013: Only the Mother of the Victor Could Be the Most Beautiful Woman That Night (Please Keep Reading!)
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More than a decade later, the media would habitually portray Darko Milicic as a tragic victim.
A naive young prodigy, brimming with dreams and confidence, came to America to pursue the American Dream—only to encounter a demonic coach in thick glasses, a foolish and stubborn man.
He discovered that basketball was not quite as beautiful as he had imagined.
From that moment on, the prodigy became an ordinary player, tumbling into an abyss from which he could never climb back out.
He should have become a legend, or at the very least an excellent starter.
But because he ended up with the wrong team and the wrong coach, people would never get to see what Darko Milicic at his best truly looked like.
Without a doubt, this was the script the media loved most. It successfully turned one of the most important draft classes in history—the 2003 class—into the story of a tragic prodigy.
Yet that script selectively ignored the other side of the coin.
To be sure, Larry Brown was indeed a complete bastard, a coach with an atrocious reputation among players. He won a championship in Detroit, but hardly a single player on that Pistons team actually liked him.
Returning to the period before the 2003 Draft, Larry Brown had wanted the team to select Carmelo Anthony. But, as everyone knows, Pistons general manager Joe Dumars ultimately chose Darko.
Thus, it is difficult to say whether Larry Brown’s refusal to play Darko, “Joe’s guy,” was not some form of protest or defiance.
Given his reputation and character, it was exactly the sort of thing he might do.
Whatever the reason, burying the second overall pick on the bench and treating him like a fringe player was unforgivable.
But was Darko Milicic really an innocent flower? Was he truly nothing more than a victim of Larry Brown’s stubborn rule?
No. He was no angel himself.
He drank before practice, got into fights, smashed his home to pieces during emotional breakdowns, and blamed everyone but himself for all of it.
In a 2017 interview with ESPN columnist Sam Borden, he once revealed what had been going through his mind back then.
“I can say that I didn’t get the opportunities I deserved, but that was really just an excuse.
“A young player who wants to prove himself has to train hard, play hard, and patiently wait for his opportunity.
“But I did the opposite. As a European picked second overall, I arrogantly believed I had been sent by God. I arrogantly believed success would naturally come to me.
“When reality shattered my fantasies, I chose to vent through alcohol and violence instead of facing my predicament.
“The truth is, I never seriously thought about or planned my basketball career.
“I was tall, so I played basketball. I was good at it, so I joined a local club. I attracted attention, so I went to America. I needed an idol, so I made one up.” Milicic had once told the American media that Kevin Garnett was his idol, though in reality he had never watched even a single game of Garnett’s at the time.
“Everything I achieved before entering the NBA happened naturally. Once I got to the NBA, I still thought things would work that way. I made no effort and changed nothing.
“To be honest, I hate the person I was back then.”
That confession revealed the truth: Larry Brown’s inexplicable decisions had indeed destroyed the environment a rookie needed to grow, but Milicic’s self-destructive descent was just as much a force behind the fall of the prodigy.
While the media focused its spotlight on the coach’s tyranny and the team’s disastrous decisions, the rebellious young man who drank and caused trouble on the streets of Belgrade, raised his middle finger at the cameras, and continued behaving just as recklessly in Detroit also had to bear responsibility for the career he had personally thrown away.
And at this very moment, Darko had no idea that his future self would come to hate the person he was now.
For the time being, he was thoroughly enjoying his role as a Serbian bastard.
That morning, Bastard Darko made the newspapers across Serbia.
His mockery of Lynch and Teo—calling them toddlers who still needed to watch children’s television—had enraged every basketball fan in Belgrade.
And so, Belgrade’s morning was set ablaze with fury.
That season, FMP, Red Star, and Partizan frequently put on games more intense than full-scale wars. Their supporters clashed fiercely during matches, and on several occasions they had nearly come to blows outside the arenas.
But if an outsider dared to show disrespect toward the local players, every fan in Belgrade would stand united against him.
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The television reporters’ street interviews that day proved it.
“That bastard’s forgotten his own name!” an old welder from a factory in the northern suburbs roared into the reporter’s camera.
In a café, young women splashed Turkish coffee across a poster of Darko Milicic.
“Who’s our idol? Let me put it this way: if Lynch were behind me, Darko would only be fit to push him from behind!”
Even an old woman selling newspapers by the roadside began muttering when she saw the camera.
“I’ll hobble all the way to the arena on my cane and watch Lynch and Milos scatter Darko’s ashes into the Danube! That boy has no manners!”
Lynch sat inside his family’s restaurant, reading the newspaper and thinking that Darko Milicic had to be out of his mind.
“Have we even met? I’ve never said anything about him to the media. What a rabid dog.”
Wu Lan brought milk, eggs, and several slices of toast to the table and sat down beside Lynch.
“Forget that blond brat. Look at his hair and those earrings—he’s the picture of a typical East European street punk. Oh, Lynch, does the team still have complimentary tickets for the next game? I’m thinking of closing the restaurant and taking the night off so I can watch you play in person.”
Lynch looked up in mild surprise. It had been nearly half a year since he began playing for the youth team, and Wu Lan had never once attended a game.
It was not because she did not care about him. Of course she wanted to cheer for her pride from the stands.
But she had to make a living, and that meant giving up certain things.
“Why the sudden interest?” Lynch asked casually, a slice of bread hanging from his mouth.
Guilt filled Wu Lan’s eyes.
“I just feel that this might be one of the most important games of your life. I can’t keep missing everything.”
“Of course they have complimentary tickets.” Lynch nodded. “I’ll have the Mediterranean Commander give me one tomorrow.”
“Lynch, don’t be so rude to Mr. Bosko. He’s a good man who only pretends to be harsh.”
“Rude? How could I be? He loves the nickname. Every time he hears me call him that, he gets so happy he wants to buy me new clothes.” Lynch could still hear Bosko shouting, “I’m going to make you play in a woman’s swimsuit!” Heaven knew what kind of perversion that was.
Wu Lan narrowed her eyes.
“Really?”
“I swear on his luxuriant hair that it’s true.”
“Fine. I’ll ask him myself on game day whether he likes it.”
With that, Wu Lan stood up and began examining herself in the mirror by the shop window.
“Oh dear, I wonder if I can still fit into that dress. I haven’t taken it out in years. Goodness, why have my wrinkles gotten so deep? I can’t go in cloth shoes. Should I buy a pair of high heels? No, no, that’s unnecessary…”
Ever since her husband’s death, this woman’s hands had been occupied with flipping pans at the stove and weaving a cradle for her son’s basketball dreams. After all these years, she had long forgotten to care for her appearance or tend to her skin.
In the greasy haze of a kitchen, such things were superfluous.
No woman was incapable of loving beauty, yet she had given up that right. Only now, with Lynch’s game approaching, did she remember to reclaim it.
And the reason she reclaimed it was simply that she did not want to embarrass her child.
In truth, Lynch had never understood why Wu Lan was willing to live such a difficult life in order to support her son’s dream.
There was no memory of that part in his mind, because she had never revealed it.
Contrary to what many people believed, pursuing professional basketball was actually expensive in most European countries.
Plenty of unscrupulous media outlets would tell you that European children could go to a club after school at any time, train and play for free, and that this was why European professional basketball was so strong.
That was plainly a load of crap that concealed only part of the truth.
Those clubs that were free or charged almost nothing were not professional clubs at all. They merely gave children a place to play as a hobby.
Training in the youth system of a professional club like FMP was costly. At a powerhouse such as Red Star, you not only had to pay exorbitant training fees—you also needed exceptional talent, or they simply would not accept you.
It was only after Lynch entered the youth team that FMP waived his training fees.
The figures that never appeared in the conversations between mother and son had long since turned into greasy residue on the kitchen tiles, eating away at the woman’s youth day after day.
Look closely and you will find that most famous European basketball stars came from middle-class or wealthier families. Only in North America, that vast breeding ground where fatherless Black children from impoverished neighborhoods are turned into millionaires, can such fortunes be mass-produced.
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It was difficult to say that Wu Lan supported Lynch because she was certain he could become a professional basketball player and was investing in him for future returns. Considering Lynch’s fragile body back then, that future was far from secure.
Whatever had driven her to support Lynch’s pursuit of his dream, she had persevered without complaint for all those years.
Even during the period when Lynch was injured most frequently, she had never once told him, “Give it up, son.”
Lynch watched Wu Lan muttering to herself and drained the cup of warm milk in one go.
“Mom, last time we played, Luca Bogdanovic’s mother had her hair done especially for the game and put on a new outfit. But there wasn’t a camera pointed at her, and no one paid any attention to her. Do you know why?”
Wu Lan shook her head.
“Because only the mother of the winner will be the most beautiful woman in the arena that night. No one can deny that. Don’t worry about all those details. Just go as you are. I’m off. I have extra training today, too.”
Wu Lan watched the tall boy walk away and smiled with satisfaction.
There was finally a man in the house again. She had not felt that reassuring sense of security in a very long time.
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With training proceeding according to plan, a month passed quickly.
The game between FMP and Vrsac arrived as scheduled.
Compared with previous opponents such as Red Star and Partizan, Vrsac was not a club with a glorious history.
They had only stumbled into the top league of Serbia and Montenegro in 1998.
There was only one reason Vrsac now wielded such enormous influence: they had Darko Milicic.
Just look at the boy. When Darko Milicic entered the arena chewing gum, dozens of cameras greedily followed the movement of his blond hair.
The atmosphere was electric. A game pitting Belgrade’s two stars against Serbia’s top young player naturally received national television coverage.
Just as when they had faced Red Star’s youth team, FMP had once again given up the first team’s home court, Zeleznik Hall, for the occasion.
Everyone knew that the small arena originally belonging to the youth team could never contain the weight of such an epic showdown.
Before the game, a reporter interviewed Teodosic.
“A month ago, Darko made some disrespectful remarks about you and Lynch. Will that affect today’s game?”
“No.”
Teodosic’s answer was as brief and devoid of warmth as ever.
But soon afterward, he added, “He should apologize.”
“Apologize?” After hearing Teodosic’s words from the reporter, Darko Milicic’s eyes widened. “I’m not apologizing to a crybaby. Don’t misunderstand me—Teodosic is certainly an excellent player. But honestly, what else can he do besides run to the media and cry? Have you ever seen a winner apologize to a loser?”
After saying that, Darko deliberately raised his voice and pretended to sob.
“Boo-hoo, Mr. Reporter, that mean man hurt my fragile little heart by telling the truth! He has to apologize!”
Darko’s words and behavior soon spread throughout the arena. By then, warm-ups had just ended. Lynch walked to the sideline and tore off his warm-up top.
“Tell it like it is, Teo.” Lynch’s gaze had never burned so fiercely. “I’m fucking sick of that bastard! Let’s destroy him. You in?”
“Cut the fucking chatter. Let’s get him!”
It was the first time Lynch had ever heard Teodosic swear.
(Thanks to the generous patron Harmony Master 404. I’m so grateful I don’t know how to express it—bowing deeply!
“Thanks as well to Confirmed Item Received, Simon Does Not Love Blowing Snow, Little Cake Is Not Aloof, Sky苍 Ren, Red-Horned Triple-Cat, Sitting Alone by the Sea Watching the Sunrise, Calm Waters Without Ripples, Winter, Damn You’re East, Boss Mei Does Not Dig Coal, Super Handsome Old Pigeon, Dogs Are Too Clingy, Ink Fragrance, and all the other generous patrons for your rewards. I kneel in gratitude!
“Don’t ask why today’s update came so early. I absolutely did not go watch the featured Lakers versus Celtics game.”)
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