Kirisaki Daiichi's style was on full display from the very first game.
No one was surprised — ever since Hanamiya Makoto joined the team, they had become this kind of team.
But...
"Compared to last year, they're surprisingly restrained."
Seirin had the most authority to say that. Compared to last year, today's Kirisaki Daiichi was practically harmless.
At least so far — no players had been injured.
"This is restrained?!"
Even Kagami Taiga was shocked.
In just ten minutes, Kirisaki's players were pulling jerseys, stepping on shoes, throwing elbows — using every dirty trick in the book.
Trash talk was a given.
Every time Hanamiya let out that "cheerful" laugh of his, it was enough to make the opposing players cough up blood.
His laugh was just too creepy — like a ghost. Full of mockery and malice.
"Nice work. Keep up the pressure on their #4."
"Watch his passes in the second quarter. Push harder on the fast breaks. And don't always think about throwing elbows."
To Tendou, the opponent's strategy was far too simple.
Their offense relied entirely on that small forward barreling down the lane.
It was a textbook drive-and-kick strategy, trying to force the defense to collapse before passing out for a clean jumper.
But Tendou's Six Eyes told him everything he needed to know —
their core player lacked the vision needed to execute it properly.
He'd need help — and good timing — to make that kind of strategy work.
Tendou pulled out the tactics board and marked several key positions:
"Keep an eye on the left 45-degree angle — that's their primary passing target."
"Second spot is here — right side, near the free throw line. That's their shooting guard's sweet spot."
"Maintain pressure on #4. Force him to pass. The rest of you, stay alert for intercepts — if you can't steal it, at least deflect it and break their rhythm."
Just one quarter was all Tendou needed to read their entire system and personnel.
Kirisaki Daiichi's bad boys all nodded — they understood.
They weren't blindly obedient, but they had come to recognize Tendou's ability.
Up in the stands, spectators watched in confusion.
"That's the leader of the Generation of Miracles, right?"
"Why is he acting like a coach?"
A lot of fans were thinking the same thing —
How did the most complete six-sided monster in middle school basketball end up coaching from the sidelines?
From playing all five positions… to the coach's seat?
What's more — he actually looked legit doing it.
And for other teams in the Tokyo region, it wasn't just curiosity — it was concern.
"To turn Kirisaki Daiichi into this kind of team — that's no small feat."
"Seriously. If this were last year's team, someone would've been injured by now."
"If he can lead the Generation of Miracles, leading Kirisaki Daiichi is child's play."
In short: Troublesome.
Even if Kirisaki Daiichi wasn't injuring people anymore, that wasn't necessarily a good thing.
Their iron-blooded defense in the first quarter was suffocating — you could feel it even from across the court.
Their opponent today looked like they were being dragged through a swamp — struggling on both offense and defense.
"And this is Kirisaki Daiichi without their ace."
"Tendou Kageyoshi…"
They hadn't seen his personal skills yet, but he'd already proven his leadership to the entire nation.
He was no accident — he had what it took to lead the Generation of Miracles.
BEEP—!
The final buzzer sounded. Kirisaki Daiichi won their opening game 102 to 67.
It wasn't a blowout — not compared to Shūtoku and Tōō, who both demolished their opponents.
Kirisaki Daiichi was considered low-key in comparison.
But the teams watching didn't underestimate them.
This was just their floor.
Their ceiling was still unknown — and their captain hadn't even played yet.
The unknown is always the most unsettling.
"Hmph… this guy's as arrogant as ever."
Aomine Daiki was at the venue too. After his match, he hadn't left yet.
Even back at Teikō, Tendou's abilities were a mystery — even within the team.
They could analyze his games and maybe guess what his Six Eyes did, but the deeper truths? Only Tendou himself knew.
But as for his teammates? Tendou had read them all like open books.
"Yo, Aomine, where you headed?"
"Home. Where else? That smug bastard won't show his cards until it matters."
And what counts as a "critical moment"?
Facing me, obviously.
Aomine glanced one last time at Tendou before walking away.
He had never looked forward to a match this much.
That kind of craving for competition — he hadn't felt it since his second year of middle school.
"Don't disappoint me, Tendou."
"If you do… I won't forgive you."
Game over.
Tendou, acting as "coach," walked over to shake the opposing coach's hand.
The other coach was extremely awkward — he had been completely outclassed by a high school freshman.
And not just because of his players' lower skill — they'd been out-coached and out-read.
In just ten minutes of the second quarter, under Kirisaki Daiichi's suffocating defense, his team committed 10 turnovers.
They had been completely dissected — and Kirisaki scored 20 points on fast breaks that quarter alone.
The match was already over before halftime.
"If you ever stop playing, you should consider becoming a coach," he said sincerely.
"You've got what most people can only dream of."
"I'll think about it," Tendou replied calmly.
But in truth, Tendou had no interest in coaching.
It was a thankless job — unless you were a hardcore basketball maniac, you'd be crazy to take it on.
With all that money, why not enjoy life instead?
He suddenly thought of Larry Bird — someone often underestimated.
The Bird-Magic rivalry was the crown jewel of the NBA's '80s era.
As a player, Bird didn't have as many accolades as Magic Johnson.
Magic was practically a basketball deity — winning a title and a Finals MVP in his rookie year, even taking it from Kareem.
Only 1% of players could ever match that kind of start.
But as a coach and talent evaluator, Magic couldn't hold a candle to Bird.
After retiring in 1992, Bird originally wanted to stay with the Celtics, but Red Auerbach didn't choose him to lead the team — picking two other disciples instead.
Bird was furious.
"You don't trust me? Fine. I'll go back to Indiana and farm corn."
So he did — retired early, spent his days on TV, occasionally roasting the Celtics live on air.
Then in 1997, the Pacers came calling — asking their hometown hero to coach.
At the time, Indiana had gone 39–43 — they needed change.
Bird agreed, saying:
"If I don't win a championship in 3 years, I'll walk away."
And in his first season, 1997–98, Bird led the Pacers to a 58–24 record — the best in franchise history.
They made it all the way to the Eastern Conference Finals, only falling to Jordan's Bulls.
That year, Bird was named NBA Coach of the Year.
And over the next three years, he took Indiana to three straight ECFs, and even one NBA Finals appearance (losing to the Lakers' Shaq-Kobe duo).
He didn't win a title, so he kept his word — and resigned.
But the Pacers' owner was so impressed, he offered Bird a front office role instead.
And thus, Larry Bird became team president of the Indiana Pacers.
By the way — during his time managing Indiana,
their record against the Celtics was 10 wins and 1 loss.
The ultimate revenge tour.
Sometimes, even Tendou himself wondered:
"Do I have the system... or does Larry Bird?"
That man's life really did feel like he was cheating.