"Alright. Tonight, we're going to win this game."
Coach Chus Mateo's voice echoed through the locker room of Real Madrid CF. His words were calm, but I could hear the fire behind them. For most players here, this was just another league match. But for me?
My name is Dirgantara Renji—Dirga for short. And tonight was my first official game with Real Madrid's first team. After ten long years of bouncing around the lower leagues, surviving injuries, playing for forgotten teams, and being told I wasn't good enough, I was finally here. Even if I started from the bench, this moment meant everything.
My dream was still alive.
"Welcome to the Movistar Arena!" the announcer's voice boomed across the packed stadium. "Real Madrid versus Barcelona—one of the greatest rivalries in European basketball!"
The crowd responded with a roar, their energy vibrating through the floor. The lights dimmed, then flared up, bathing the court in bright white as the teams took their positions. From the sideline, I took a deep breath, letting it all sink in.
Tonight wasn't a final. It wasn't a title decider. But for me, this was the biggest game of my life.
I watched as the game kicked off at a blistering pace. Campazzo orchestrated the offense with precision, darting through defenders like a chess master moving pieces. Rathan-Mayes attacked the rim with force, while Abalde and Garuba hustled on both ends. Then there was Serge Ibaka—veteran, anchor, champion. Just being on the same roster as him was surreal.
I remembered watching Luka Dončić play here years ago, tearing through defenses before he even turned 18. Now he was an NBA star. Back then, I sat in the stands. Tonight, I sat on the bench, one substitution away from the court.
The game was poetry in motion.
Thunderous dunks. Crossovers that made defenders stumble. Deep threes that swished through the net like whispers. The intensity. The noise. The fire.
This... this was basketball.
The third quarter ticked away. Real Madrid led 55–50, but Barcelona was closing in. Then, I heard it.
I turned. Coach was looking at me, nodding.
I stood up, adrenaline spiking. "Always."
I stripped off my warmup and jogged to the scorer's table. My heart pounded as I heard the arena announcer.
"And now, entering the court—Dirgantara Renji! The late bloomer who clawed his way back from the second league to the main stage!"
As I stepped onto the court, I heard a few scattered cheers—maybe some fans remembered me from my earlier days. I stood out, after all. Brown skin, 189 centimeters tall, with sharp Southeast Asian features and untamed black hair. My mother was Japanese, my father Indonesian. I looked different, and I played different.
Rathan-Mayes passed by and gave me a quick pat on the shoulder. "Make it count."
I took a deep breath, letting the roar of the crowd and the tension of the game settle into my chest. My hands were calm. My focus sharp.
The ball found its way to me on the next possession. I called for a screen. Serge stepped up and set a solid pick. I curled around, slipped between defenders, and drove hard into the paint.
One defender stepped up—too slow.
I euro-stepped around him, the help defense coming late. I adjusted mid-air and laid it in high off the glass.
The bench erupted. The fans cheered louder now.
Next possession, another play. I didn't think—I knew. I saw the floor like I'd seen it a thousand times. Knew where my teammates would be, where the defenders would rotate, how the play would unfold.
Minutes passed like seconds. The third quarter ended. I sat down on the bench, chest heaving, but I didn't hear anything. I was still in the zone, mind spinning, wanting to get back out there.
"Coach," he said quietly. "Let Dirga keep playing."
Chus looked over. I met his eyes.
"Yeah," he said. "Let him cook."
The fourth quarter began, and I was back on the court.
Every dribble, every pass, every step—I moved like the game was part of me. The ball felt like an extension of my hand. I broke down defenders, found teammates, made plays that felt effortless.
Two minutes left. We had the lead, and I had poured everything into this run. My legs started to feel heavy. My breath came shorter. Coach gave me a glance—it was time to sub out.
I nodded and jogged toward the sideline.
A sharp pain, deep in my chest.
Then another wave of pain, more intense. My heart thudded violently. My vision blurred. My knees buckled.
Gasps erupted around the arena. The sound of my body hitting the hardwood echoed like a gunshot.
"Medic! Get a medic!"
I heard shouting, running footsteps, someone calling my name—but it was all muffled, distant. My eyelids grew heavier. Everything started to fade.
A basketball bounced against concrete nearby.
I was no longer in the Movistar Arena.
I was on an Indoor court—somewhere unfamiliar, surrounded by fading twilight. A man stood across from me, dribbling lazily, as if waiting for something.
"What the hell...?" I whispered.
"Yo, you good, Dirga?" the man asked, his voice calm, almost amused.
"Who are you?" I asked. "Where am I?"
Or something else entirely?