039: Perhaps a Fateful Note

The European crown finally rested upon Lynch’s head.

Following a night of wild celebrations with his teammates, the next morning, while the scent of champagne from the victory banquet still lingered, the Nike motorcade had already staked its claim outside the Real Madrid hotel. From the moment Lynch hoisted the EuroLeague championship trophy, his destiny had crossed the ocean, becoming inextricably bound to the North American basketball world. Real Madrid players peered curiously from their windows; no other star in all of Europe had ever received such a high-stakes reception.

Lynch met Phil Knight at a private estate in the suburbs. By the edge of a mist-covered lake, the founder of the Nike empire sat fishing, his cigar dangling from his lips as his line traced delicate, silvery ripples across the water. Seeing Lynch, the ruler of the sneaker world extended a hand with a gentle smile: "Congratulations, kid."

Usually, when a footwear brand courts a player, they commission an advertising agency to produce a full suite of posters, elaborate set designs, and comprehensive marketing strategies. Reebok had done exactly this; during Lynch’s tenure at Real Madrid, they had frequently dispatched private jets to whisk him away to their European headquarters, showcasing their visions for his future. But Phil Knight believed his name alone held more weight than all that flashy, superficial promotion.

Thanks to Michael Jordan’s influence, there wasn't a young athlete alive who didn't dream of signing with Nike. Last summer, they had secured Carmelo Anthony in a single day. Landing LeBron James had been slightly more complex, yet they beat out Reebok with a smaller financial package simply because LBJ was desperate to join the Nike family. That was the value of Nike—their sales figures spoke for themselves. Last year, the combined marketing revenue of Reebok and Adidas barely equaled half of Nike’s. Consequently, Phil Knight chose this venue for the meeting, convinced he needed no special preparations.

Lynch exchanged only a few brief pleasantries with the old man before his agent, Misko, took the lead.

Misko went straight to the point: "I’ll be transparent with you—Reebok has offered us a seven-year, $90 million guaranteed contract, plus a $10 million signing bonus and $10 million in performance incentives, for a total of $110 million. It would be very difficult for us to accept anything less."

Phil Knight merely took a calm puff of his cigar after hearing the massive figure.

"Mr. Misko, you know that Nike’s annual financial report includes a line item for 'demand creation expenses'—our umbrella term for endorsements, marketing, and advertising. Generally, we keep these expenses at about 11% or 12% of our annual turnover. This year, our budget is $1.2 billion, and every ad, campaign, and contract must be nourished by that sum. Do you honestly think we should allocate over $100 million of that to one person? And that’s not even counting the extra costs for Lynch’s promotion. We just acquired the entirety of Converse for only $300 million."

Knight flicked his cigar ash casually; the embers landed on the emerald grass. "If Lynch signs for $110 million, that lottery ticket needs to yield $900 million in returns for us to break even. That is a gargantuan figure, and I hope you have a clear grasp of what that entails."

Compared to Sonny Vaccaro, Phil Knight’s arrogant tone sat poorly with Lynch. He sounded exactly like the type of man who would say, "You’d better serve me well, and if I can’t stand you, I’ll get rid of you."

"What are you willing to offer?" Misko asked.

"75 million over 7 years."

"That’s impossible," Misko waved him off. "Who do you think Lynch is? He is worth far more than that, and this offer is even worse than what you gave LBJ. By the way, within that ‘demand creation’ budget, is the promotional allocation for Lynch equal to LeBron’s?"

Knight glanced at Misko, his gaze cold; it was a question that shouldn't have been asked. "Kobe had his incident in Colorado, and Carmelo signed with a sub-brand. As it stands, LeBron is our number one."

He didn't answer directly, but the implication was clear: at Nike, Lynch’s status was below LBJ’s, perhaps even below Kobe’s. When it came to marketing, Nike would prioritize Kobe and LeBron, leaving only the scraps for Lynch.

"Ridiculous. New York is likely to get the first overall pick, or perhaps Chicago—those are massive markets. The New York media is already predicting a 40% surge in Madison Square Garden’s ticket sales because of Lynch. Not to mention that Lynch has the backing of the Chinese market. On the night of the EuroLeague final, roughly 100 million people in China stayed up to watch him. Do you know what that means? $75 million? Phil, now is not the time for lowball games."

"Don’t get so excited, Misko. Why did LeBron turn down a larger offer from Reebok to sign with us? Because he’s a smart man. He understands that only we can build legendary stars. Last year, Reebok spent $3 million on a documentary for AI, and what happened? Their shoe inventory sat gathering dust until Christmas."

Misko retorted instantly: "That’s because AI only played 48 games. Since his brief glory in 2001, he’s only made the playoffs once, and only for one round. That’s not a marketing issue; that’s a performance issue. Anyone can see AI is falling from grace; even you couldn’t save his commercial value."

Finally, Misko delivered a line that clearly angered Phil Knight: "It was Michael Jordan who saved Nike, not Nike who saved MJ. It’s you who needs good players, but good players don’t necessarily need you."

Phil Knight, the tyrant holding the pulse of the global sneaker market, offered a cold sneer. Sonny Vaccaro had once thought it was Nike who needed him, rather than the other way around. And look how that turned out.

"In short, Misko, that is our final offer. $75 million. It is the highest courtesy I can show a talent. Lynch, what do you think?" Knight expected Lynch to be like LBJ, practically falling over himself to sign.

But Lynch simply stood up. A polite smile hung on the young man’s lips, but a defiant fire burned in his eyes: "Sorry, Phil, but Misko and I have to go to lunch. If the steak gets cold, it would be a disservice to the excellent chef we brought all the way from Madrid."

The cigar in Phil Knight’s hand trembled slightly. He had seen too many young faces acting like dogs obsessed with the Nike logo, but he had never seen anyone dare to walk away from him like this.

"Kid, you are nowhere near as mature as LeBron."

"Is that so? Then that is my good fortune."

A day later, in Madrid, Lynch officially signed the largest sneaker contract in history: $110 million over seven years with Reebok. The terms were exactly as Misko had told Knight: $90 million guaranteed, $10 million in signing bonuses, $10 million in incentives, and a new clause: at least 50% of Reebok’s promotional budget had to be spent on Lynch.

His performance incentives included making the All-Star team in his first three years, reaching the playoffs within his first four, and maintaining a clean record without any legal scandals involving drugs or sexual misconduct during the contract term. As Lynch signed his name, Reebok immediately handed him a $10 million check. Those were the most expensive two characters he had ever written—each worth $5 million.

After the signing, Nike’s stock began to slide. The teenager who refused to bow to the emperor had used two Chinese characters to shake the foundations of a hundred-billion-dollar sneaker empire. Nike was even forced to issue a statement:

*"While we believe Lynch could have been a great asset to the Nike family, the cost of a long-term contract far exceeded our investment appetite. After careful consideration, in the best interest of the company and our shareholders, we chose not to increase our offer. However, we remain proud of Nike’s achievements; our unparalleled recent success has placed enormous pressure on our competitors, forcing them to bear these massive costs."*

It was a bizarre situation—a multinational corporation forced to issue a public statement simply because they failed to sign a teenager. Moreover, the speed at which Lynch signed with Reebok surprised Phil Knight. Was the kid really that decisive?

In truth, the speed was due to two things Lynch had said to Misko in the car on the way back to the hotel: "I want to earn this money standing up." And, "Why must I settle for LeBron’s leftovers?" These two sentences had effectively severed all possibilities between Nike and Lynch.

As for Adidas? Ha, heaven knows how much would have been left on the table by the time they got around to making an offer.

After receiving his $10 million check, Lynch’s associate, Louis Bullock, quietly slipped a box of sports protection gear into a gym bag adorned with a Chinese knot, a meaningful smile playing on his lips. He was certain that a charming sales consultant at a Rolls-Royce showroom was about to have a sleepless night. After all, in the luxury industry, providing exclusive, cross-border service to young billionaires was an unspoken rule, especially for an eighteen-year-old EuroLeague sensation with such staggering energy and financial power.

Lynch did indeed visit the saleswoman. As she tied a ribbon around a mother-of-pearl-inlaid gift box, the sharpness in the boy’s eyes softened into gentleness. His first expenditure was to buy his mother the finest cosmetics available. He had planned that long ago.

***

A month after his European championship victory, Lynch woke up early. As he stepped out of his room, a makeup artist was already working on Wu Lan.

"Did I wake you?" his mother asked, turning her head as her pearl earrings caught the light in the mirror.

"No, I just couldn't sleep," Lynch replied.

He looked at the dining table. The toast, hot milk, and napkins stamped with the Real Madrid logo were still there. Many things remained unchanged, these old objects stubbornly clinging to the routines of the past. Yet, looking around, a Sony camera on a tripod flashed with a red tally light; a crane camera hovered near the chandelier, and even the gaps in the sideboard hid miniature lenses.

In the past, the house was empty when he ate breakfast. Now, it was swarming with camera crews and ESPN staff. ESPN had effectively turned Lynch’s home into a studio; the house that held his childhood memories had become a transparent goldfish bowl, monitored from every angle.

Today was the day of the NBA Draft Lottery. This meant Lynch would likely know his destination—hardly anyone doubted that an 18-year-old who had already achieved such massive success in European basketball would fall out of the top spot. Dwight Howard? He was the same age as Lynch but hadn't been tempered by professional basketball. Emeka Okafor? He had a perfect resume in the NCAA, but his age dictated that his potential was far lower than Lynch’s. In terms of immediate impact, Okafor certainly wasn't better than Lynch.

ESPN clearly viewed this broadcast as the centerpiece of the year. As North American viewers watched the lottery results, a split-screen in the bottom right corner would show the teenager’s every micro-expression in real-time.

The director, dressed in a sharp suit, was adjusting the reflectors. Lynch stared at the newly hung photo of the EuroLeague victory on the wall; the champagne spraying in the frame seemed to still be flowing. It hadn't been long, yet Lynch was truly about to step into the next phase of his life.

That night, the ping-pong balls that would determine his fate began to spin. The Chicago and Washington representatives were the first to be disappointed; they didn't even land in the top three. When the Charlotte Bobcats secured the third pick, and the blue logo of the Orlando Magic emerged from the second-place ball, the dome of Madison Square Garden nearly blew off from the roar of the crowd.

It was only the second time the New York Knicks had secured the first overall pick since the lottery system began in 1985. Heaven knows how many conspiracy theories would arise from this, as it seemed only the New York market was worthy of Lynch’s heat, and New York had "just happened" to land the top pick.

The camera cut to Isiah Thomas. He didn't look excited; he looked nervous. His eyes darted around, he loosened his wine-colored tie, and his index finger unconsciously rubbed the Windsor knot on his lapel, as if cold sweat were seeping from every pore. He knew well that he would soon be inundated with countless suggestions and unbelievable trade offers. His choices would decide the future of the New York Knicks, and perhaps the future of the entire league.

With a trembling hand, he reached into his inner jacket pocket and pulled out a slip of paper he had tucked away on the night of the EuroLeague final. The broadcast camera zoomed in suddenly. The edges of the yellowing paper frayed under the stage lights, and deep within the creases lay ink that could overturn the league’s landscape. Perhaps it contained a stunning trade proposal, or perhaps an assessment of Lynch that no one else knew.

No one knew what was written on that paper, but one thing was certain: that scrap of paper decided everything.

The studio cut to a close-up of Lynch. The teenager embraced his mother, but he didn't know if this meant he would definitely be reporting to New York. As everyone knew, the NBA was unpredictable.

The cameras frantically captured the expression of a boy worth hundreds of millions, yet no one noticed the milk stain spreading on the napkin at the dining table, quietly obscuring the gold-embroidered Real Madrid crest.