As the Buffalo stepped back onto the hardwood, the noise hit them like a wave.
It wasn't polite applause. It wasn't casual cheering.
It was raw.
People stood from their seats, some pounding the railings, others cupping their hands around their mouths as if volume alone could will a miracle into existence.
"LET'S GO BUFFALO!"
"DE-FENSE! DE-FENSE!"
The chant rolled through the arena in uneven waves, not perfectly synchronized, but alive. Hope always sounded like that—messy, desperate, untrained.
Joe Cruz clapped his hands sharply, the sound cracking through the noise as he called out the play. His jaw was tight, eyes burning with focus and something else beneath it—fear, maybe. Or the refusal to feel fear.
Lord Victor jogged the ball up the court, deliberately slowing the pace. No rush. No panic. Just control. He lifted his hand, signaling movement, and for the first time all night, the Buffalo flowed instead of collided.
The Bulldogs struck first anyway.
A quick swing. A sharp cut. A clean layup.
The crowd groaned—but it didn't die.
Joe took the inbound, dribbled hard, attacked the lane. Two defenders collapsed on him immediately, arms raised, bodies closing like steel doors.
For a split second, muscle memory screamed at him to shoot.
Instead, he passed.
The ball flew to Santino.
Santino rose with both hands and slammed it down with authority.
The sound of the dunk echoed like a gunshot.
The arena erupted.
"OOOOHHHH!" "That's it! That's it!"
Joe pointed at Santino as they ran back, his face cracking into the faintest grin.
Next possession—Victor caught the ball at the elbow, rose smoothly, and buried a mid-range jumper. No hesitation. No doubt.
Then Jose Bernardo slipped into the corner, received the pass, and let it fly.
Swish.
Coach Larry of the Bulldogs stood up abruptly, arms crossed, lips pressed thin. He didn't wait for momentum to grow.
Timeout.
On the Buffalo bench, Elias stood clapping hard, his palms stinging. His heart pounded—not from exhaustion, but from recognition.
This feeling.
He knew it.
They were still down. Still bleeding points. Still climbing a mountain with tired legs.
But something had shifted.
They weren't just five men sharing the floor anymore.
They were becoming a team.
Coach Larry wasn't blind to it.
When play resumed, he made his move—sending in Joey and Luis, his two best perimeter defenders. Long arms. Quick feet. Disciplined minds.
The game tightened.
Passes that had flowed freely began to hesitate. Driving lanes shrank. The Bulldogs pressed harder, smarter. The Buffalo made small mistakes—an extra dribble here, a rushed pass there.
Then it happened.
Roy caught the ball in the paint, turned, and rose above Santino. Joe lunged in late, instinct overriding caution.
Whistle.
The ball kissed the glass and dropped in.
"And the foul!" the referee called.
Joe froze.
Fourth foul.
Coach Fran exhaled sharply. He had no choice.
Joe walked to the bench slowly, frustration etched into every step. He slammed his towel down, head bowed.
Coach Fran scanned his bench.
His eyes landed on Elias.
He hesitated—just a moment.
Then, quietly to himself, he muttered, "If we lose with him in… it won't be Joe's fault."
"Moreno," he called. "You're in."
A hush fell over the crowd.
Elias stood.
The silence wasn't hostile. It was uncertain. Curious. Heavy with expectation and doubt.
As he stepped onto the court, Elias did what he always did.
He knelt on one knee.
Touched the floor.
A simple gesture. Gratitude. Grounding.
Across the court, Coach Larry laughed aloud, shaking his head. "Hahaha… that's it? Sending in the old guy? Guess that's surrender."
Roy stepped to the line for his bonus free throw.
The shot hit the rim.
High bounce.
Elias reacted first.
He jumped—not the highest, not the fastest—but with perfect timing. His hands wrapped the ball tight against his chest.
"RUN!" he shouted.
Santino and Victor were already sprinting.
Elias didn't dribble. He didn't hesitate.
He threw the ball.
A perfect, arcing outlet.
Victor caught it near midcourt, took one step, then fired it ahead to Santino.
Boom.
Another dunk.
The crowd roared again, louder now, surprised by their own voices.
Next possession—the Bulldogs' ace, Joseph, tried to slip into space for a pull-up.
Elias slid with him.
Stayed vertical.
Joseph rose.
Elias timed it.
Block.
Clean.
The ball popped loose.
Elias grabbed it and yelled again, "RUN!"
Victor sprinted ahead, received the pass, and laid it in softly off the glass.
Coach Larry slammed his clipboard against his leg. "Slow it down!" he shouted. "Use your heads!"
But frustration had crept in.
Joseph tried to reset the offense, bouncing the ball lazily for just a fraction too long.
Elias struck.
Steal.
The crowd gasped as Elias pushed the ball himself, dribbling faster than anyone expected. Roy retreated, spreading his arms.
"Come on, old man," Roy taunted. "Hit me."
Elias drove hard—then stopped.
Pulled up.
Twenty feet.
The shot rose clean.
Nothing but net.
The arena exploded.
"ELI-AS! ELI-AS! ELI-AS!"
Elias didn't celebrate. He turned immediately, sprinting back on defense, chest heaving, eyes locked in.
In just minutes, he had scored only two points—but he had changed everything.
A rebound. A block. A steal. A run that cut the lead by six.
Coach Larry screamed at his team, veins bulging. "What are you doing?!"
Because this wasn't the same Buffalo anymore.
Before, they had been prey—rushed, scattered, mocked.
Now, they were disciplined. Connected. Defiant.
Defense tightened. Passing lanes closed.
Shots became contested. Easy points disappeared.
The Bulldogs still led—but not comfortably.
The once-insurmountable fifty-point lead shrank. Bit by bit. Possession by possession. Sweat by sweat.
With under two minutes left, Elias glanced at the scoreboard.
He knew.
They didn't have enough time.
He said to himself, "may be not tonight."
But as the crowd stood again, chanting his name, Elias felt something deeper than victory stir inside him.
They hadn't won the game.
But they had won belief.
And sometimes—that was how everything began.