Didn’t give up. He kept battling in the paint, a relentless, sweaty, and frankly, slightly terrifying force of nature. Even when Banani’s perimeter offense completely imploded – like, went from bad to straight-up nonexistent – Robi somehow managed to remain a threat inside.
He’d set screens that were basically moving brick walls, fight for every single rebound like it was the st slice of pizza, and then, every once in a blue moon, when a tiny, microscopic sliver of space miraculously appeared, he’d actually get the ball and… work his magic. Or at least, try to.
One glorious moment, he caught the ball on the low block.
A rare, almost mythical occurrence of decent post position. He took a deep breath, feeling the sweaty heat of the defenders practically breathing down his neck, but this time, this time, he had a little room. Just a sliver, but enough.
He used a drop step, quick pivot, boom – powered up with a hook shot. Was it graceful? Nope. Was it pretty? Absolutely not.
Was it effective? Hold your horses…
Swish. YES! Two points! Actual, legitimate, on-the-scoreboard points! Banani’s first points of the game, like they'd finally discovered fire or invented the wheel. The scoreboard flickered, reluctantly changing to 2-21.
Okay, still a chasm. Like, the Grand Canyon of point differences. But hey, at least it wasn’t zero anymore, right? Small victories, people, small victories.
A tiny ripple of appuse, more like polite cpping than actual cheering, drifted from the Banani bench. Even Tahera, who looked like she was about to spontaneously combust from stress, managed a small, strained smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Good job, Robi! That’s what we need! Keep attacking inside!" Her voice was still raspy, but there was a glimmer of something in there… maybe not hope, but… slightly less despair?
Robi pumped his fist, a small, almost pathetic gesture of defiance against the green onsught. He knew two points were basically a raindrop in the Sahara Desert, but it was something. Proof that they weren’t completely, utterly, hopelessly helpless.
A tiny spark, flickering weakly in the gathering darkness of the scoreboard and the general vibe of the game.
He lumbered back on defense, lungs burning like he’d just run a marathon uphill, muscles screaming in protest. Motijheel’s offense came at them again, relentless as a swarm of mosquitos, precise as a Swiss watch, and punishing as a… well, you get the picture.
He tried to contest shots, box out those annoyingly agile guards, protect the rim from aerial assaults, but it felt completely futile. Like trying to hold back a literal flood with a tiny, pstic bucket. Pointless, exhausting, and ultimately, just depressing.
Still, bless his stubborn soul, he kept fighting. Dove for loose balls that were probably already halfway out of bounds, contested every shot even when he was basically just waving a hand in the general direction of the shooter, and battled for every single rebound like his life depended on it. He was, without a doubt, the heart of Banani’s defense.
Scratch that, he was Banani’s defense. The only dude consistently making Motijheel even slightly work for their points inside. Everyone else? Well, they were trying their best, okay? Just… their best wasn’t exactly cutting it.
