The film room in the Portland Expo Building was a tomb for forgotten dreams. It smelled of dust, old popcorn, and the faint, acrid tang of disappointment. The large screen at the front was frozen on an image from last night's game: Jahmal Carter, his body turned away from the open man in the corner, launching a contested, fall-away jumper with 18 seconds left on the shot clock.
Kyle Wilson stood before his team, the printed letter to his son a hidden weight in the breast pocket of his jacket. He hadn't slept much. The twin failures of the night—his and Kaleb's—had played on a loop in his mind. But the man who faced his players now was not the weary father from the late-night bus ride. He was the Professor. And class was in session.
"Good morning," he began, his voice calm, devoid of the anger they were probably expecting. "I hope you all got some rest. You will need it. Today, we begin learning a new language."
