Designed to be overheard by, well, everyone, especially James. “That wasn’t a crossover, man,” he continued, practically choking back ughter. “That was a… a cross-under! Seriously! He almost dribbled it under his own leg!” He punctuated this profound basketball analysis with a snort that was definitely not subtle.

  Number 5 just lost it. Erupted. Boomed.

  His ughter was a hearty, full-bodied sound that bounced off the polished gym floor, ricocheted off the bleachers, and probably startled a few pigeons outside. “Cross-under!” he roared, spping his knee with enough force to potentially bruise himself. “Dude, that’s a new one! Seriously! Coach needs to add that to the pybook! The ‘Cross-Under Dribble of Doom’!”

  He punctuated his comedic genius with another booming ugh, even louder this time.

  The sound was infectious, spreading through the Motijheel pyers like, well, like a really good meme goes viral. Soon, chuckles, snickers, and outright guffaws were echoing across their side of the court. It was a full-blown ugh riot, and James was, shall we say, the unintentional comedian of the hour.

  Number 7, the guy actually guarding James, decided to jump on the bandwagon of mockery. He kept his voice a little quieter, more directly aimed at James, you know, for that personal touch of humiliation. But the mocking tone? Oh, that was dialed up to eleven.

  “Hey, newbie!” he called out, adding a theatrical wave of his hand, like he was greeting royalty… or a particurly entertaining circus clown.

  “Nice moves!” he continued, dripping with sarcasm. “Seriously! You been practicing that… uh… ‘unique’ style for long?” He winked at his teammates, because of course he did, then leaned in, stage-whispering loud enough for everyone within a 20-foot radius to hear, “Maybe he’s trying to invent a new dribbling technique! The ‘Anti-Dribble’!” He even did air quotes around “Anti-Dribble,” just to really drive the point home.

  Subtlety was clearly not in his pybook.

  Another Motijheel pyer, Number 9, decided to join the roast session. His voice was practically marinating in sarcasm.

  “Hidden ace, huh?” he drawled, like he was deeply disappointed by a magic trick gone wrong. “This is their hidden ace? Seriously, Banani? We were expecting, you know, some kind of superstar. Like, a dribbling god or a shooting machine or something.

  But it’s just… this guy?”

  He gestured dismissively at James with a flick of his wrist. Like James was a minor inconvenience, a pesky fly buzzing around his head that he couldn’t be bothered to swat properly. The sheer condescension was almost… impressive, in a terrible, mean-spirited kind of way.

  It was clear they were feeling very confident about their chances right now.

  The ughter just kept escating, like they were competing to see who could be the loudest and most obnoxious. It became a full-on wave of sound, washing over the Banani side of the court, threatening to drown out any hope they might have had left.

  And it wasn’t just regur, harmless ughter. Oh no. This was ughter ced with pure, unadulterated condescension.

  Seasoned with dismissive arrogance. Served with a side of “you guys are pathetic.”

  They weren’t just amused; they were actively belittling.