt his dribble, his body to absorb the space. He was aggressive, annoying. Larkin, surprised by the pressure, picked up his dribble and was forced to pass out of the isolation. A win.

On offense, Kyle came off a screen and was met by a hard show from the Efes big man. Instead of retreating, he put his shoulder down, absorbed the contact, and kept his dribble alive. He spun away, created a sliver of space, and hit a tough, contested fadeaway.

Swish.

It wasn't a highlight-reel play. It was a grimy, tough, grown-man bucket. The kind that wins playoff games.

The game was a war of attrition. There were no easy baskets. But Kyle was in the middle of it, not as a finesse shooter, but as a battler. He fought for loose balls. He set punishing screens. He posted up smaller guards. He was using his body as a weapon, trusting it again.

The defining moment came in the fourth quarter. With Madrid clinging to a two-point lead, Kyle drove into the lane. The help defender, a rugged Turkish forward, came over and undercut him, a dirty play similar to Delow's. Kyle, expecting it, adjusted in mid-air. He twisted his body, protected the ball, and somehow got the shot off as he fell. The ball banked high off the glass and dropped through the net.

The whistle blew. Foul. And-one.

Kyle landed on his back, the air rushing out of him. But he immediately popped up, fists clenched, and let out a roar that echoed through the WiZink. It was a roar of triumph, of defiance, of release. He pounded his chest once, then pointed to the sideline, where Coach Laso was standing, a faint smile on his face.

He sank the free throw.

Final Score: Real Madrid 85 - Anadolu Efes Istanbul 79

Kyle Wilson: 24 points (9-16 FG, 2-4 3PT, 4-4 FT), 5 rebounds, 4 assists, 1 turnover.

After the game, a reporter asked him about the and-one play. "It looked like you were expecting that contact."

Kyle, an ice pack already strapped to his knee, nodded. "I was. My coach taught me that. You can't wait for the game to come to you. You have to go get it. And sometimes, that means going through people."

He didn't go to the empty gym that night. He went home. He played with Kaleb on the living room floor until the boy's eyes grew heavy. He sat with Arianna on the balcony, watching the lights of Madrid, not saying much, just being together.

The fear wasn't gone. It probably never would be. It was a ghost that lived in the back of his mind, in the occasional twinge of his knee. But he had learned to live with it. He had built a new house around the ghost, a stronger one, with foundations of resilience and walls of defiance.

The echo in the empty gym had been the sound of his own doubt. The roar in the packed arena was the sound of its answer.