Coach Daniels didn't notice the shots at first.
He noticed the name.
The roster was folded in his hand when it caught his eye—printed clean, familiar in a way that made him pause.
Mikan.
He looked up.
The freshman at the three-point line didn't look like a legend. Shorter than most. Quiet. Focused. The ball left his hands the same way every time, smooth and unbothered.
Swish.
Coach Daniels exhaled slowly.
That name carried history.
Not just an uncle.
A grandfather.
George Mikan.
A man from black-and-white footage. A man who changed basketball before the league knew what it was becoming.
Coach Daniels watched the kid shoot again.
Different era.
Same silence.
"George."
The ball bounced back into his hands. He turned.
"That last name," Coach Daniels said. "You know what comes with it?"
George nodded. "Yes, Coach."
"Good," he replied. "Because everyone else will feel it soon."
They did.
Whispers started near the bench. A few players glanced at George longer than they needed to. Some tested him with late passes. Others avoided him altogether.
And someone else noticed.
From the far side of the gym, a senior guard leaned against the wall, tying his shoes slowly. He didn't rush. Didn't speak.
Jason Cole.
He had been the offense last year. The guy the team looked to when they needed a bucket.
Every time George's shot went up, Jason's eyes followed it.
Every swish landed heavier than the last.
Scrimmage started tight.
Jason took control early, calling his own number, carving space with his shoulders. Teammates moved when he told them to.
When George checked in, Jason barely glanced at him.
"Corner," Jason said. "Stay ready."
George nodded.
First touch—he passed.
Second touch—he shot.
Swish.
Jason turned.
Next possession, George didn't force it. He moved, waited, trusted the spacing.
The ball found him again.
Swish.
Jason laughed under his breath.
"You're kidding me," he said.
The pace changed.
Jason pressed harder. Shots came quicker. The ball stuck in his hands longer than usual.
George stayed steady.
When the whistle blew, sweat dripped down Jason's face. He didn't look tired.
He looked irritated.
As players headed off, Jason stepped into George's path.
"Listen," he said quietly. "I don't care who your grandpa was."
George met his eyes.
"I'm not here because of him," George said.
Jason smirked. "We'll see how long that lasts."
Later, as the gym emptied, Coach Daniels stood beside George at the baseline.
"Your grandfather changed the game," he said. "Your uncle lived up to it."
He paused.
"But this level?" He shook his head. "This is where people try to take from you."
George bounced the ball once, steady.
"Then I'll earn it," he said.
Coach Daniels nodded.
George looked up at the rim.
A name could open doors.
But respect?
That had to be taken—one shot at a time.