020: I Really Am a Sagittarius! (Please Keep Reading!)
Adolfo Suárez Madrid–Barajas Airport.
The plane carrying Lynch, Theo, and Lamas was taxiing on the runway, about to set foot on Madrid’s soil.
Though Lynch had been a basketball fan in his past life, he knew very little about European basketball.
He asked a question that had long puzzled him: “Julio, why is it that as the head coach, you have to handle recruiting players and building the roster? Doesn’t Real Madrid have a general manager?”
Julio lifted his head slightly and said, “Ha, do you think this is the NBA, kid? In Europe, we’re not just coaches—we’re managers! Aside from the club president and a very few executives, I hold the greatest authority in the team and enjoy the respect and love of all Madrid fans! Don’t lump the whole world into America’s mold—they’re no longer the global overlords. My country has beaten them before!”
“The president? Is the president of the Real Madrid basketball team also Florentino Pérez?” Lynch only knew Pérez as the president of the football club.
“Of course, but he clearly cares more about the football team, so he only shows up when the basketball team wins a championship.”
“So, you’re basically the godfather of Madrid basketball.”
“Exactly,” Lamas lifted his chin higher and higher. This kid sure knew how to flatter. “In Madrid, the fans all respectfully call me Don Lamas!”
Lynch watched the stout man’s chin rise almost to the sky and thought he really deserved the title.
After disembarking, Lynch saw a minibus adorned with the Real Madrid emblem waiting. The three got on and drove out of the airport, with excited fans lining both sides of the road.
To be honest, this surprised Lynch; he had assumed basketball in Madrid was as niche as baseball in China.
But that wasn’t the case.
You could say football was the soul of the city, but basketball was far from ignored.
If Lynch had used social media in his past life, he wouldn’t have been so mistaken. On social media, only two NBA teams had more fans than Real Madrid's basketball team.
Fans waved Real Madrid flags and shouted excitedly at the windows. Judging by their eyes, their shouts were mainly directed at Julio Lamas.
“Go back to the Pampas and graze, you fat Argentine donkey!”
“What qualifications does this useless coach have to lead the great Real Madrid basketball team?”
“Idiot coach! You went all the way to Serbia and only brought back two minors! You were fooled by that old fox Misko! You’re so dumb you scared my dog into constipation!”
“Look at this idiot’s face. Sometimes when I think of the ugly women you’ve been with, I still have nightmares.”
“Fatso, did I offend you?”
Lynch didn’t understand Spanish but was deeply shocked. “Julio, they really respect you! Look how excited the fans are! Wait, Julio, why are they throwing eggs at our bus?”
“Cough, cough...” Lamas, who had just opened his thermos for a sip, almost choked in his seat.
He only wanted to show off a bit in front of the kids but didn’t expect the fans to be so disrespectful.
Theo quietly pulled out noise-canceling headphones, shook his head, and kept a low profile.
Even Lynch, dumb as he was, understood everything. Of course, a team at its historical low point naturally hoped to bring in some big names.
But the head coach had gone all the way to Serbia and only brought back two teenagers.
Plus, Julio Lamas was a new coach who hadn’t yet earned the fans’ trust, so they wouldn’t be gentle with him.
Lynch whistled softly. “Don Lamas, you really do hold all the power here.”
“Enough, kid, that’s not funny. What did I do wrong? It wasn’t me who let Madrid miss the playoffs last season! This is my job—as head coach of Europe’s greatest club. Or to put it bluntly: I’m the owner of the biggest mess in the world.
And remember, don’t ever joke around with me like that again!”
After saying this, Julio Lamas stared out at the fans with a furrowed brow.
Soon after, Lynch and Theo were taken to their arranged residence—a high-end apartment in central Madrid.
Though the apartment was nice, it was clearly far from the NBA player’s usual European standard of “villa, maid, driver, chef.”
Julio wasn’t short of funds to provide all that; he just feared the two young men would get lost in the temptations of the world.
After bringing them inside, Julio tapped his knuckles on the coffee table and, like a military commander, began laying down the rules for his “new soldiers.”
“Remember! It’s only an eight-minute walk to the Raimundo Saporta Training Center, so no late arrivals. No going out after 10 p.m.—Madrid’s thieves are even more dangerous than Serbia’s wild wolves. Always watch your wallets. There’s no Zorro out here to save you.”
“Zorro? Marvel’s or DC’s?” Lynch looked confused.
“Marvel? What’s that? A brand of potato chips?” Julio was equally baffled.
Their conversation, like a dialogue between chickens and ducks, made Theo want to put his headphones back on.
“One more thing,” Julio knocked the table again with emphasis. “I know what you kids your age are thinking. Listen, even if the most passionate Spanish women come after you, you have to tell those bitches to get lost! Your butler, Mr. Valverde Rojas, lives next door and will keep an eye on you.”
After speaking, a stern-looking, graying man dressed in a suit bowed to Lynch and Theo.
He was called a butler but was more like their guardian here.
Then Julio Lamas pulled out a schedule for Lynch.
Though the new season of the Spanish League and the EuroLeague was two months away, Lynch and Theo needed to prepare early for the higher-level competition.
So aside from morning Spanish lessons, the rest of their time was almost entirely devoted to training.
“As for training content, you can look it over and make suggestions. But I can’t promise I’ll accept them. Training will be tough—you can cry, but after crying, you have to keep training, got it?
Now, lights out. Tomorrow morning, you’ll have a physical exam, then officially sign your loan contracts.
Make sure you don’t have dark circles. You can be ugly all you want, but don’t tarnish Real Madrid’s reputation.”
After that, Julio Lamas and the butler left.
With the apartment door slammed shut, Theo shook his head. “That old man is colder than a winter night in Belgrade.”
“At least he’s willing to spend money on this nicely decorated place for us.” Lynch fingered the embossed golden Real Madrid logo on the schedule, the training plan densely packed like an encrypted telegram.
Two boys, not yet eighteen, far from family and friends in an unfamiliar place, already forced to follow a long list of orders.
Is this professional basketball?
The coach here didn’t seem to care if you adapted or were happy.
He only wanted to win, and expected his players to be ready to do the same.
“I’m going to shower first, Lynch. I’ve been on the plane too long. I want to rest early.” Theo stood, stretching.
“Go ahead, Theo. Ladies first.”
“Go to hell, Lynch.”
After Theo left for the bathroom, Lynch opened the system.
Regarding the earlier mission, once he officially signed the loan contract with Real Madrid’s first team tomorrow, he would become a true professional player, and the 200 talent points would be credited.
Lynch immediately opened the store; the items inside had changed since the last time because the store refreshed every three months.
Currently, three new items were available:
[Increase shooting ability ceiling to John Paxson level (with added clutch shooting stability effect), price: 200 talent points.]
[Increase stealing ability ceiling to Nate McMillan level, price: 200 talent points.]
[Increase defensive footwork ceiling to Taurean Prince level, price: 200 talent points.]
Lynch barely hesitated and locked in the first item because shooting was his biggest weakness.
Steals and defensive footwork were important, but Lynch’s physical ability already allowed him to have a decent defensive impact, so defense wasn’t urgent.
John Paxson, as a shooter, wasn’t exceptional but had a moderate ceiling.
As a key role player during the ’90s Bulls dynasty, his shooting level was neither comparable to the modern small-ball era nor his replacement, Steve Kerr.
But for Lynch, this was a transformation from zero to one—more than enough.
He could redeem it now, train through the entire offseason, and use it right when the season started.
Besides, there was no guarantee that the next store refresh would offer a better shooting talent.
Though Paxson’s shooting wasn’t top-tier, one special trait stood out—as the system noted, he got steadier in clutch moments.
He was the type who could endure 82 games of mediocrity but transform into a deadly assassin in the few rounds that decided the season’s fate.
His assassin instincts had directly helped Michael Jordan claim the crown in the 1991 and 1993 Finals.
He couldn’t be the god of basketball, but he was the bloodied blade in the hands of the basketball god.
If Lynch could have his shooting, he would hold infinite possibilities in clutch moments.
At FMP’s youth team, Lynch had never experienced any clutch moments.
There was no way—all their games were straightforward, with no real pressure moments, only extra garbage time.
Playing youth games with clutch moments? That would be genius.
But in the Spanish League and EuroLeague, Lynch might face moments where victory hinged on clutch shots.
And the difference between a player who can shoot and one who can’t in clutch moments was greater than the difference between a human and a dog.
So Lynch decided to spend the talent points the moment he signed the loan contract tomorrow.
Just then, Theo came out of the bathroom and saw Lynch still studying the training schedule, so he casually asked, “What do you think of our training plan? Should we change anything?”
“I want to increase the proportion of shooting practice. Next season, I want to become an excellent spot-up shooter!”
“Trying to hold back your laughter, Lynch? I lost again.”
Lynch: ...
-----------------
Sanita Medical Center always became the media focus before each season.
Because Real Madrid players, whether football or basketball, underwent physical exams here before the season started.
During this exam, Lynch’s basic stats were fully updated.
Official data from FMP listed Lynch at 203 cm tall, with a 225 cm wingspan, weighing 108 kg.
Today’s actual measurements showed Lynch had grown to 206 cm tall, 227 cm wingspan, and weighed 118 kg.
Across European basketball, these were enviable numbers.
And as Durović said, Lynch’s body was very healthy.
In Serbia, FMP’s team doctor once said Lynch’s body was like the bombed Novi Sad Bridge.
The Spanish doctors said, “Lynch’s body is as solid as the Golden Tower.”
Seville’s Golden Tower had withstood floods and wars but still stood tall.
After the exam, Lamas took them to the Raimundo Saporta Training Center—the training base and basketball department headquarters.
In the team meeting room, Lynch and Theo signed their loan contracts, and several reporters captured the moment.
The system reacted as Lynch signed the contract.
[Goal achieved: Veteran professional player. Congratulations on signing with Real Madrid Basketball Club.]
[Reward: 200 talent points granted.]
With everything settled, Julio took them on a tour of the training center.
Compared to the old, shabby FMP youth training base, Real Madrid’s was an aircraft carrier.
Not just luxurious training facilities, but comprehensive support amenities.
But training environment was never the most important thing. An incompetent player remained incompetent no matter how much luxury he had.
After the tour, Lynch immediately handed over his revised training plan.
Julio glanced at it with suspicion. “You want to add more shooting practice?”
“Yes. I want you to assign me some shooting coaches. As young players, we have to constantly patch our weaknesses!”
“Full of slogans, huh? You want to be the NBA draft first pick?
What, want to use your shaky shooting to spin a fairy tale on the European court? Or do you think NBA scouts will fly overnight to Madrid for a guy who occasionally makes a three-pointer by luck?”
As a professional coach, Julio knew one thing: at Lynch’s age, practicing shooting was already too late.
If someone raised in a professional club’s youth system could shoot, they would have shown it in youth leagues long ago.
And Lynch’s stats and playing style last season made one thing clear—he had no shooting talent.
That was fair—Lynch already had terrifying physical and athletic ability. If he could shoot too... he’d really be the NBA draft first pick!
Of course, Julio, though cold, didn’t think a player wanting to improve was laughable.
Fine, let him practice for two months.
When the first training game of the new season started, Lynch would naturally learn how naive he was.
Some things a kid only understands after making mistakes.
This kid just didn’t get what professional basketball meant or what it took to shoot accurately under pro-level intensity.
“You can work hard, kid. I appreciate your desire to improve. But two months from now, when you airball a wide-open shot—” Lamas pointed his stubby finger at Lynch. “Remember to hold back your tears. Don’t dirty the Real Madrid crest on your chest. Because even if all your effort is wasted, it’s your own choice.”
And so, Lynch and Theo began their special training in Spain.
Days passed, the Spanish League’s new season approached, and the NBA season had just ended.
The San Antonio Spurs ended the Lakers’ dynasty, and the stone-like number 21 lifted the trophy.
People only knew his legend was just beginning, but few expected it to end so late.
On June 27, 2003, after training, Lynch and Theo took food from the Real Madrid cafeteria back to their apartment to eat while watching this year’s draft.
Lynch saw LeBron James clench his fists when his name was called first.
He hoped that next year, it would be his name being called.
In the stands, countless Cleveland fans cheered.
The camera focused on a child holding a sign reading “The Greatest Emperor.”
Though David Stern hadn’t announced the second pick, Lynch knew who it would be.
That bastard could be second—why couldn’t he be first?
David Stern took the stage, smiled, and opened the envelope.
“With the second pick in the 2003 NBA Draft, the Detroit Pistons select... Carmelo Anthony from Syracuse University!”
The abandoned Motor City finally roared again.
But Lynch was dumbfounded by the roar.
Far away in Madrid, Lynch had already changed Darko Milicic and Carmelo Anthony. He hadn’t even entered the NBA yet, and the changes had begun. Heaven only knew what else he would change once he got there.
The camera returned to “The Greatest Emperor,” still smiling foolishly and applauding Anthony.
Lynch shook his head.
Still smiling? Melo’s got your number!
(Public chapter: 5,000 words—only I’m this consistent! If you like it, please continue reading! Votes! Tips! Much appreciated!)