Chapter 1 — Training Camp Meat
First rule of survival camp? Don't die in the first drill.
I woke up in a sweat-drenched training shirt with no clue where my body ended and the court began. Everything was louder. Brighter. My knees didn't ache. My back didn't groan. I was breathing hard but not wheezing. Not dying. Not yet.
Cleveland Clinic Courts. September 30th, 2003. The gym buzzed with nervous tension—cheap sneakers squeaking, coaches barking, whistles slashing through the air like guillotines.
I looked down. My hands were clean. Young. No calluses. No tremor.
The jersey had no name. Just a number: 72. Camp meat.
"Yo, 72! You gonna tie those shoes or we gotta drag your ass off the court?"
I blinked. A wiry assistant with a clipboard glared at me. Balding. Clipboard tilted just enough for me to glimpse the roster.
Marcello Wyatt – 6'5" – G/F – Unknown
Unknown. That part stung. Even dead, they didn't remember me.
Warm-ups turned to suicides. Suicides turned to defensive shell. I fell into rhythm like a ghost wearing my old body. Hands up. Talk. Close out. Rotate.
By the third drill, the adrenaline wore off and reality set in—these kids were killers. Undrafted guards from overseas. G-League grinders. College seniors who could bench press a Buick. Every one of them fighting for a contract, a locker, a damn meal.
And then there was LeBron.
He didn't warm up. He announced. First layup drill and the gym leaned toward him like he had his own gravity. Six-foot-eight with a backboard smile and feet like piston fire. Everything about him screamed chosen.
I watched him bank a runner off the glass, barely trying.
He wasn't just good. He was prophecy.
Scrimmage.
They split us into blue and white squads. I got slotted in with the second unit. LeBron jogged to the other team, barely glancing at the rest of us.
First possession, he brought it up himself. Waved off a screen. Drove middle. Kickout. Catch. Relocate. Mid-post fade.
Bucket.
Next trip, I cut backdoor. Wide open. Waved for the ball.
LeBron looked through me like glass and launched a pull-up three.
Clank.
I crashed the offensive glass, tipped it back, and landed hard. A sharp pain jolted through my ribs, but I scrambled up. Loose ball.
I dove.
Hardwood kissed my chin. Elbows scraped. I swatted the ball to a teammate as my chest hit the floor.
System Triggered.
You have earned 1 SP (Sweat Point). Grit recognized.
System Tutorial Unlocked.
Not now.
I forced myself up, face burning. LeBron was already jogging back, unfazed.
"Full court, next possession," Coach Silas barked.
I nodded and shadowed LeBron's inbound. Close. Too close.
He noticed.
"You guarding me full court, old man?"
"Just making sure you work for it."
He snorted. "You trying to make the team off my name?"
I grinned. "Nah. I'm making it because I can guard yours."
That lit something.
LeBron pushed off hard, drove right. I mirrored step-for-step. He posted. I dug. He kicked. I recovered. Ten seconds of defense. Eternity in this gym.
Silas blew the whistle.
"Reset. Blue ball. Good pressure, 72."
I heard it. So did the clipboard assistant.
Practice ended in a puddle of groans and ice packs. The locker room smelled like pain and disinfectant. Half the guys limped. The rest acted like they weren't hurt.
Someone dropped a towel on my shoulder. I turned.
LeBron.
"You ain't bad, old man," he said.
"I get better when I'm not dead."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Long story."
Later, in the trainer's office, someone read off the cut schedule.
"Rosters trimmed tomorrow. Twenty-man cap. Make it count."
System Update.
New Objective: Survive Training Camp.
Reward: Ability Capture Card – LeBron James (Baseline Read).