Starter Stripes and Sniper’s Focus

November 11, 1995 dawned over Chicago's South Side like a quiet pledge, the sky a pale, mottled gray, the air crisp with late fall's bite as it slipped through Elijah Reed's cracked bedroom window. He woke to a body alive with last night's echoes—legs taut from sprinting, shoulders firm from hoisting shots, a faint buzz of exertion threading his 5'5" frame. No real ache, just a phantom twinge in his knees—a fleeting ghost from his old life, a torn ACL at 19 that snuffed college dreams into a mechanic's oil-stained despair. It wasn't real here, just memory's whisper, gone as he blinked awake. Beneath it, a wild, electric surge crackled—17 points, 7-of-12 shooting, three treys, the game-winner blazing: Lincoln High 43, Westside 42. He replayed it—Malcolm's skip pass cutting air, Jalen's wild lunge, the net snapping as the buzzer wailed. The gym had erupted, Martha's voice piercing—"My boy!"—and now, tangled in sheets, he grinned into the dim, a secret chime ringing in his mind: 415 VC earned, 735 total banked, a hidden vault he'd bleed to build.

He slid out of bed, bare feet slapping the cold linoleum, the jolt sharpening his grin—his old life's shadow fueled this fire, but this body was unscarred, unbroken. Five days of rest had honed him—no midnight court runs, just Martha's hearty meals and daylight drills with Malcolm—and last night proved it: starter stripes earned, Westside toppled. Downstairs, the kitchen hummed with coffee and scorched toast, a rough-edged tune tugging his soul. Martha stood by the counter, robe loose from a rare off-day, curls wild, cradling a chipped mug. She glanced up as Elijah shuffled in—gym shorts sagging, hair a messy snarl—her smile crinkling her eyes, pride glowing bright.

"Morning, my little sharpshooter," she said, voice warm as the steam curling from her mug, rough with leftover cheers. "You had me screaming my head off last night—thought I'd lose my voice when you sank that three. Westside's big guy looked like he wanted to hide under the bench."

Elijah grinned, snagging a piece of toast—edges black, butter pooling soft and golden—leaning against the counter, crumbs tumbling as he bit in. "Yeah, Mom, it was wild," he said, chewing through a laugh. "Tank was huge—6'4", built like a brick wall—but we got 'em. Malcolm's pass was perfect—couldn't miss that shot."

"Couldn't miss?" She set her mug down with a clink, hands on her hips, brow arched. "Boy, you were popping shots like you owned that gym—three from deep, those mid-rangers had 'em scrambling. Coach was grinning like a fool—bet he's starting you next game after that."

"Starting's locked," he said, grin widening as crumbs dusted his shirt. "Coach told me post-game—Englewood's up Friday. They're fast, got a guard who's a nightmare—gonna need every trick to bury 'em."

"Englewood?" Martha nodded, sipping her coffee, eyes sharp. "Heard about 'em—quick as lightning, that point guard's a little terror, 5'10" and slick. Saw 'em last year, ran everybody ragged. You keep shooting like last night, though—those hands'll light 'em up."

"Gotta," he said, voice softening as her pride sank in. "You yelling up there—it's rocket fuel, Mom. Kept me flying when I was running low."

"Running low?" She swatted his arm with a dish towel, snap playful but firm. "Not my boy—you've got juice I ain't seen in ages. Just don't wear yourself thin, hear me? All that hustle—I want you fresh."

Her worry landed light—no scars to fret over, just a mother's care for his fire. "I'm good, Mom," he said, steady and bright. "Resting smart now—Englewood's my target. Gonna torch 'em for you."

"Better," she teased, smile softening. "I'll be there, hollering loud—give 'em hell, baby."

"Always," he said, grabbing his backpack. "Love you."

"Love you too," she called as he slipped out, the door creaking shut like a sealed pact.

The walk to Lincoln High cut through a crisp morning—leaves skittering across damp pavement, kids bundled under hoods, the air biting with November's chill. Elijah's mind churned—735 VC glowed in his head, a secret key to his edge. Deadeye at 1,000 VC taunted—265 short—its promise of contested-shot mastery perfect for his game: popping off screens, burying jumpers under pressure, like last night's dagger. Height loomed—5'5" now, projected ceiling 5'9" stock, but 250 VC per inch could push it to 6'0" (1,250 VC to 6'3"), potential to grind toward at least 6'3", not instant growth. Deadeye first—lock the shooter, then chase the frame—Englewood High, November 17th, six days off, a fast, scrappy crew led by Tyreek "Ghost" Simmons, 5'10", a blur with a crossover that snapped necks and a step-back that stung.

Lunch slammed the gym like a tidal wave—kids buzzing about Westside, voices ricocheting off cinderblock, the air thick with fries and bravado. Elijah slid into their table—Malcolm Lewis mid-rant, waving a fry like a maestro's wand, Derrick Hayes lounging with a soda, half-smile steady, Jamal Thornton peeling an orange, his captain's calm a quiet anchor.

"Yo, Reed, you're a legend now!" Malcolm crowed, grin splitting wide as he leaned over, nearly toppling Derrick's tray. "Seventeen points—three treys, that game-winner? Tank was stomping like a mad bull, and you just danced him silly—swish, lights out! Grandma's still laughing—says you're her golden boy."

Elijah laughed, snagging a fry from Malcolm's stash—salt sharp on his tongue—leaning back, arms crossed. "She's hyping it too much—17's solid, but I left some out there, 7-for-12's not perfect. Tank was a wall—those arms nearly ate my shot."

"Left some?" Derrick rumbled, voice deep, cutting through Malcolm's hype. "Man, you were ice—three from deep, 7-for-12, and that last one? Cold as hell. Jalen flew by like a clown—Tank's still mad he couldn't touch you."

"Had to," Elijah said, smirking as he flicked a crumb off his sleeve. "Malcolm's pass was money—couldn't brick that. Coach locked me as starter—Englewood's Friday, their guard's a problem—gonna need it."

"Starter?" Malcolm barked a laugh, tossing a fry that bounced off Elijah's chest. "Locked? Bro, you're in—Coach was glowing like he hit the jackpot! Seventeen off the bench? Englewood's guard—he's quick, 5'10", slippery as hell—saw him last year, crossed me dizzy—but you'll torch him now, starter Reed!"

"Torch him's right," Elijah fired back, flicking the fry back—crisp arc—"Tell Grandma I'll hit 20, lock that pie. He's fast, but I'm faster off the catch—Malcolm, keep those passes clean."

"Clean?" Malcolm scoffed, slapping the table—trays rattled—"I'm a damn artist—those dimes were gold! That guard's a terror—crossover's nasty, broke Terrance's ankles twice last season. Starter Reed's got it—Coach ain't benching the Westside killer."

"Starter's big," Jamal cut in, peeling his orange slow, voice steady. "You earned it—17's no fluke, 7-for-12's sharp. Englewood's scrappy—they've got a forward, 6'2", loves the paint. You and Malcolm stretch 'em, we're good."

"Good?" Derrick chuckled low, sipping his soda. "Reed's a spark—three treys, game on the line? Their guard'll hate you—Englewood's fast, but you're lethal off the ball. Tank couldn't catch you—neither will he."

Elijah's grin softened, the banter a warm pulse against his racing thoughts. "Gotta keep it hot—Englewood's a test. He's quick, but starter minutes mean shots—I'm ready."

"Ready?" Malcolm cackled, loud and bright—slapping his shoulder—"You're a flamethrower—Grandma's baking apple pie, says 17's pie-worthy! Englewood's toast—he's fast, but you're the new king!"

Laughter rolled, but Elijah's focus tightened—starter meant more minutes, more chances, a path to bury Englewood's guard.

After school, Elijah lingered in the gym—the hardwood silent, air thick with yesterday's sweat, the hoop a lone sentinel. Last night's stats flared in his head—17 points, 7/12 FG, 3/4 3PT, 1 assist, 1 steal, 0 rebounds—415 VC earned, 735 banked. Starter now—Coach had pulled him post-game, gruff but beaming: "You're in, Reed—Englewood's yours." He kept his secret close—the system hummed in his mind, a private edge no one guessed. Deadeye at 1,000 VC loomed—265 shy—its promise of contested-shot mastery a lock for his game: jumpers under pressure, clutch treys, the Westside dagger his proof. Height—5'5" now, stock ceiling 5'9", but 250 VC per inch could push it to 6'0" (1,250 VC to 6'3"), potential to grind toward at least 6'3", not instant growth. Deadeye first—sharpen the shooter, then stretch the frame.

"System," he muttered under his breath, bouncing the ball slow—thump, thump—the gym empty, his voice a whisper. "You there?"

[Ding! System Active.]

Relief washed over—his silent ally. "Good. 735 VC—what's the play?"

[Current VC: 735. Options analyzed:]

Deadeye (Bronze): Improves contested jumpers—1,000 VC (unlocked, 265 VC short)

Height Increase: Current 5'5", Stock Ceiling 5'9", Upgrade to 6'0" (250 VC per inch, potential unlocked, not instant growth; 1,250 VC to 6'3")

Attributes: Strength 37/100 [50 VC per +1], Agility 36/100 [50 VC per +1], etc.

[Recommendation: Prioritize Deadeye for shooting efficiency—enhances playstyle. Height viable post-Englewood earnings.]

Elijah nodded, the ball bouncing—thump, thump—Westside flashing: Marcus lunging, Jalen soaring, nets snapping. "Deadeye's the move," he thought, firm. "Shooting's my core—Englewood's guard won't see it coming. Height after—6'0" starts it, aiming 6'3' minimum."

[Acknowledged. Target 265 VC vs. Englewood—starter minutes boost output.]

"Starter," he murmured, grinning—thump, thump—the ball spinning on his finger. Englewood High—November 17th—Tyreek "Ghost" Simmons, 5'10", a whirlwind with a crossover that broke souls, a step-back that burned, paired with a 6'2" forward who owned the paint. Rest had clinched Westside—17 points, no fade—he'd peak for Ghost, bury him with precision.

Back home, dusk painted the sky in streaks of orange and bruise-purple, November's chill seeping through the window as Elijah sprawled on his bed, basketball tucked under his arm. No street court tonight—rest was his creed now, daylight his proving ground. November 11th's NBA pulse ticked—last night, the Bulls smoked the Cavaliers 106-88, Jordan dropping 29 on 11-of-17, now 3-0, the 72-10 march rolling. Tonight, the Raptors faced the Pacers—Stoudamire's 18 in a 108-97 loss—new blood scrapping. Elijah's game synced—starter now, shots stacking, a legacy brewing.

"Yo, Reed!" Malcolm's voice crackled through the phone later—Elijah had dialed him up, restless but grounded, no court underfoot. "Still dreaming big? Starter now—Westside's weeping, Tank's breaking chairs!"

Elijah laughed, spinning the ball on his finger—thump—"Dreaming's done—Coach locked it. Seventeen's my in—Englewood's next, their guard's a bullet, but I'm sharper."

"Sharper?" Malcolm snorted, voice buzzing through the line. "You're a sniper—three treys, that dagger? He's 5'10", fast as hell—saw him last year, crossed me stupid—but you'll roast him. Starter Reed—Grandma's framing your jersey!"

"Roast him's the plan," Elijah said, flipping the ball—thump—"Gonna lock my shots tighter—then stretch taller. He won't touch me."

"Taller?" Malcolm whistled, a crackle of static. "Big sniper? You're a beast brewing—those Westside jumpers were ice. Englewood's got a forward, 6'2", bangs in the paint—stretch 'em, we win."

"Stretch 'em dead," Elijah shot back—thump—"You dish, I drain—apple pie's mine at 20."

"Deal," Malcolm cackled—voice bright—"Two-on-two tomorrow—daylight, starter king. Englewood's toast—he's cooked!"

Elijah grinned, tossing the ball up—thump—as it bounced off the ceiling. The night closed in, cool and hushed, but his blood roared—735 VC, Deadeye in reach, starter stripes gleaming, Englewood six days off—November 17th—a proving ground to conquer. His old life faded—rest was his edge, his secret his flame—one game closer to the top.