040: This Is Our Time to Take the Stage in This World (Please Keep Reading!)

John F. Kennedy International Airport.

The hurricane that devastated Europe has made its first landfall in North America!

Fresh off the plane in the United States, Lynch was taken aback by his own popularity. The arrivals hall was packed to the brim with a sea of people. Die-hard Knicks fans were shouting at the top of their lungs, waving placards high in the air:

"Lynch FOR NYC!"
"We want Lynch!!!"
"Lynch or nobody!"
"Welcome to the King of New York!"
"New York needs you to rewrite history!"
"Lynch, you've never seen an ass this big in Europe!"

The crowd had descended into a frenzy, and the human wall formed by security guards looked like a lone boat in an angry, surging sea. Some fans in the front row even leaned over the barricades, desperate to touch the young emperor who had swept the European basketball scene at just eighteen. Without exception, however, they were tackled by the fierce NYPD officers who had clearly just finished their donuts. Even though the draft had not yet begun, New Yorkers were already expressing their craving for Lynch in this unmistakable way.

Looking at these passionate fans, what could Lynch even say? Thanks for the invitation.

Leaving the airport, Lynch climbed into a Cadillac Escalade arranged by Reebok, bound for the Ritz-Carlton in Central Park. He had assumed that leaving the crowds would bring tranquility, but the massive waves kicked up by the hurricane had yet to settle. Shortly after getting into the car, Lynch heard a deafening noise circling overhead. He glanced at his agent, Miskov, who accompanied him. The European agent just smiled faintly: "That should be the ESPN broadcast helicopter; nothing to be surprised about. From this moment on, every breath you take will be magnified three hundred times."

Before long, the Escalade rolled into the neon vortex of Times Square, where the iconic LED screens were filled with Lynch’s Reebok advertisements. The footage of him leaping over the Empire State Building mirrored the reality outside the car window. The Knicks had also rented a screen; the blue and orange ad boldly read: "May God guide us to the right choice."

Traffic signals at the intersection lost all meaning amidst the fans' fervor. Countless supporters clad in Knicks No. 10 jerseys erupted in chants of "MVP," causing a total gridlock. Of course, Lynch also saw something quite "free"—some people were marching with signs: "No justice in America, no jobs for Black people!!!"

Miskov spread his arms triumphantly: "Welcome to the Beacon of Liberty. Do you hear that? That is the heartbeat of New York!"

Lynch watched it all and let out a low whistle. He had to admit, his vanity was immensely satisfied. The spotlights gilded his silhouette; at this moment, he felt as if he were at the center of the world, with even his breath carrying the weight of the stars.

NBA history had seen drafts where the "No. 1 pick" was a foregone conclusion, but never had a rookie's arrival in North America caused such a sensation. Part of this was Lynch himself; his miraculous sweep of Europe at such a young age had the NBA salivating. One had to remember, Real Madrid had been a team that couldn't even make the playoffs the previous season. After acquiring Lynch, they became European champions. This narrative was incredibly popular in the NBA. Compared to talents groomed through the standard NCAA path, this Eastern teenager who had trampled across the European continent naturally possessed the legendary aura of a conqueror. The NBA, too, sensed the perfect script for a god-making campaign in Lynch.

But what truly pushed this carnival to its peak was New York—a giant stage soaked in neon. In the world of commercial sports, talent alone is not enough; you need a stage magnificent enough to deliver the perfect performance. New York was undeniably that perfect stage, adding bricks and mortar to Lynch’s already explosive debut.

When Yao Ming arrived in Houston in 2002 with the halo of the first overall pick, at least the Rockets had already secured him. Lynch did not yet belong to the Knicks, yet he had the entire city in a state of collective hysteria over an uncertain possibility.

Upon arriving at the hotel, Miskov stopped Lynch just as he was about to push the door open and handed him a pair of Oakley sunglasses. This eyewear brand, brought to global prominence by *The Matrix*, had signed a three-million-dollar endorsement contract with Lynch just a day prior. Lynch hadn't even signed a formal contract with an NBA team yet, and he was already raking in money from commercial endorsements.

"Oh, almost forgot I was their endorser," Lynch said, taking the glasses.

"No, no, you'll understand in a moment—wearing these isn't just about fulfilling a brand obligation," Miskov pointed meaningfully toward the car window.

The moment Lynch stepped out of the Escalade, the sound of shutters exploded like thunder. The continuous flashes formed a sea of blinding white light, as if thousands of suns were detonating before his eyes. Even through the dark tea-colored lenses, the silver light wove itself into an impenetrable web. If someone were looking down from the Empire State Building, they would surely mistake the scene for someone having shattered the Milky Way and poured it out beside Central Park.

"Hey Lynch, look this way!"
"Can you look here?"
"Ni hao, over here!"

Pushing through the layers of reporters' flashes, Lynch finally entered the hotel and, led by a valet, headed to his room. This would be his temporary base until the draft concluded. Lynch collapsed onto the plush bed of the luxury suite; the madness of North America both excited and exhausted him.

"When is my mother arriving?"
"Tomorrow morning."
"And the Rolls-Royce Phantom I ordered?"
"It will be waiting for you at the hotel entrance two hours before the draft starts tomorrow."
"Any news about the New York Knicks? Am I really going to stay here?"

Miskov developed a headache at the mention of this. For the past half-month, Lynch had only worked out for one team: the New York Knicks. His performance in Europe said everything that needed to be said; any workout was redundant for Lynch. The workout for the Knicks was merely a gesture of goodwill. The "Smiling Assassin" had praised Lynch highly but had not made any promises on the spot. Miskov’s network told him that the Knicks hadn't yet decided how to utilize this draft pick. They undoubtedly craved Lynch, but certain trade offers made the GM hesitate, tempting him to squeeze other teams for everything they were worth. Consequently, the notification chime on Miskov’s phone barely stopped, as he was constantly updated on the latest trade rumors.

"There are many trade rumors regarding you. The Washington Wizards are willing to offer Gilbert Arenas, Larry Hughes, and Kwame Brown. The Phoenix Suns are willing to add Amar'e Stoudemire, Shawn Marion, and three future first-round picks to the pot—that’s like betting the team's entire future on you. Over in Boston, Paul Pierce hasn't been spared from being put on the trading block. And, of course, there's the West Coast."

Miskov paused. Lynch’s trade value had climbed to an astonishing height. Every team in the league knew that to get a rookie who hadn't played a single NBA game, they would have to offer an All-Star caliber player; otherwise, the Smiling Assassin wouldn't even deign to open negotiations. But the Los Angeles Lakers were the most extreme, because their chips weren't just simple All-Stars.

"The Los Angeles Lakers are willing to use Shaquille O'Neal as the main piece to get you."

Even now, many people still considered Jerry West’s straight-up trade of Vlade Divac for Kobe Bryant a bold, high-stakes gamble. The legend of a rookie guard being traded for an All-Star center had been celebrated for years, even though Divac wasn't actually an All-Star when he was traded for Kobe. But now, when that purple-and-gold powerhouse was willing to offer the core of a three-peat dynasty, Shaquille O'Neal, just to exchange him for an eighteen-year-old rookie who hadn't stepped onto an NBA floor, the legend of Divac for Kobe became worthless. That was a behemoth who had won three championships and three FMVPs in the past five years. Even if the Lakers' "F4" failure this season had been disappointing, and the entire squad had become a stepping stone for Carmelo Anthony’s legend, Shaquille O'Neal was still one of the best players in the league.

Lynch listened to all of this, feeling both happy about his trade value and anxious about his fate.

Meanwhile, a more anxious man was Mitch Kupchak. The Lakers dynasty had collapsed, and the partnership between Shaquille O'Neal and Kobe Bryant had likely shattered completely. The only thing he could do was trade Shaquille O'Neal for a better future—the person leaving certainly couldn't be Kobe; he was younger and healthier. Although the Eagle County incident had made him a public enemy, Jerry Buss still favored that guy.

Twenty-four hours before the draft.

Mitch Kupchak called the Smiling Assassin again. "Buddy, I’ve thought about it. Shaquille O'Neal and two future picks. It's a deal. I'm willing. Let's get this trade finalized."

On the other end of the line, the Smiling Assassin’s response sent Kupchak into a rage: "That was my offer 30 seconds ago. Now I want three first-rounders and two second-rounders."

"No, that’s impossible. Let’s be realistic, Isiah! You know my offer is fair! We have a power forward; we aren't actually that desperate for Lynch. Don't get it twisted."

"A power forward? Are you talking about Karl Malone? Are you talking about Karl? Buddy, you’re hilarious. He can barely run on the court anymore! Consider my offer; time is running out."

Hanging up the phone, the Smiling Assassin rubbed his temples. He felt torn. He had once said, "I would trade anything for Shaq." But when the opportunity to get Shaq was actually placed before him, he was conflicted. The Shark had excellent immediate impact, and his combination with Stephon Marbury might immediately change the Knicks' dire situation. Lynch was strong, but he was only an eighteen-year-old player; it was hard to expect such a person to help the team succeed immediately. But Shaq was old; his legs and toes were full of injuries. No one knew if he could play 70 games next season.

The Knicks' chief scout, 78-year-old Dick McGuire, burst into the Smiling Assassin’s office and threw a stack of documents onto the floor. "I don't understand. For a whole year, all I've heard is how excellent Lynch is. And now, you want to trade the kid who succeeded in Europe just for some worthless All-Stars and Shaq, who’s half in the grave!?"

Dick McGuire dared to stand up to the GM because his reputation in New York was far higher than the Smiling Assassin’s. He had been a team scout since 1963, and many in the media had said: "In New York City, the name Dick McGuire is synonymous with the divine in basketball."

The Smiling Assassin spread his hands: "I didn't say I would definitely trade him, but I have to listen to offers. This is a chance for the New York Knicks to become great!"

"You better not be tempted by any offer, you better not!"

The disgruntled scout wasn't the only one; Mitch Kupchak was also clashing with Antonio Maceiras. "Listen, I don't care how many picks it takes, we have to get Lynch!"

"You don't understand, I am gambling with the team's next decade! The Buss family won't allow it!" Mitch Kupchak paced the office anxiously, hands on his hips.

"The next decade? Kobe and Lynch could create a golden decade for the Lakers!"

Eighteen hours before the draft, the Smiling Assassin received a call from owner James Dolan. "Shaq is a legend; you know what he means. If the Lakers' offer is right, I authorize you to trade the No. 1 pick. Because I'm sick of losing. I want success immediately. And I heard Lynch has a volatile temper; one brawl would be enough for David Stern to confiscate Lynch’s star power."

Immediately following that was another team scout, Anderson Carter, who had been trying to replace Dick: "I’ve studied every game tape of his. Lynch’s offense might not be top-tier in the NBA. He might just be a top-tier defensive player, but he won't be an all-around superstar. He’s not as good as people imagine."

The Smiling Assassin couldn't sleep all night. He called his old friend, Joe Dumars. "Buddy, what can you tell me about Lynch? Anything at all."

Although Joe Dumars and the Smiling Assassin were now working for different teams, their old bond remained. So, the good-natured Dumars said a few sincere words: "Whatever you hear, don't believe it. Whatever you see in him, it’s all true. Whatever negative news you hear about him, it’s all false. He is the perfect choice for your team. I wouldn't say this to just anyone. I'm telling you this out of respect for our friendship."

The Smiling Assassin was nearly split in two. Through call after call and countless struggles, the time arrived: two hours before the draft!

With the help of a stylist, Lynch put on his suit and prepared to go to the draft venue. Before leaving the room, he received a call from Teodosic, whose teasing voice came through the receiver: "I heard the league office has tissues prepared for every rookie. Which hand are you planning to use to wipe your tears?"

"Actually, I don't understand why people who get picked would cry; it’s clearly a moment to celebrate. I’m not going to wipe away tears like a girl. The tears of the defeated will only appear on my opponents' faces."

With that, Lynch walked toward the hotel entrance under the gaze of everyone. Outside, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom waited quietly. Miskov opened the door for Lynch, surrounded by reporters and the sound of camera shutters. Lynch looked at everything he had once imagined, and his hair stood on end.

"Come on, young President. Let’s straighten your suit; it’s time for us to step onto the stage. Remember, never be intimidated."

After saying this, Miskov patted Lynch’s shoulder, closed the door, and bowed slightly, waving at Lynch. The Phantom drove toward a future about to be revealed. Lynch saw his own taut Adam's apple reflected in the window and let out a long breath.

I won't cry. I definitely won't cry.