The Night Hapoel Spoke: First Win of the Season and a League Cup Semifinal Berth

The scoreboard in Tel Aviv blinked only a modest number that night: 85–67. But I could hear the breath of basketball. Hapoel Tel Aviv — crushed by Maccabi in the Super Cup final, then dropping their EuroLeague opener 84–86 to Bayern Munich on a "home" court in name only — lit their first fire of the season with an 85–67 victory over Hapoel Be'er Sheva in the Israeli League Cup quarterfinals. I call it a fire because for a team opening the season with two pressure-heavy defeats, a domestic cup win can keep the locker room from sinking into darkness. I know the feeling — I once sat at Lạch Tray in the rain, when my hometown club also needed one victory to silence the reproachful stands.

The context before this quarterfinal was a chasm. Hapoel Tel Aviv entered the season under Dimitris Itoudis — the coach who twice won the EuroLeague with CSKA Moscow — carrying expectations of a challenger to Maccabi's throne. Those expectations collapsed in the Super Cup, where Maccabi turned them into a scattered symphony. The report did not shy from the word "destroyed." Then came the EuroLeague: Hapoel lost to Bayern Munich 84–86, in a game where "home court" had to be placed in parentheses, because Israeli clubs must host at neutral venues for security reasons. That parenthetical is another abyss: it strips away home advantage, strips away the crowd's song, strips away what every small club needs to produce upsets.

Before facing Be'er Sheva, Hapoel faced another absurdity: eight absent names. Bryant, Micic, Oturu, Blakeney, LeDay, Topin did not play; Kofi and Blatt were in the medical room. Eight men, nearly half the roster. Of the 12 who dressed, only five were foreigners — the rest were domestic faces few bother to name. A European club losing half its squad usually sets the table for defeat. But that night, they did not lose. It reminded me of young Vietnamese players going abroad — the loneliness of no one knowing your name, yet still raising your voice on foreign courts.

No star carried the team on his back. Five players scored in double figures: Odiase led with 15, Carrington had 14, then German, Wainright, Palatin each added 10. Looking at the box score, I remembered how people describe Itoudis's teams: no solo melody, only a chorus. When eight men are missing, everyone must sing. That night, five main voices rose together — not to show off, but to keep the symphony from tearing apart.

I was not quick to celebrate. I have followed European basketball long enough to know that an 18-point win in a domestic cup is a poor sample. No OffRtg, no DefRtg, no pace, no true-shooting numbers were reported. Only a thin scoreline and a strangely truncated headline: "The… half Hapoel." That headline scratched at memory, reminding me that things too smooth usually hide something.

The only reliable thing was Itoudis's presence. When a team has just endured a disastrous cup final and dropped its EuroLeague opener by a fingertip, the pressure on an elite coach cannot be measured by numbers. This 85–67 win does not prove Hapoel are strong. It proves Hapoel are still alive. In a long season, some wins exist only to send a message to the locker room: hold firm, the system still runs amid the losses.

I noticed two names at the end of the report: Foitman — the guard who held the rhythm in the final minutes — and Jensen, a defensive presence before the final whistle. The report did not call it an easy win. It hinted at a game "sealed" in the decisive minutes. That is Itoudis-style basketball: not beautiful, but secure. Russia taught me that despair is a kind of transcendence — and a team missing eight men yet still winning may be living out exactly that.

But what kept me restless was not the win. It was the parentheses. "Home (nominally)." Set against that long injury list, the picture of Hapoel Tel Aviv looks like a thin mat over a pond: enough to stand for one game, not enough to stand for a season. The EuroLeague treats home advantage as a vital index. An Israeli team without a true home is like a Vietnamese winger losing his left side. Lạch Tray's longing grips you every time the team travels; Israeli basketball shares that longing tonight.

I believe in Itoudis's system — the man who turned CSKA Moscow into an emotionless machine in the EuroLeague. But a system is only a skeleton. The flesh and blood are people: Odiase, Carrington, German, Wainright, Palatin — from contract to contract, drifting past Ionikos to Tel Aviv. They are nomads of the basketball world, exactly like Vietnamese players learning their craft in Czechia, carrying a me leaf in the wallet as a lucky charm. When the team needed them most, they scored just enough so the win would not slip away. That haunting applause of that summer still echoes in me, like an unfinished poem — and tonight, the applause belongs to nomads whose names are not on the posters.

But I want to read against the crowd. Many will say: this win shows Hapoel's roster depth. No. It exposes fragility. Do not confuse one night of shared voices with a stable system. If Itoudis's system truly dominated, why did his team still rely on only five healthy foreigners to hold the fort? If depth were real, why are the eight absent names — not the five double-figure scorers — the most important facts of the game?

There is a cruel logic in basketball: when everyone scores, usually because no one is good enough to seize the game. Or because the ones good enough are at home. Odiase's 15, Carrington's 14, three men at 10. These numbers do not define roles. They are the echo of a night when opportunity was handed out like bread in a blockaded city. I call it the basketball of absence. It can be beautiful, but it rarely repeats.

What made me most cautious was the framing: "first win of the season." I know the smell of such words. They signal a media push, a narrative waiting for a turning point. But a real turning point appears only after three to five consecutive games, where a system is tested by repetition. The League Cup, with its knockout format, is a dice-heavy design: one flash of individual brilliance can flip everything. And Maccabi still stands on the mountain, waiting for anyone who dares to climb.

Tonight the arena whispers — and I hear the breath of basketball. It is still there, after all the wounds. Hapoel Tel Aviv may reach the League Cup semifinals, and fans will call it a new beginning. But after 32 years on the sidelines, I only want to remind them: the stars are still in the training room, and Maccabi is still waiting ahead. Let this team breathe. In two or three more games, when the roster is full and home truly means home, we can talk again.

Basketball is the most beautiful sadness I have ever known. And every time a team missing half its roster still raises its voice, I believe once more: despair is also a kind of transcendence.