Chapter 4

“THE DUNKMASTER JIN”

I started basketball at eight, the only girl among boys who barely noticed me. Their silence hurt, so I trained alone under streetlights until my shot spoke louder than words. That grind led me from benches to a real girls’ roster and eventually an invitation from Junsport Academy. Basketball became my language—the place I learned patience, grit, and belonging.

Years later, the court feels like home. Titles came—school leagues, city cups, even the 2025 National Youth Championship—but the real win was growth. The coaches who believed, the “coconut man” who let me go to get stronger, the hours no one saw. I may never dunk, but this game has lifted me higher than I ever expected.

Moments ahead

Pt1: “Not a Girl’s game”

I was eight when basketball found me.

Or rather, when Mom signed me up for the youth training program at the community sports center. She said it would help me “burn energy” and “stay healthy,” but soon the orange ball began to bounce in rhythm with my heartbeat. I didn’t think much of it at first, just a place to go after school, the echo of shoes on the polished floor, the faint scent of sweat and rubber that felt oddly comforting. Day by day, the court became my second home.

After a few weeks, the coach called me aside.

He said there was something in the way I moved, balanced, sharp, a little fearless. Not a prodigy, but “someone worth watching.” I didn’t quite know what that meant. All I knew was that being on the court made me feel alive. The only catch was that there wasn’t a girls’ team. Just a lineup of boys who already had their rhythm, their jokes, their silent understanding.

I joined them anyway.

From the first day, I could feel the distance. They didn’t tease me, but they didn’t include me either. During drills, they’d pass the ball around each other like I wasn’t there. In scrimmages, I’d run the lanes wide open – no one looked my way. The first real match was the worst: I stood on the court for ten full minutes without touching the ball once. When the buzzer ended, my palms were still clean, the ball never once brushing my fingers.

In the locker room afterward, I overheard one boy laugh, “Basketball’s not really a girl’s game anyway.”

The words didn’t sting. They burned.
I started showing up early, long before practice began, shooting until my arms ached and my fingers turned red. Layups, crossovers, free throws, three-pointers. Over and over. I wanted to be undeniable.

A month later, Coach announced a three-point shooting test. Everyone would get ten attempts. The boys joked about who’d score the most, already dismissing me with polite smiles. When my turn came, I blocked out the chatter. Ball, breath, arc, swish. Again and again. When the tenth shot fell through clean, the gym went silent. Ten out of ten.

For the first time, the boys looked at me differently, not as the girl who took up space on their court, but as someone who belonged there. In the next match, I felt a pass zip toward me – a perfect spiral that landed right in my hands. Instinct took over. I caught, turned, and shot. The ball kissed the rim, spun once, and dropped in. The bench erupted.

That moment changed everything.

Basketball taught me early that respect isn’t give – it’s earned, and sometimes you have to fight twice as hard to claim half the space. But that fight also became the fire inside me. Every drop of sweat, every ignored pass, every shot that swished clean through the net reminded me: this wasn’t just a game anymore. It was my language, my armor, and my proof.

Pt2: “Benched” to “Invited”

Even after that three-point test that turned heads, I wasn’t suddenly a star.

Recognition didn’t mean revolution. I still missed layups. My defense was loose. I dribbled too high under pressure. And worst of all, I tired easily, lungs burning halfway through scrimmage while the boys ran circles around me. Coach said my mechanics were good, but “the body needs time to catch up.”

So I stayed. I practiced. I listened.

Still, each week, I found myself sitting longer on the bench. The blue plastic seat molded to my legs like a second skin. I’d watch the boys run, sweat flying off their faces, their sneakers squealing against the floor. Every now and then, the coach would call my name, and I’d spring up like a coiled spring-only to sub in for a few quick possessions before being replaced again.

It wasn’t unfair, not exactly. They were stronger, taller, faster. Sometimes I’d stare at their broad backs as they defended, thinking how easy they made it look. Mom used to say it wasn’t about superiority; it was about nature. “You see, sports are arranged to be fair,” she told me once as we walked home after another match I barely played. “If you were born a boy, you’d be out there longer. It’s not your fault, it’s just how things are.”

I nodded, though I didn’t really agree.

Something inside me clenched every time she said it. Maybe she was right. Maybe it was nature. But nature could be challenged, couldn’t it?

So I trained harder.

Every night, after finishing homework, I’d take the ball to the small park near our apartment. The light from the streetlamp painted half the court in gold, half in shadow. I’d shoot until the shadows swallowed me whole, until my arms shook, until the net became invisible and I was playing against the dark itself.

Weeks turned into months.

My friends called me crazy for spending every afternoon at the gym, even when I knew I wouldn’t play much. But I couldn’t stop. There was something about the rhythm: the sound of the ball hitting the court, the echo of sneakers on the wood, that reminded me I still belonged, even if the scoreboard said otherwise.

Then one afternoon, everything shifted.

Our coach gathered us in the gym. His voice was calm but excited. “Team Whales will be forming an official girls’ roster,” he said. “And Jin”, he looked at me, “you’re in.”

For a moment, I didn’t believe it.

It felt like the air had gone still. My mind flickered back to all those days sitting on the bench, to Mom’s gentle reasoning, to the nights when the ball was my only company. Now there would be a team. A place where passes would finally come my way.

Our new girls’ team was small, rough around the edges, but we were hungry. I trained like never before – dribbling drills, defensive footwork, jump shots until my wrists ached. Coach said, “You don’t need to be the best; you just need to be undeniable.” That line stuck.

By the time I entered high school, basketball had already become part of me. I joined Yen Hoa Storm, our school’s pride. Friendly matches, weekend tournaments, inter-district leagues; my calendar was packed, and I loved it. We weren’t just playing anymore, we were learning strategy, discipline, rhythm. The court turned into a classroom where the lessons came through sweat and bruises.

The more I played, the clearer it became: the bench wasn’t a punishment. It was a preparation. Every minute I spent watching others play taught me what I wanted to become. Every time I wasn’t chosen, I learned how to choose myself.

Then came the moment that split my journey clean in two.

We had just finished a tough interschool match versus Nguyen Hue High School. I played one of my best games, hitting four threes in the second half and locking down their main shooter. As we shook hands after the buzzer, I noticed a man waiting near the bleachers. He was older, dressed neatly, with the quiet composure of someone who’d seen too many games to be easily impressed.

After the team dispersed, he approached me and Mom, who was waiting with her usual proud grin. He introduced himself from Junsport Academy, one of the best basketball training centers in Hanoi. He handed Mom a card, the glossy surface catching the fluorescent light.

“She’s got potential,” he said simply. “We’re scouting for next season’s intake. I’d like to talk.”

For a few seconds, I couldn’t speak. The girl who once sat forgotten on the bench had just been invited.

That word – “invited” – echoed in my head the whole night. It was everything the bench wasn’t. The bench was waiting, being overlooked. Invitation meant being wanted, being seen. I turned the moment over and over in my mind like a stone in my pocket, feeling its smooth edges.

Mom’s eyes glistened when she looked at the card. She didn’t say “I told you so,” though I could tell she was thinking it. Instead, she whispered, “You see? The right things take time.”

But deep down, I knew it wasn’t just time.

Sometimes I think about that long stretch of time when I sat on the sidelines, and I realize how essential it was. The bench taught me humility. The grind taught me patience. And the invitation taught me gratitude.

I’m thankful for every coach who believed before I did, for Mom’s steady faith even when it hurt, and for the younger version of me who refused to quit, even when she didn’t know where all this would lead.

Because courage isn’t the absence of doubt.
It’s the decision to keep showing up anyway, long before the invitation ever comes.

Pt3: In Her Prime

By now, I knew my place on the court.

The squeak of shoes, the echo of the ball, the pulse of a game about to begin – all of it felt like home. I was no longer the girl who begged for a pass or the one who sat quietly on the bench. I was a player people recognized, a name whispered in the stands before tip-off.

And with that came the wins.

One title after another, they started stacking up like layers of time. Local tournaments, school leagues, city contests – sometimes the medals blurred together. Since 2022, I’ve collected more than fifteen titles, each one a reminder of the countless hours I’d spent chasing a dream that once seemed too big.

The first championship I ever won was in 2023. I still remember how unreal it felt, standing under the gym lights with my team, confetti falling from the ceiling. My hands were trembling when I lifted the trophy – not from exhaustion, but disbelief. For a moment, I thought of all those evenings when the ball never came my way, when I stood invisible in a sea of boys. That night, I was anything but invisible.

Then came 2025 – the National Youth Club Championship.

The biggest one yet. We played under pressure, against teams that had been training together for years. But when the final buzzer sounded, we were the ones standing tall, breathless, drenched in sweat and victory. I remember looking at my teammates, our faces half-crying, half-laughing, as the crowd erupted. That moment, that sound, still lives in me.

People sometimes ask how it feels to win that much.

It’s hard to explain. Pride, yes, but not the kind that shouts. It’s quieter now, like a steady heartbeat.

I think of Kendrick Lamar’s line – “Sit down, be humble.”

It’s funny how it loops in my head after every victory. Because I’ve learned that the medals are just proof of something that happened long before the whistle blew – the mornings I dragged myself to practice, the shots that missed, the moments I almost gave up but didn’t.

Winning, I’ve realized, isn’t the point.

The journey is. The progress, the rhythm, the hours that no one sees – that’s where the real victory lives.

So I keep playing. Keep learning. Keep chasing that feeling of perfect balance between sweat and silence.

The titles will come, or maybe they won’t. But the game – the game will always be mine.

Pt4: “The Coconut Man”

If there’s one thing I’ve learned after all these years, it’s this – no great player stands alone. Every pass, every shot, every title I’ve ever held traces back to the voices that guided me. Coach Hà, who believed in my potential and brought me into Junsport. Coach Sơn, who pushed me past my limits at Team Whales, shaping not just my form, but my discipline.

But before them all, there was Coach Vệ – the man we all called the coconut man.

He earned that nickname the simplest way possible: he always had a coconut in hand.

Morning, noon, after practice – he’d sip from one and grin, saying it was “fuel for champions.” I didn’t know it then, but he was the first to see something in me that I couldn’t see myself. I was still raw, unpolished, running on enthusiasm more than skill. He told me I had spark, but spark alone wasn’t enough.

One afternoon, he pulled me aside after practice.

There was a calmness in his voice, almost too calm. He said he was going to send me to another team – to train under Coach Sơn, where the facilities were better, and the competition stronger.

At first, I didn’t understand. It felt like he was giving me away. My heart sank. But then he smiled and said, “A coconut only grows strong under the sun, not in my little garden.”
It was only later that I realized what he had done, how selfless it was. He could have kept me for his own team, claimed whatever glory might come. But he didn’t. He chose what was best for me, even if it meant letting go.
I still think about him sometimes – the sound of the ball bouncing, the soft thud of a coconut being cracked open nearby.

There are no words to describe how grateful I am for him. For all of them.

Every victory, every moment I step onto the court, a part of it belongs to those voices on the sideline.

Especially the one that taught me the hardest lesson of all – that love, even in basketball, sometimes means letting go.