Score: Horizon 19 – Hyōgo 16
Every possession is a war.
They're bruising us in the paint.
Not just physically. Psychologically.
Every dribble, every post entry, every pivot feels like we're moving through sludge—thick, dragging, relentless.
It's like trying to breathe underwater.
Their defense isn't just pressure. It's erosion.
They don't need steals or blocks to win the mental battle.
They lean. They bump. They wait.
Every possession feels longer than the last.
And it's not just the contact—it's the weight of the game slowing down.
They're dragging the tempo into their gravity.
Slower. Heavier.
Like wrestling in molasses, where every pass feels a second late and every decision feels rushed—because nothing's clean anymore.
Coach Tsugawa claps calmly as we walk to the bench.
But his eyes are locked in. Scanning like sonar.
Not for what's happening—but for what's about to.
He sees the pressure building. So does Dirga.
Especially in Rikuya.
