The bus hissed to a stop in Villarrica. Dante stepped off and stared at the court — bright orange hoops, green floors, a scoreboard flashing COPA OURO. His sneakers scuffed the sidewalk. "We're really here," he whispered.
Game one. Dante dribbled down the court and passed to his little brother. The little brother shot — and missed. The crowd went quiet.
Game two. A taller kid stole the ball and scored. Dante's shoulders dropped. His jersey stuck to his back from the hot sun.
The next morning, Dante and his brothers practiced in the gym alone. Swish. Pass. Swish. Pass. Sweat dripped. The net snapped every time.
Dante tried a behind-the-back dribble. The ball bounced off his heel and rolled into the bleachers. His brother picked it up and tossed it back. "Again," his brother said. Dante grinned and started over.
The final game. Tied. Twenty seconds left. Dante got the ball and dribbled fast — past one player, past another.
He launched a shot from way beyond the three-point line. The ball arced high — higher than the hoop — and SWISH.
The scoreboard blinked. Champions. The gym exploded.
Dante's team lifted the golden trophy together. His brothers piled on top of him, laughing. The crowd cheered.
Dante held the trophy high, his face shining. "We did it!" he shouted. His family hugged him in a big, jumbled pile.
The crowd cheered. Dante's brothers squeezed him tight. He held the trophy high and smiled.
Villarrica blinked under the evening sky. The court stood empty now, but the golden trophy rested on the bus seat beside Dante. He closed his eyes and smiled. Tomorrow they would do it again.