038: Hala Madrid! (Please continue reading!)
Page (1/3)
To the fans of Catalonia, this was a merciless public execution.
They were like those poor fools who go fishing without wearing a helmet, forced to watch helplessly as Lynch lifted a rock and smashed it into his own head again and again.
Thirteen points, six goals. On every possession, Lynch moved with terrifying composure, as though all the time in the world belonged to him.
In the stands, Antonio Marcelas was trembling violently from head to toe, a damp stain spreading from his waistband down his trouser legs.
This was the most glorious climax of his life. It was as if he had undergone a baptism of spiritual convulsion, every pore releasing quivering ecstasy.
His assistant stared at the respectable scout in disbelief. Antonio Marcelas calmly reached into the inner pocket of his coat and pulled out his PDA.
“What are you looking at? Has your wife never put on a show for you? Here. Send a message to Mitch Kupchak.”
With trembling hands, the assistant took the PDA. In an age before smartphones, it was an essential piece of equipment for business travelers.
His face, turned green by the pungent smell of ammonia, was reflected in the blue screen. The spectators nearby had already retreated three yards, pinching their noses.
“What should I tell Mitch?”
“Tell Mitch that if we can’t win the championship this season, and if Shaq has to leave, he must find a way to send Shaq to a team holding the first overall pick! Whatever the price, we cannot miss out on Lynch! Lynch’s future value is worth gambling the entire team’s present! Send it now. Not a second’s delay!”
“What? Shaq is a legend of the franchise—”
“Shut up! You don’t know a damn thing. This isn’t for you to judge!”
With that, Marcelas turned and walked away, dragging his steaming trousers behind him.
“Where are you going?”
“To the fan store to buy a pair of pants! If you dare tell anyone what happened today, you’re finished!”
Ten rows away, the pen of the “Smiling Assassin” slithered across a small notebook he carried with him. No one knew exactly what he was writing. They only saw him tear out the page when he finished, fold it, and slip it into the inner pocket of his suit.
Perhaps, when that ambition-soaked note disappeared into his jacket, an undercurrent capable of reshaping the NBA had already begun to surge beneath the surface.
Wizards head coach Eddie Jordan was on the phone. Perhaps he was seeking owner Abe Pollin’s approval to make that bastard forget all about Dwight Howard and Emeka Okafor. If Washington won the first pick, Lynch would be the only correct answer.
John Paxson sat as immovable as a mountain, his eyes fixed on the court.
The familiar air, the same fine sweat gathering in his palms, and everything that had just unfolded seemed to collide across time with Game Five of the 1991 Finals.
Back then, as a participant, he had not known what he was creating. After the game, John Paxson, who had made jump shot after jump shot, told reporters, “I just knocked down the open looks.”
But now, as an observer, he understood the greatness of this moment in all its depth.
That boy possessed an extraordinarily fierce competitive spirit. He had no desire to stop competing, nor did he fear shouldering responsibility. In this century-defining battle of European basketball, that quality stood out above all.
If Chicago needed a leader for the post-Michael Jordan era, someone like Lynch would be the obvious first choice.
Every NBA scout, coach, and general manager who had come to Finland tonight was doing the same thing at that very moment: making certain that his team would get Lynch this summer.
Page (1/3)
Page (2/3)
This Eastern boy from Madrid was using his astonishing performance to drag the entire league into the vortex of a frenzied bidding war.
On the court, Lynch was embracing Teodosic.
Although the game had not yet officially ended, he knew everything had already been decided.
Behind them, the Barcelona players’ hollow eyes held the fragments of shattered dignity. In the stands, the Catalan flags lay limp and lifeless, like withered leaves ravaged by a hurricane.
Their souls had been completely destroyed.
Teodosic, usually incapable of revealing his emotions, had veins bulging in his neck. His trembling fingertips nearly dug into Lynch’s skin.
“We are European champions! We are European champions!”
Lynch grinned and vigorously tousled his teammate’s curly hair.
“Champions who ascended the throne by stepping over the corpse of the three-time champions!”
Teodosic remembered the Christmas a year earlier, when he had made a wish: that he and Lynch would become the most valuable young players in all of Europe, and that together they would win a championship.
Now, reality had far surpassed anything he had imagined.
The Real Madrid bench had long since become a boiling volcanic crater. Shoulder pressed against shoulder, feet planted on the sideline, the players resembled a flood about to burst through a dam, waiting for the moment the game finally ended.
When the referee signaled for Barcelona to take the final, purely symbolic inbounds pass from the baseline, Dejan Bodiroga’s stooped back seemed to bear the entire weight of Catalonia. Once hailed as the “Balkan Magician,” he now picked up the ball stiffly and tossed it carelessly onto the floor.
The dull thud sounded like a crown striking the ground.
The buzzer blared as the clock hit zero, tearing through Finland’s night sky. A white tide instantly engulfed the court. Real Madrid’s players hoisted Lynch into the air. The flying hem of the young man’s jersey brushed against the ribbons drifting down from the rafters, mingling with the roars of Madrid’s supporters to form a hurricane sweeping across Europe.
Outside the storm, Bodiroga still stood at the baseline, staring at the basketball as it gradually rolled to a stop on the floor.
It was over. It was all over.
He had once proudly told the world in Catalonia that the future belonged to Lynch. Now, he himself remained the ruler of Europe.
It was not that he had never encountered young prodigies. When he first lifted the European championship trophy in 2000, his opponents from Bologna had also possessed a young genius named Manu Ginobili.
But that prodigy had never posed him much of a threat. No matter how brilliant a young talent might be, greatness still required the tempering of time.
Yet now, another young genius had arrived at the future far sooner than he had ever anticipated.
George Facka came over and placed a hand on the Serbian’s shoulder.
“Maybe we really are getting old, my friend.”
Bodiroga gave a bitter smile. Yes. If he had merely suffered a narrow defeat at Lynch’s hands, the sense of frustration would not have been so overwhelming.
But tonight, Lynch had scored forty-three points. Bodiroga himself, under relentless defense, had managed only ten.
It was a merciless slaughter of the old generation by the new.
Seeing Bodiroga’s gloom, George Facka picked up the basketball from the floor and pressed it into the Serbian’s arms.
“One day, our hearts will stop beating. But the legends we forged will live forever.”
Bodiroga was surprised that the Italian, usually so unserious, could say something like that.
He nodded and walked away from George Facka.
Page (2/3)
Page (3/3)
“Where are you going?”
“To congratulate that boy. No, not a boy—to congratulate the monster who brought the future forward and made it real ahead of schedule.”
Bodiroga stepped into the white waves. His gaze pierced through the celebrating crowd and met Lynch’s eyes as his teammates tossed him into the air at center court.
When the Serbian legend opened his arms, the young man threw himself into the embrace without hesitation. The veteran’s palm rubbed across the young player’s sweat-soaked jersey, as though he were touching the pages of basketball history being rewritten before his eyes.
Neither said much, but Lynch had unquestionably earned Bodiroga’s respect.
Ten steps away, Real Madrid captain Herreros, who had just played the final game of his career, leaned against the scorer’s table, staring blankly into space.
He remembered Sabonis leading Real Madrid to the European championship the last time they had won it.
When the Lithuanian giant had lifted the trophy, the white tidal wave he unleashed had swept through the arena. Now, in an even more magnificent form, that same wave was surging through the entire stadium once again.
Herreros reached out and caught a scrap of paper drifting down through the air. He murmured into the empty space before him:
“I tried to teach him everything you taught me. Guess what? He’ll be greater than all of us put together!”
Ten minutes later, Real Madrid president Florentino Perez appeared on the court and lifted the European championship trophy alongside the players.
Lynch was named the Final Four MVP. That meant the eighteen-year-old had already conquered all of Europe.
The host held the microphone to Lynch and asked him to give his acceptance speech.
Lynch’s excited mind raced to gather its thoughts, but suddenly he remembered the cry Misko had shouted over the phone a year earlier when announcing his destination.
So Lynch raised the trophy high and shouted:
“Hala Madrid!”
“Hala Madrid!”
The response was a hundred times louder than the voice on that phone call a year ago.
-----------------
“I feel as though Lynch is Philip V, Charlemagne, and Caesar all rolled into one. Ha-ha, I sincerely hope Catalonia won’t designate this day as a Basketball Arts Festival. They do love celebrating the days on which they were conquered.” —Marca
(The three men were, respectively, the king of Spain’s Bourbon dynasty who conquered Catalonia, the emperor of the Frankish Empire who conquered Catalonia, and the Roman governor who ruled the entire Iberian Peninsula. Catalonia’s national day was chosen by the Catalans themselves; it commemorates the day Philip V captured Barcelona.)
“Dwyane Wade has put up outrageous numbers in the second round of the playoffs. The rookie guard is averaging 21 points, 5.7 assists, and 4 rebounds per game while shooting 48.9 percent from the field. He is becoming the most influential player of the 2003 draft class.” —Slam Magazine
“Carmelo Anthony and his Pistons have successfully avenged themselves against Jason Kidd’s Nets. They are only one step away from reaching the Finals. We believe in Melo. He will surely go all the way with this team.” —The Detroit Free Press
“Eighteen-year-old Lynch has led Real Madrid to a treble, while every lottery team is eagerly awaiting the upcoming draft lottery. The identity of the first overall pick is practically settled. The real question is: who will get that pick? Once the selection is determined, will there be a trade so astonishing that it leaves us speechless? For now, however, the busiest companies are probably Nike, Reebok, and Adidas.” —NBA Time and Space
“Lynch has tremendous potential. There is no doubt about that. Although he has not yet set foot in the NBA, I am willing to place him alongside Melo, Dwyane, and the great LeBron as the Four Horsemen of the Young Apocalypse.” —David McMenamin
“The future belongs to Melo and LeBron? Don’t forget Lynch. A golden age belonging to geniuses is being ushered in ahead of schedule by this Eastern boy from Madrid, with the unstoppable force of a collapsing forest.” —Sports Illustrated
(Thanks to all the generous supporters, including Lin Lin, Infinite People of ABAB, and Boss Mei Who Does Not Dig Coal. I bow in gratitude.)
Page (3/3)