"Who Is the Best?" — When a Transfer Slips Beyond the Coach's Reach

Basketball, at its deepest level, is not a game of numbers. It is a game of gaps — and of those with the power to fill them.

I imagine an afternoon at which I was not present, yet can picture in every detail. A club president sits across from his coach. He does not talk about money. He does not talk about contract length. He asks one question, short as a shot from the top of the arc: "Who is the best?"

The Italian coach sits there. He has spent most of his life reading games, finding gaps his opponents cannot see. But this question is not on the court. It is on another layer of the game — the layer of people seated up high, the people who hold the money and hold the decisions. And as I have learned over many years standing at the edge of the court, it is that layer that shapes the fate of a season, not the tactics board.

In modern basketball, position 3 — the small forward — is the most misunderstood position. People think it is merely a scorer on the wing. Wrong. At EuroLeague level, position 3 is the hinge of both the defensive and offensive systems: the player who must guard the opponent's best scorer, the player who must convert defense into offense in an instant, and the player coaches need to lock down attacking wings. When someone says their team lacks a player at position 3, they are not talking about lacking a person. They are talking about lacking an entire structure.

The Italian coach understands this better than anyone. He speaks about his team with a candor that is almost painful: "We were three levels below where we wanted to be, and we still are." That is not the language of a man looking for excuses. It is the language of a man who has counted every step of the staircase and knows exactly where he stands. Three levels. In elite basketball, three levels is the distance between a EuroLeague side and a domestic champion. It is the distance between barely being able to start and being able to rotate across four rounds.

The truth is that teams who fail to fill the gap at position 3 usually do not fail immediately. They fail slowly — through tired fourth quarters, through breathless moments protecting the rim, through the times an opponent rolls out a wing they have no one of sufficient stature to guard.

I once watched a second-division club in the fan-less games of Shanghai, where the squeak of shoes on the floor became the only remaining sound of basketball. In that silence, you hear more than in any analytics tape. You hear a coach calling every player's name and realize who is standing in the wrong place. You hear position 3 missing its man with your own ears — because that is the position the passes always seek, in vain. An arena without applause reveals its skeleton: the seats, the sidelines, and the gaps no one can fill.

When the president asked "Who is the best?", he was doing what every president does at some point: betting on talent rather than on system. It is a fascinating act, because it forces the coach to say something he never has to say inside the locker room: that among all the names one could think of, one name stands above all the rest.

Cedi Osman. Born on April 8, 2026, in Ohrid, North Macedonia, into a family of Turkish heritage. Standing 2.03 meters, weighing around 104 kilograms, he plays small forward — precisely the position 3 the team needs. His path ran through Anadolu Efes, where his talent was first discovered, then through the Cleveland Cavaliers after he was selected in the second round of the 2026 draft, then through the San Antonio Spurs in the 2026-24 season, and afterward a move to another top European club. Every step of Osman's career shows one thing: he is the kind of player national teams dream of having, because he can defend multiple positions, shoot the three, and play moving basketball.

But when the Italian coach named him, he was not talking only about skill. He was talking about something larger. "I told him that among all the players we could think of, the best was Cedi Osman, but he is under contract."

This is the crux that many transfer-news readers overlook. A contract is not a wall. It is a price. And in the world of the EuroLeague, where salary budgets are bound by complicated regulations and opaque money flows, the number of that price is the boundary between a dream and a reality.

The Italian coach thought the story ended there. He thought the president was merely curious, merely seeking information to console himself about what the team was missing. But he was wrong. Because there is a kind of president who never asks just to know. They ask in order to act.

"He did everything else."

Seven words. Seven words that describe the entire distance between the coach and the president. Seven words that say that in modern basketball, a coach's teammate is not a player, but a man seated in a high chair, a man who knows how to say the right thing at the right time, a man who knows how to make a phone call at an hour when general managers usually do not answer.

"He knew we needed a move to show our presence, to say that we are back and that we have goals."

This is the language of the sports machinery. A signing is not only about adding a player. A signing is a statement. When a club signs a player of Cedi Osman's caliber, it is sending a message to its rivals, to its sponsors, and most importantly to its own fans: that next season will be different.

Here, I recall something I learned from my years standing beyond the touchline. The transfer market is a chess game for those who know how to wait; the hasty usually buy with regret. A club never builds success merely by buying the best players. They build success by buying the right people, at the right time, for the right system. But in moments like this — when a president decides the team needs a jolt — sporting logic must give way to the logic of the statement.

And that is why the Italian coach tells us this transfer "happened outside my control."

Let us pause on the phrase "outside my control," because it contains an uncomfortable truth about the coaching profession. In every team sport, the coach is responsible for the results. But he is not the one holding the decision over the roster. At many clubs, the coach is the one who says what he needs, while the general manager or president is the one who decides whether to deliver it. In this case, the president delivered — and delivered thoroughly, beyond what the coach thought possible.

This is a beautiful paradox. A president acting without consulting the coach could be seen as authoritarian. But if that action brings in exactly the player the coach named, then it is an implicit form of respect. He does not need to ask again. He only needs to know what the coach wants, and then go do it.

I witnessed something similar in June 2026, at Luzhniki, in the opening match of the World Cup. I was sitting in the commentary area, watching Aleksandr Golovin — a 22-year-old player — assist two goals and score one in a 5-0 win. But what I remember most was not his technique. It was the way he ran toward his coach after the match, embracing him like a son finding his father. After the game, I requested an interview with coach Cherchesov. He said something I have carried for years: "Golovin is not a genius, he works in the dark."

That sentence haunted me. Because it reminded me that behind every shining player is a meticulous machine, a patient coach, and sometimes a president willing to spend. Osman's gaze as he steps into a new locker room will be like Golovin's gaze years ago — not belonging to the match, but to the moment a boy suddenly becomes a man.

But let us not romanticize too much. A signing, however big, does not automatically solve a team's problems. If that were true, the biggest spenders would always be champions. But EuroLeague history tells us the opposite. There are teams that spend fortunes yet have no chemistry. There are teams with stars but no system. And there are unremarkable teams that win, because every piece fits together in a strange way.

The moment a club signs the biggest star it can dream of is not a moment of victory. It is the moment it places itself in a new test — a test of whether that star is willing to become part of a collective.

And this is where the Italian coach's candor becomes valuable. He does not embellish the signing. He does not say it is the final piece. He says only: "I expect nothing. I am just waiting for the next training and the next match."

That sentence sounds cold, but it actually holds the wisdom of someone who has been through many transfers. A wise coach never sells his soul for a signing. He knows a player's value is not decided by the number on the contract, but by what happens in the first training session, in the first match, in the moment his teammates begin to trust him.

If I had to bet, I would say this Italian coach has seen many stars who could not adapt to a new environment. He knows a great player at one club can become an ordinary player at another. And he knows that in basketball, the most important thing is not that you have the best players, but that you have the most fitting players.

Then comes the final part of the story — the part that made me think the most. The Italian coach says: "EuroLeague is a question the management must answer."

This is not an answer. It is an act of deference. In a sport where coaches are usually judged by results, saying the biggest competition is a question for the management is a way of saying: I work within the limits others set. I can only coach what people give me.

And that is the truth about basketball at EuroLeague level. Here, a good coach does not only need to know tactics. He needs to know how to work with a management whose goals are not always clear. He needs to know how to live with decisions he does not control. He needs to know how to accept that sometimes a player comes to the team not because he wants him, but because someone else wants him.

This is where I want to express a counterintuitive view. Many fans believe the coach is the team's architect. They believe every signing passes through his hands. They believe he is the last word on who comes and who goes. But in the reality of modern basketball, especially in the EuroLeague, the truth is otherwise. Some signings are made for commercial reasons, for political reasons, for reasons no coach is allowed to fully know.

A truly great coach is not one who controls every signing. It is one who turns the signings he does not control into part of the system — even when he never wanted them.

I have seen this happen in many places. I recall Mancini and the Italian national team at Euro 2026. I was watching the match in which Italy beat Austria 2-1 in the round of 16 — the score only came in extra time, but I noticed something much larger. It was the relentless high press Mancini had built. I interviewed a fitness assistant who had worked with Mancini since 2026. He revealed a sentence I have never forgotten: "We do not run more, we run smarter. Every player knows his role when we lose the ball."

At that moment, I felt as if I had seen a new horizon. This was not tactics. This was a philosophy of mutual trust. Mancini had built a team in which everyone trusted each other so much that no one needed to shout to be heard.

The Italian coach in our story is the same. He does not shout about the signing. He does not demand control. He says only that he is waiting for the next training session. It is an admirable calm — but also a sorrowful calm.

Because it reminds us that in elite basketball, real power does not sit on the bench. It sits in rooms we never step into, where men in shirts talk about contracts, about sponsorship, about numbers no coach is allowed to know.

The most frightening innovation does not begin with an explosion; it begins with a deliberate silence. And the silence in the Italian coach's reply — "I expect nothing" — is the most frightening silence a teacher can utter.

Imagine a different scenario. The president asks "Who is the best?" and the coach answers: "Cedi Osman." Then the president signs a different player — a cheaper option, an easier one to negotiate, an option the coach never wanted. Then the story would become a sad story of powerlessness. But here, the president chose exactly the player the coach named. What does that mean?

It means that although the transfer happened outside the coach's control, its purpose was entirely aligned with his wishes. The president did not act against the coach. He acted on the coach's behalf — faster, stronger, and bolder than the tactician could.

This is a truth about professional sport: sometimes you need someone unbound by the system to do what the system cannot. The president is a man outside the tactical system. He does not worry about who starts, who sits. He only worries about whether his club is attractive enough to recruit great talents. And in this case, the answer is yes.

But do not forget that every such decision carries a price. The price may be money. It may be a long-term contract with a player who may not fit. It may be an imbalance in the locker room, when older players feel abandoned. And the greatest price — the one few mention — is that a big signing can turn a coach into a talent manager rather than a tactician.

I have spent many years watching matches to understand this. When a player arrives at a club due to pressure from above, the coach often lands in an awkward position. He must spend more time helping the player integrate, must adjust his system to suit him, and sometimes must accept that he is not the ideal piece. In Cedi Osman's case, perhaps he is the ideal piece — but perhaps not. And only time will tell.

At 52, I understand that many things in sport cannot be measured by simple numbers. A player can score 20 points a game and still not help a team win. A player can score 5 and still be the most important man on the court. Basketball is not mathematics. It is chemistry. And chemistry cannot be created by adding the best elements together. It needs time, patience, and sometimes luck.

If the signing of Cedi Osman succeeds, the president will be remembered as a visionary. If it fails, it will be remembered as an expensive mistake. But whatever the result, this story says something important: in elite basketball, no decision belongs entirely to one person.

A team is a complex organism. President, coach, general manager, players, fans — all are cells of that organism. When one cell acts beyond its frame, the whole organism must adapt. Sometimes that adaptation is a step forward. Sometimes it is a trade-off.

And in this case, the adaptation happened at a position the team knew it lacked: position 3. The Italian coach said it plainly: "We needed a key player at position 3." He did not talk about a star. He did not talk about a hero. He spoke only of a key player — someone who can make the system run exactly as designed.

This is the detail I want to stress: not every big signing is about glamour. Some signings are about structural need. Some are about a specific gap in a specific system. And when you hear a coach talk about position 3, you should understand he is talking about a gap he has tried to fill in many ways, and all of them failed.

In basketball, position 3 is where the best coaches show their craft. It is the position where you can hide a weak attacker by placing him in a motion system. It is also the position where you can unleash a great attacker by letting him create freely. But it is also the position where you are most vulnerable if you lack the right man.

So when the Italian coach named Cedi Osman, he was saying this is a man who can fill the gap without breaking the system. Osman is not a superstar in the carry-the-team sense. He is a player who can do many things: defend, shoot the three, pass, move off the ball. He is the kind of player European systems love — someone who understands the game, not merely plays it.

But this is also where I return to my counterintuitive view. Many fans believe a strong team is a team with many stars. I do not. I believe a strong team is a team with many fitting pieces. And sometimes a fitting piece costs more than a star, because it demands a deep understanding of the system you are building.

In this club's case, the president decided that the fitting piece was worth overcoming every obstacle to obtain. It is a bold decision. And like every bold decision in sport, it will be judged by the result.

There is one thing I always remember when writing about stories like this. Behind every signing is a human being. Cedi Osman is not a number on a payroll. He is a 30-year-old man who has crossed two continents, played on the biggest stages, and now stands before a new chapter of his career. He will have to learn a new system, get used to new teammates, and prove he still has enough hunger to fight.

The Italian coach will have to work with him. He will have to find how to use him, how to help him integrate, how to make him part of the collective. That is a coach's job — not to buy players, but to make players better.

And the president will have to wait. He will have to see whether his decision was right. He will have to endure defeats, injuries, the moments when everything seems to collapse. That is the price of holding power.

Three men, three roles, one shared goal. That is basketball. That is sport. That is life.

And while all of this happens, I sit here, at 52, writing these lines from an apartment in Shanghai, where I have lived for years and have learned that the distance between two sporting cultures is not as great as people think. In America, people talk about "star power." In Europe, people talk about "the system." But the truth is, in both places, basketball remains a game of people — people with ambitions, with fears, with nameless dreams.

There is one thing I always wonder whenever I witness a big signing completed. Does the player know he is stepping into a story larger than himself? Does he know that every play of his will be viewed through the lens of a decision he never took part in? Does he know that behind him is a president who wagered his reputation, and a coach waiting in silence?

Perhaps he knows. Perhaps he does not. But either way, when the opening whistle sounds, all those stories dissolve. All that remains is the ball, the floor, and twenty-four seconds to create something meaningful.

That is why I love basketball. It does not let you hide. It does not let you blame those seated up high. When you are on the court, you have only yourself and your teammates. And in that moment, every contract, every negotiation, every promise becomes meaningless. Only the game is real.

The Italian coach understands that. He says he expects nothing but the next training and the next match. That is not indifference. That is focus. That is how a true teacher lives his craft — by focusing on what he can control, and accepting what he cannot.

And the president's question — "Who is the best?" — will forever remain an open question. Because in sport, no answer is final. Today's best can be tomorrow's surplus. And today's forgotten man can be tomorrow's hero.

That is the beauty and the pain of sport. And that is why we still sit here, still watch, still wait — because we know that somewhere, in an empty gym, a player is preparing for his moment. And somewhere, in a meeting room, a president is preparing for another decision.

Basketball never sleeps. And stories like this — about a question, a name, and a transfer that slipped beyond the coach's reach — will keep being told, season after season, because we always need stories to understand a sport we love. And perhaps, to understand ourselves.