So this is basically the mindset of the Generation of Miracles when they were in Middle School. Not much to say, just read and enjoy.

Dribble. Dribble. Switch. Dribble.

The sound of the ball hitting the hardwood floor, the sound that echos through the gymnasium and bounces off the walls...

That is the sound of our beating hearts. It is the intensity of the first and last seconds of every war. Of every battle. Of every game.

It's going to happen. It's inevitable.

We're going to win. We have to.

Dribble. Dribble. Dribble. Pass.

The ball is gone, no, there it is. Can you not keep up with us? Faster, faster. We're much too fast now. Close your eyes for a brief moment to stop the awe and mind-boggling excitement from causing your head to burst. Open your eyes again.

Impossible.

Ten points ahead when the score was just even. How could you have missed that much in the brief moment your eyes were shut? Stay with us. Don't blink. Don't even draw a breath.

Dribble. Dribble. Dribble. Stop.

The squeak of fresh sneakers on the nice polished floor hurts their ears, but they can't flinch now. Two people? Don't they know we can't be stopped? Their screen is strong. We are stronger.

A flick of the wrist and the ball is in motion again. Between the legs and around the ankles. Left hand. Right hand. Left hand, left hand. Right hand. Gone.

What happened? You simply weren't looking hard enough. The ball and the game still lie comfortably in our hands. Run faster. Go ahead. We're still ten steps ahead. You won't be able catch up.

Dribble. Dribble. Stop. Shoot.

Swish.

The beautiful sound of a miraculous three-pointer. Yes miraculous. So, so miraculous.

The irregular beat of the heavy basketball hitting the floor until vibrating to a stop.

How did we do it, you may ask. It's impossible to shoot so far away. It is not. That is who we are. This is what we do. Like a hunter who shoots to kill his game, we shoot to win ours.

We are predators, demolishing our small prey with an array of unstoppable attacks. We are at the top of our food chain. Everyone else is below us.

Jog. Jog. Jog. Sprint.

You weren't expecting that burst of strength, were you? Oh no, of course you wouldn't. Or else you wouldn't have fumbled. You wouldn't have allowed the ball to slip out of your unworthy little hands.

Yes, it is back in our possession. Forever. It is ours. You cannot have it.

Run. Run. Reach. Smack.

A comeback? This late in the game? Surely you're kidding. The timer ticks two minutes left and counting, but it is really no better than two seconds.

We've tripled your score. We've crushed your spirits. Are you still even trying? No...of course you're not. After facing us, the thought of basketball makes you sick to your stomach.

What a pathetic performance.

Jog. Steal. Pass. Shoot.

Until the very end, we won't allow you to score. The last shot shall remain ours. The symbol of victory shall always be the sound of the buzzer.

We bow at the same time, thanking you for the game. But in reality, you are the only ones who bow. You bow to us. We are your masters. We are those who cannot be surpassed.

Once again, we are victorious. It's so repetitive, it's almost nauseating. But the taste of victory always leaves us craving more.

The sweat, the strive, the sounds, the smell.

The heat of the spotlight that never seems to leave us.

This game, it's ours.

Who are we? Who are those geniuses who reign on the court?

We are the Generation of Miracles, and this is our basketball.

You may think we're taking this game too serious, but you're wrong.

You're not taking the game serious enough.