017: The Hearing (Please Keep Reading!)

Under the blinding magnesium lights, Darko Miličić’s platinum blonde hair was matted with blood, his once proud jaw now helplessly twisted to one side. The once untouchable prodigy had lost his halo, reduced to a pitiful loser defeated in the arena.

“Oh God...” On the sidelines, Don Nelson, head coach of the Bulls, shifted in his seat for the first time. Previously, no matter how brilliant Lynch’s performance, he had remained calm and composed on the bench. But this time, Lynch’s attack forced old Nelson to stand and peer intently onto the court. For a moment, he seemed to see Rudy Tomjanovich’s face hovering before his eyes.

Nelson had thought the worst fate for Miličić would be akin to the 1983 Finals matchups against Kareem Abdul-Jabbar or the 1994 Finals against Patrick Ewing. But the reality was far grimmer. Unlike those who were outplayed but not utterly demolished, Miličić was brutally beaten.

Antonio Marsellas stared blankly at the unfolding scene on the court until his pen nearly pierced a hole in his notebook before he finally snapped back to reality. What had just occurred rekindled the wild, untamed spirit of the pre-David Stern NBA era in his mind.

He vividly recalled Miličić’s arrogant entrance before the game, the Serbian prodigy tossing his wristband to the ball boy, now shattered like velvet curtains torn apart by a beast. The stands had fallen into an eerie silence, broken only by the clicking shutters capturing this disaster. Not just the live audience, but fans in front of their televisions across Serbia were left agape.

This was a nationally televised game in Serbia, and the home fans had witnessed the most severe brawl in the country’s basketball history. The spectators were terrified; the players even more so.

Nemanja Jokić, looking at Miličić’s bloodied face and recalling Lynch’s earlier smile, suddenly darted to a trash can and retched violently. The fear Lynch had instilled had burrowed deep into everyone’s hearts.

Yet, Antonio Marsellas felt no sympathy for Darko Miličić. Though he knew better, though as a mature man he should condemn violence, he had secretly hoped Lynch would retaliate against the repeated malicious fouls by that bastard. Sometimes, someone just has to stand up and do something that might not be entirely right but feels deeply satisfying.

The game was halted, and Lynch left the court accompanied by his teammates. Teodosic’s palm rested firmly on Lynch’s trembling shoulder, trying to soothe his nerves. The game was not yet over, but with both teams’ star players off the floor, the outcome was clear. Darko Miličić had unquestionably lost this duel, and his position would henceforth be taken by Lynch.

Back in the locker room, the others returned to the game, but Teodosic stayed behind to keep Lynch company. His fingertips gently traced the Chinese knot on Lynch’s sports bag, recalling a few days ago at Lynch’s family restaurant where Lan Wu hummed softly, changing outfits one after another, seeking everyone’s opinion on her appearance.

That woman, who always wore her apron like a cape, had dressed carefully today so as not to embarrass Lynch. Thus, Miličić’s derogatory remarks were entirely self-inflicted.

“You did nothing wrong,” Teodosic said.

“Of course, do you think I feel guilty? The moment he touched you, I wanted to punch him—damn bastard!”

“You did well, but trouble might be coming next.”

Teodosic remained calm; he didn’t believe Lynch was at fault, but he was also convinced that the Serbian Basketball Federation would not ignore the incident. This was the largest conflict in the history of Serbian, Balkan, and even European basketball.

No one involved could escape unscathed.

“Whatever, we’ve dealt with Luke Bogdanović and Darko Miličić. Next, Mr. Vlad Đurović will take us away. Even if we get suspended from the youth league, it doesn’t matter. Let them do what they want; we’re going to the Adriatic League.”

After the game, the Forsatz team hurriedly left Zelenik Hall without showering, fearing an angry mob of Belgrade fans.

Bosko stayed on the court for a press interview: “Listen, I know what happened today was unusual, but ladies and gentlemen, what’s wrong with a kid defending his mother’s dignity? Lynch won, that’s that.” Bosko made his stance clear; he didn’t think Lynch did anything wrong.

After the interview, as Bosko headed into the players’ tunnel, Vlad Đurović stopped him.

“What’s up, Vlad?”

“About Lynch…”

“Hey, you’re not going to lecture him too, are you? He beat up a well-known bastard, and all Belgrade supports him!” Bosko made his position clear; he wouldn’t criticize Lynch for what happened today.

In fact, when Lynch was beating Darko Miličić, Bosko wished he could immediately sign a 10-day short contract and jump onto the court to kick that little punk a few times himself.

“No, no, no, I also think Lynch is right. What I mean is, after this game, I want to promote Lynch and Teo to the first team. Didn’t I promise them that?” Vlad Đurović’s phone rang, and he took it out, patting Bosko’s shoulder.

“Keep this news secret for now. I’ll tell them myself after the call. Don’t spoil the surprise, okay?”

“The first team!? Hahaha, Vlad, you know me, my lips are sealed—I won’t ruin the surprise!”

Thirty seconds later, Bosko almost burst through the locker room door, cupping Lynch’s face with his calloused hands: “Lynch, you and Teo are going to the first team!” His lips had held the secret for a full thirty seconds.

Lynch almost instantly forgot about Darko Miličić and Teo’s warning about potential trouble, overwhelmed by the joy.

“Ah, usually I’m annoyed when I see you, like I want to belt you, but now that we’re parting, well... remember to come back and visit this old bone of mine. Too bad I never made you play in a women’s swimsuit.”

Lynch: … You’re a weird pervert!

The other players were ecstatic, embracing Lynch and Teo one after another.

“Hey guys, quiet,” Bosko commanded, waving his arms in the middle of the locker room. “Vlad is outside on the phone. He’ll personally tell Lynch and Teo the news shortly. He asked me not to reveal anything early, so pretend you don’t know a thing!”

As soon as Bosko finished, the locker room door was pushed open with a harsh screech of metal hinges, silencing the room instantly. Vlad Đurović appeared.

Bosko immediately pulled Lynch and Teo to stand in the middle, signaling everyone to be silent.

“Vlad, don’t you have something to say to these two kids?”

But soon, the smile faded from Bosko’s face as he saw Vlad Đurović’s stern, unsmiling expression.

Most of the time, Vlad Đurović smiled warmly, his thick glasses making him look like a gentle old man. But when his expression turned serious, the oppressive aura of a former Yugoslav secret police officer was unmistakable.

Bosko instantly realized Vlad must have discovered something and leaned toward his ear: “Alright, I told them early—I couldn’t help it. But the official announcement should come from you. Don’t be mad.”

Vlad Đurović said nothing. His gaze passed over Bosko, locking onto Lynch.

“Just now, Mr. Dragan Kapičić, chairman of the Basketball Federation, called me. He informed me that all players involved in the brawl will face suspensions covering youth leagues, adult leagues, and the Adriatic League.

The suspension durations for the others will be announced tomorrow. As for you, Lynch, the Federation will hold a hearing the day after tomorrow to decide your suspension length. I don’t know the exact length yet, but it could... be severe, possibly up to eight months.

So you won’t be able to play for the first team for now or any other matches. I’m sorry, kid.”

The tiled walls of the locker room suddenly felt icy cold.

Vlad Đurović sighed softly and turned away, his clenched fists white-knuckled. He did not want to see the disappointment in Lynch’s eyes.

He knew he had just shattered the hopes of an exceptional young man with his own hands.

He hated this feeling.

This former secret police officer, who had interrogated countless traitors during the Iron Curtain era, now resembled a clumsy father who had ruined his child’s birthday gift. The overhead lights cast heavy shadows on his stooped back.

Why had things turned out this way? It should not have been like this.

“Damn it, fuck Darko Miličić! Fuck!” he punched the wall in the corridor.

-----------------

Two days later, Lan Wu, Bosko, Vlad Đurović, and Teodosic accompanied Lynch to the Serbian Basketball Federation’s office building.

It was a plain, three-story rectangular building with no sign of officialdom from the outside.

Teodosic didn’t enter because he wasn’t qualified to attend the hearing; he waited outside, wanting to know the news firsthand, good or bad.

Lynch and the others went inside, where a secretary led them to a conference room on the third floor.

The stairwell walls were adorned with framed jerseys.

There were those of Peja Stojaković, Divac, the great Dražen Petrović, Dejan Bodiroga, Aleksandar Đorđević... (Old Đorđević was highly respected in Europe as both player and coach, though still struggling to understand basketball in China.)

Alongside jerseys, trophies and championship photos lined the cold walls, narrating a fervent history.

But Lynch wasn’t here to visit.

Soon, they stopped before a large, dark red door.

The secretary knocked. Inside, officials from the Serbian and Montenegrin Basketball Federation, the secretary-general, and the chairman awaited.

Once seated, the hearing officially began.

Bosko took responsibility first, blaming his managerial negligence for the outcome.

“He’s just a kid, a promising kid. We all had tempers when we were young. Besides, that bastard Darko provoked first and fouled Lynch maliciously! Sorry, I’m not blaming anyone else, but the responsibility is mine. I’ll strengthen management going forward. Please don’t suspend Lynch at this critical moment—he can’t miss the Adriatic League!

To be frank, it’s crucial for his NBA dreams. It’s about his future!”

Lynch was surprised this usually strict man would defend him so fiercely. He no longer wanted to call him the Mediterranean Commander.

Next was Vlad Đurović, who spoke with similar protective passion: “It was our management failure; don’t blame the kid.”

After the two coaches spoke, Lan Wu gently raised her hand.

Secretary-General Predrag Bogosavljević asked politely, “Madam, do you have anything to add?”

Lan Wu stood and bowed respectfully.

“Lynch has loved basketball since he was a child. I will never forget the image—fourteen-month-old Lynch tiptoeing, clumsily placing an orange ball into a toy hoop, smiling like he owned the world.

Nearly twenty years later, that image still haunts me, reminding me basketball flows in his veins and is his dream.

Now, he has an opportunity to become a professional player, to play in top leagues. You cannot just take that away.

Listen, Mr. Chairman, Mr. Secretary-General, yes, Lynch did throw a punch and deserves some punishment. You can withhold our club’s training fees; I will give up that privilege. I can pay the club, take out a loan, accept fines, cover medical expenses—I don’t know what else to do, but please give him a chance! I only want to ensure he has a fair shot at pursuing his dream.

When I was young and chasing dreams abroad, my family didn’t understand and even cut ties with me.

Back then, I told myself, if I ever had a child, I would fully support him, let him pursue what he wants without burdens.

Please let my child reach the end, gentlemen!”

Lynch was surprised; many of these things he was hearing for the first time. Now he understood why Lan Wu always supported him wholeheartedly. She refused to let her regrets be repeated in her child.

Chairman Dragan Kapičić stood, patted Lan Wu’s shoulder reassuringly, handed her a handkerchief, then returned to his seat, removed his glasses, and tapped the table with his fingers.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I know this is not solely Lynch’s fault. In fact, we have also suspended Darko Miličić for eight months.

We respect Lynch’s dreams and admire Mrs. Wu’s courage and strength. But some rules must not be broken. This is youth basketball, the foundation of our sport. We must make it clear to all children that violence on the court is a red line no one may cross.

Therefore, regarding Lynch, we uphold the previous ruling: an eight-month suspension.”

“Eight months? The Adriatic League will be over by then! Lynch can’t go eight months without playing. That would cause the NBA to underestimate his ability and affect his draft, even changing his life!” Bosko stood rudely to confront the chairman, unsure where he found the courage.

Dragan Kapičić was unperturbed; he waved for Bosko to sit.

“As I said, we suspended Darko Miličić for eight months, but it hardly matters because he’s heading to the NBA. You see, we have no power to suspend him there.

Understand, Coach Bosko? We’re not the United Nations; Lynch playing overseas is beyond our control.”

After speaking, Kapičić glanced at Vlad Đurović and winked. As chairman, that was all he could say.

“Alright,” he stood again. “I declare this hearing closed. I wish you all a good day.”

Exiting the Federation building, Vlad Đurović already had a plan. Kapičić’s reminder was almost a clear hint.

“Next, we will actively arrange for Lynch to be loaned out to continue playing abroad. As long as Lynch wants, FMP won’t block it—I guarantee that.

The issue now is Lynch needs an agent to find him a team where he can play first-team minutes. And if your goal is the NBA draft, you’ll need some promoters to build your profile. Do you have the right person in mind, Lynch?”

Lynch glanced at Lan Wu and shrugged. He did have a suitable candidate.

“Looks like I can’t keep freeloading off Mr. Miško Ražnatović anymore. He said he would help, that he can handle all basketball matters across Europe, right?”

-----------------

“Darko Miličić suffered severe facial injuries—fractures to his nasal bridge, brow bones, and multiple other areas. This was entirely his own doing.” —Belgrade Political Daily.

“Several European teams have already submitted loan requests to FMP. Serie A? La Liga? Let’s be bold—will we see Lynch in European leagues?” —European Basketball Magazine.

“Forget the dramatic brawl; we can’t overlook that Miličić was utterly outplayed by Lynch on the basketball court before his nose was broken by Lynch’s punch. This guy, who couldn’t even dominate the Serbian youth league, is he really worth a top-three draft pick?” —Detroit Free Press.

“Lynch, the No. 1 pick in the 2004 NBA Draft?” —Sports Illustrated.

(Thanks to Boss Mei for not mining coal, for solitary sunrises by the sea, Red Three-Horned Triple Cat, Calm Waters, Call Me Wolf, Winter You Dong, and other patrons—deep gratitude!)