027: Boys Among Men

Sonny Vaccaro had spent years toiling in the world of basketball, but this was the first time he had encountered a player like Lynch.

He was truly unique.

For most kids his age, the biggest stage was nothing more than the ABCD camp or the McDonald’s All-American Game. The rest of the time, they were relegated to frequent, low-value matchups against low-level opponents.

But Lynch had already proven himself on the highest stage in Europe, taking down the EuroLeague Final Four from the previous season and earning the high-level professional certification that comes with it.

Yes, Lynch’s shooting hadn’t been stellar tonight, which suggested his ceiling as a jump shooter might not be as high as people imagined. But so what? Based on his defensive prowess, physical frame, athleticism, and that superstar face alone, he was worth every NBA team’s consideration. He was one of a kind—a player who was already a high-impact contributor while still possessing immense potential.

Beyond that, Sonny felt Lynch possessed a maturity that most kids his age lacked. Most seventeen-year-old high schoolers had eyes filled with a certain "clear-eyed foolishness."

Kobe Bryant? He only pretended to be mature. The day he announced he was taking his talents to the NBA, his playful giggling at the cameras, his flamboyant style, and his teasing way of speaking all proved he was just a seventeen-year-old, naive kid.

LeBron James? Mature? Had people already forgotten the foolish stunt he pulled the year prior, deciding to sue the NBA because they wouldn't allow minors to enter the draft?

The composed temperament Lynch had forged through transfer scandals and the rigorous tempering of professional coaches was a treasure in a child this age. Granted, he still retained some youthful purity—like when he mentioned just moments ago that he would use his first paycheck to buy his mother the best cosmetics in the world. But most of the time, Sonny would forget he was talking to a high schooler.

This blend of youth and maturity was incredibly alluring, much like a man’s timeless attraction to a beautiful face with a breathtaking figure.

The best part of tonight’s conversation, however, was that Sonny Vaccaro could discuss money with this kid completely openly. As the "Godfather of Basketball," he had always despised the hypocritical system built by the NCAA and American high school leagues. They raked in billions of dollars through teenage players while stripping them of the right to compensation under the banner of "amateur purism." They didn't even allow the players to advocate for their own earnings.

NCAA and high school players were forbidden from having agents or signing commercial endorsements. Therefore, any brand wanting to curry favor with them had to resort to roundabout, circuitous strategies. For instance, when Adidas wanted to woo LeBron, they could only sponsor his high school team, not him directly. To court Tracy McGrady, Nike could do nothing more than gift him some sneakers under the guise of "personal collection."

Dancing in these shackles had left Sonny mentally exhausted. He was tired of playing the philanthropic "Uncle Sonny" in front of young people, and he was even more sickened by watching kids miss out on the wealth they deserved.

If they could have offered contracts to high schoolers from the start, things would have been so simple. After all, few kids could resist the temptation of cold, hard cash; money was always the most effective bargaining chip.

Look at what McGrady said in an interview last season when asked why he skipped college for the NBA. He gave a blunt, crude answer: "Let's put it this way: Adidas gave me a $12 million contract. I think that says enough."

Now, Sonny Vaccaro didn't need to hide anything. Unlike before, when he had to wear a mask of hypocrisy to deal with high schoolers, he could look Lynch straight in the eye and say, "We want to sign you, Lynch. We’ve prepared a contract that is more than fair. You are already a professional player; there is nothing we need to hide between us."

Lynch’s fingernails dug deep into his palms. He knew his fate and his life had changed. He knew they were talking about a business deal worth tens of millions of dollars—a sum he hadn't even seen in his two lifetimes combined. This intense excitement surged into his blood and rushed to his head, making him want to jump for joy. If hearing the click of high heels in a massage parlor was the most exciting moment for any man, Lynch’s level of excitement was a hundred times that.

But Lynch didn't show any emotion; he held it back. The words of Vito Corleone from the yellowed pages of *The Godfather* flashed through his mind: *Never let your enemies know what you are thinking.*

Was Sonny an enemy? Clearly not, but the advice still held. If Lynch showed extreme excitement, the clever Sonny would immediately know he was just a small-town bumpkin who had never seen the world and could be settled with a pittance. He would then drive the price down.

***

Misko Raznatovic leaned in at the opportune moment, signaling that it was now his turn to speak for Lynch. "Sonny, can we discuss the specific figures for this 'more than fair contract'?" The Serbian agent’s characteristic trilling accent echoed in the room.

"Six years, $50 million," Sonny said with a confident smile. "Carmelo Anthony only signed for $40 million over six years with Jordan Brand. This will be a groundbreaking partnership. You know, we’re already preparing to design for Lynch..."

Lynch’s temples throbbed. He didn't swallow a single word of Sonny’s pitch because his mind had gone completely blank; the figure of $50 million was beyond his scope of comprehension. Six years for $50 million? If he had to work one day for that, his legs would be smoking.

But Lynch also understood clearly that this offer was nowhere near his true value. Amidst the hype wave meticulously curated by Misko, Lynch was currently red-hot in the United States. He could feel it himself. Every time a game ended, the press conference was packed with American reporters. ESPN and TNT were debating every day which team would land the top draft pick, not who would be the number one pick. He felt like Victor Wembanyama before his NBA debut.

Americans marveled at his highlight reels, stunned by his agility, vertical, and speed, which were completely at odds with his frame. He hadn't arrived in the NBA yet, but the struggling teams in need of saving already viewed him as a cornerstone. He already commanded massive influence among North American fans. He had successful marketing, but most importantly, he had stellar on-court performance as the foundation for that marketing.

Misko Raznatovic turned the ring on his finger and squeezed out a very forced smile. "Sonny... listen. I and Lynch are sitting here because we believe in your sincerity and respect Reebok’s historical roots. But to be honest, this is a deeply disappointing number. When Carmelo Anthony can pull $40 million out of Jordan Brand’s pockets, for you to offer this figure to the most commercially valuable international player of this generation—" Misko shook his head mockingly, "—it’s like trying to bid for the Empire State Building with a child’s piggy bank."

Sonny tapped his knuckles on the table, his eyes scanning Lynch, hoping to catch a crack in his armor. If Lynch showed excitement, Sonny would bypass Misko and talk directly to Lynch, tempting him to accept the price, seducing him into firing the agent who stood in the way of his "fortune," and telling him he could have the money immediately.

But as he had noted, the kid was mature. There was no expression on his face. Even if he were just feigning composure, it wasn't easy to pull off that well. This meant Lynch knew he could ask for more. Splitting them from within was impossible.

"Lynch is an interior player," Sonny said, deliberately slowing his pace to appear confident. "I don’t doubt his ability, but we all know how embarrassing shoe sales for big men can be."

"Oh, then we should also know what the Chinese market means. Don't miss out on the Chinese market, Sonny. Nike once gave Yao a humiliating contract, and they regretted it to death. Besides, Lynch isn't that clumsy type of big man. He can drive and dunk, he can hit pull-up jumpers; he isn't a lumbering prehistoric beast. His shoes can sell just as well as a guard's."

"The Chinese market has huge potential, but listen, potential isn't cash..."

"Then let’s hear the sound of cash," Misko interrupted, almost rudely. "We’ll see what Phil Knight has to say. He contacted me this morning; he wants to talk, too."

Misko was employing the most dangerous art of negotiation. He wanted to push Sonny to the edge of the cliff, letting the name Phil Knight become the Sword of Damocles hanging over the man’s head. He knew Sonny hated that name. That name would trigger a desperate desire in Sonny to think, *Damn it, no matter the cost, I must not lose to this guy again.*

For a second, Sonny’s eyes darted away, and his hand gripping the pen tightened slightly. Misko caught it all and pressed his advantage, his speech as fast as Tony Parker on a drive. "Phil has more guts. They really dared to give LeBron $90 million; they really dared to give Kobe everything he wanted instead of playing these boring probing games. That’s why they dominate the shoe market."

"Enough! Name your price. What do you think Lynch is worth?" Sonny stared at Misko, his irritation barely contained. He wasn't angry at Misko; he was thinking about Nike snatching up LeBron and Kobe, and that made him furious.

Finally, the initiative was in Misko’s hands. His fingertips brushed lightly over Lynch’s shoulder, like a pianist pressing the final note of a beautiful performance.

"I know your style, Sonny. I know you like to gamble. Well, we want to be the biggest chip on your table! Our request is simple: our price cannot be lower than LeBron James’. That is to say, $100 million. It doesn't have to be fully guaranteed; you can add some reasonable incentive clauses, but the total contract value cannot be lower than that."

Sonny waved his hand. "LBJ’s contract is already a historical record. You and I both know that."

"It won't be once Reebok signs Lynch. LeBron James’ price is a thing of the past. This era is progressing, isn't it? Think about it: you aren't just signing Lynch; you’re signing the opportunity for every Chinese kid to see the Reebok logo the moment they open their eyes for the next decade."

Sonny Vaccaro didn't respond immediately. He was pondering a question: If it were Nike, would they give Lynch $100 million?

A few seconds later, Sonny adjusted his bow tie. "I will go back to headquarters to request the budget. Before then, if Nike or Adidas makes you an offer, please be sure to contact me. I will come back with a higher price than them. Lynch, it was a pleasure to meet you. We will be seeing a lot of each other over the next year."

The meeting ended, and Sonny sent a car to take Lynch back to his apartment. Once they arrived, Teo was shocked by the figure Lynch and Misko mentioned.

"$100 million!? Are you serious?"

"What’s there to be surprised about? That is our value." Misko spread his hands nonchalantly.

"Misko, when you said $100 million, were you nervous?" Lynch asked curiously.

"What’s there to be nervous about?" Misko said, lighting a cigarette. "It’s only $100 million. I didn't even furrow my brow when I said it."

Then, his trembling hand shoved the cigarette into his nostril.

"Damn it! Teo, why do you have the air conditioning set so low? You made me shiver!"

Lynch: ...

Regardless, Sonny hadn't refused outright, which meant he was indeed considering that $100 million contract. But Lynch knew deep down that the finalization of this astronomical deal still required the endorsement of his on-court performance. He had to win more games.

Over the next few months, Lynch and Real Madrid continued their strong performance, adding chips to the negotiating table with a winning streak. However, on a December night in Catalonia, Lynch inevitably suffered the biggest defeat of his career.

In the highly anticipated match against their arch-rivals Barcelona, the entire Real Madrid team fell into a three-point drought, making Lynch’s drives to the rim extremely grueling. To make matters worse, Barcelona’s paint was anchored by Anderson Varejão, a Brazilian who looked like a basketball player but acted like a renowned performer, leading Lynch to fall into foul trouble.

Beyond that, Barcelona unveiled an offensive trident that chilled the spine of all Europe. Italian legend Giorgio Faca’s scalpel-like off-ball movement sliced through the defense; Serbian magician Dejan Bodiroga toyed with defenders using his signature "Shammgod" dribble; and local Spanish ace Carlos Navarro set up a precise artillery battery on the perimeter.

The offensive network woven by these three Hall-of-Fame-caliber stars possessed both artistic beauty and tactical discipline. Their tacit team passing and sharp individual breakthroughs formed a perfect resonance. The steel defense Lynch had meticulously constructed, which had been impenetrable across Europe, finally showed cracks in Catalonia.

As the match ended, Barcelona fans sent Real Madrid off with the most vulgar language. Dejan Bodiroga stood on the court with his hands on his hips, head held high like a lion patrolling his territory.

"Yes, those two little guys from Serbia are very talented; they did carve a few new marks on the trembling rim. But I think it’s not yet time for a change of the guard in European basketball. They are still too young, and I had to let them know that my friends and I aren't pushovers! Keep it up—the future is yours."

***

*The Cleveland Cavaliers have started with a record of only 7-19. LeBron James doesn't seem to have brought much change to the team. Is he truly "The Chosen One"? Did we crown a high schooler too soon?* — *Sports Illustrated*

*He is just a boy under twenty. This guy isn't qualified to integrate into the Pistons' starting lineup, nor is he ready to charge into battle as a starter!* — Larry Brown, commenting on his decision to keep Carmelo Anthony on the bench since the start of the season.

*The invincible European super-talent has been blocked by the Triple Crown winners. Lynch is not yet ready to touch the true throne of European basketball.* — *ESPN Magazine*

*"LeBron’s passing vision is being eroded by turnovers; Melo’s delicate isolation play has frozen before the steel defense; Lynch’s youthful storm has encountered a European cold front. Geniuses will always face unprecedented difficulties when entering the next stage—don't forget they are just boys among men. But if they can overcome all this, those men will no longer be their match. LeBron, Lynch, Melo... let’s see who will be the first to become a man."*

— *SportsCenter* host Rich Eisen.