041: He Always Keeps His Word

The NBA Draft "Green Room" is the sanctuary where elite prospects wait in agony to become millionaires overnight—a place that serves as the culmination of years of sweat and toil for the world's finest young athletes and their families. They are typically accompanied by the very people who shaped them and helped pave their way to the NBA.

An hour and a half before the draft began, a silver Rolls-Royce Phantom pulled up to the entrance of the Theater at Madison Square Garden. Lynch held his mother’s hand as he stepped onto the red carpet; the young man was so powerfully built that it was hard to believe he was only eighteen. Dwight Howard still looked like a child, but Lynch? You felt as if you were truly standing before a superstar.

Inside the New York Knicks’ suite, the "Smiling Assassin," Isiah Thomas, watched Lynch arrive on the television screen. Phones were ringing incessantly; several teams were still desperate to acquire the first overall pick. Just then, team owner James Dolan strode in with his secretary, his custom leather shoes tapping an impatient rhythm on the carpet.

"Isiah, my patience has run out!" Dolan waved his cigar. "Lynch is popular and holds great commercial value, but the Knicks have commercial value of their own. Even LeBron James couldn't make his team an immediate success. We want it now! We want to lift the Larry O'Brien Trophy immediately! Shaq is the guarantee for both box office success and wins! Why haven't I seen the news that Shaq has joined the Knicks?"

The Smiling Assassin closed his eyes in exhaustion before opening them again. "Shaq’s lower limbs are like oak wood eaten away by termites. You’re spending a fortune on a legend who might be out for the season. He isn't guaranteed to bring you success. Everyone else is looking for a pillar; we might be looking for a prosthetic leg."

"My sources tell me Lynch was 'glass' back in Serbia. He might have serious health risks," Anderson Carter chimed in, fanning the flames.

Dick McGuire snapped back, "Shut up, Anderson! Keep your third-rate sources to yourself! We’ve tracked Lynch for 327 days. His medical report doesn't even have a record of a sprained ankle. The Real Madrid medical team compares him to a golden tower that will never fall! James, if you want a championship banner hanging from the Garden’s rafters, announce the number one pick now! We have to draft Lynch!"

James Dolan, previously unyielding, began to hesitate. He took a deep drag of his cigar, the grayish-white smoke swirling in the conference room, much like his own wavering thoughts. Isiah Thomas was right; Shaq’s health issues diminished the probability of success. The last time he played 70 games in a regular season was back in the 2000-01 season. 80 games? That was a decade ago. As he aged, Shaquille O'Neal’s attendance would only plummet like a free-falling object.

"Anderson," Dolan suddenly pointed his cigar at the assistant director of scouting in the corner, sparks tracing a crimson path through the air, "lay out the case for Lynch being made of glass."

"It’s pure nonsense!" The silver-haired Dick McGuire nearly jumped from his leather chair. He refuted everything Anderson Carter said, knowing the bastard was coveting his position and would stop at nothing to get it.

But Carter merely offered a disdainful smile. "Your scouting team only obsesses over the last 12 months of data. I’m different; I used my network in Belgrade. The FMP youth team doctor personally admitted that the kid was like fragile glass that could shatter at any moment before he turned sixteen. Are you going to gamble our future on whether he’ll shatter into pieces in the muscle-filled jungle of the NBA? Shaq might need rest during the regular season, but at least he can destroy opponents in the playoffs!"

"He hadn't fully developed before sixteen. He’s different now. The European leagues are physically demanding, and Lynch adapted perfectly; he can knock over any interior player in Europe!"

"European basketball is trash compared to the NBA. Dominique Wilkins went to Europe when he was old and crippled and still won MVP. Lynch’s performance in Europe doesn't prove he can handle NBA-level contact!"

"The level of world basketball is improving. European basketball isn't as bad as you think. Lynch will be able to play at least 80 percent of his European-level game in his rookie season!"

"Even putting that aside, look at that kid. He bought a flamboyant Rolls-Royce before even entering the league. No other rookie’s entrance tonight is as high-profile as his. He’ll be blinded by the glitz and glamour; his focus will be divided. A few years ago, the people of Washington handed the keys to their city to Kwame Brown. Look at them now!"

"That is an unreasonable accusation!"

"What’s your last name? Lynch? You’re defending him as if he were your own father."

"You bastard, are you trying to make this personal?"

"Enough!" James Dolan’s roar ended the argument between the two scouting executives. He looked at the silent Isiah Thomas and put his cigar back in his mouth. "You make the decision; that’s what I pay you for. I only want results, Isiah. The best possible results."

The conference room fell into a dead silence, save for the asthmatic roar of the central air conditioning. Isiah Thomas truly wanted to throw the idiot James Dolan out; his presence did nothing but make Thomas feel more conflicted and divided.

An hour before the draft, Mitch Kupchak called to ask Kobe Bryant if he was interested in teaming up with Lynch.

"I know him. He’s great. He’ll be my right-hand man. If you can get him, do it quickly."

Kobe showed a strong willingness to cooperate, but after having already sent Shaq away, was it really worth giving up so many draft picks? More terrifying than losing the present was completely burying the future. If Lynch didn't meet expectations, this trade would plunge Laker Nation into unprecedented darkness.

The rookies had entered. Lynch, Wu Lan, and Misko, who had arrived later, sat in their assigned seats. Misko hugged Lynch’s shoulders. "The driver told me he was sorry."

"Why?"

"He didn't know which master’s piece the music your mother wanted was, so he couldn't play it."

"Uh... that’s not his fault."

Lynch recalled the conversation in the car.

"Ma'am, do you prefer Bach or Mozart?"

"The complete collection of Ma Sanli."

Yeah, that was definitely not his fault.

The time that followed was long. Lynch kept waiting for David Stern to take the stage. Five minutes before the draft began, Misko received a call from the Smiling Assassin.

"Lynch, can you feel the passion of the New York fans?"

"Of course."

"Then you should also know that if you fail, these energetic people will ruin you. I believe you’ve heard plenty of rumors about New York fans and the New York media. The media will watch every drop of sweat with a microscope; if you lose, they’ll invent scandals about your ancestors three generations back. Here, they will support you only on the condition that you keep winning. Otherwise, the immense pressure will swallow you whole. This is the curse of New York. Do you have the confidence to deal with all of this? This pressure... are you sure you can handle it?"

"I don't care what they say. I play to win."

"Very good, Lynch. Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

The call ended abruptly. Misko shrugged. "I’d bet Isiah is leaning toward you now, rather than that aging shark."

Four minutes before the draft. On the other side, the Smiling Assassin had just hung up when he immediately received another call from Mitch Kupchak. The draft was like this—phone rings were constant, like air-raid sirens during wartime.

Mitch Kupchak got straight to the point: "Deal. Shaq, three first-rounders, they’re all yours. Now give me Lynch!"

The Smiling Assassin watched the numbers in the suite counting down by the second; the red glow cast blood-colored ripples against the walls.

"Mitch, give me some time."

"Come on, that’s the one thing neither of us has! Don't you have the courage to make this trade, Isiah? Don't you have the courage to change history?"

Time kept ticking. A league official poked his head through the door for the third time: "Isiah, your decision? Is there a trade?"

Isiah Thomas silently pulled out the slip of paper from his inner pocket, his fingernails digging deep into it.

He had his answer.

"Wait for the news."

The call ended.

Thirty seconds before the draft, David Stern took the stage. The live camera focused on the envelope in his hand. Every fan in New York held their breath. Dwight Howard and Emeka Okafor hoped for a miracle, while Lynch only hoped for what he deserved.

"With the first pick in the 2004 NBA Draft, the New York Knicks select... Lynch, from Real Madrid!"

Madison Square Garden erupted. The camera cut to the stands; every New York fan jumped up, cheering and throwing their arms in the air. Lynch rose from his chair, cheering with Wu Lan and Misko.

And then, he cried.

Lynch’s world seemed to hit the pause button. The roar of the crowd, the blinding flashes, his mother’s trembling fingertips—all faded into a blurred background. Countless fragments of light and shadow swirled before his eyes, like a lantern spun by the hand of God.

He saw Coach Boško and Coach Durovic rising red-faced at the hearing, confronting the President of the Serbia and Montenegro Basketball Federation, Dragan Kapičić, like lions protecting their cubs. He saw his mother’s tearful plea echoing in his ears: "I can take out a loan, I can pay the fine, as long as he can chase his dream..." The frost on her temples had been particularly glaring under the stark lights of the federation’s conference room, and when she bowed, a tear had fallen into the wood grain of the table, leaving a dark, spreading stain.

He remembered Teodosić hugging his shoulders in a strange city in Spain: "Nothing can beat us, brother." He remembered Julio Lamas standing against the pressure of all of Europe to make him a starter and a core player, and he remembered the loud roar in the decisive moment of the finals: "Don't let anyone tell you what you can or cannot do!"

He heard Louis Bullock shouting at him: "Little Europe is not your ceiling; it is just your starting point. Go, Lynch! Go, give it your all!"

The calloused palm of his old captain, Alberto Herreros, seemed to rest on the back of his neck: "Lynch, you are a real man now."

All these voices finally converged into the humming of Wu Lan in the back of a restaurant kitchen. She had swung her oil-stained apron like a cape, turned cheap lipstick into armor, and in the smog-filled kitchen, used a spatula to crown her son.

These images flashed through Lynch’s mind, and finally, the proud boy who had promised he wouldn't cry became a man in his tears.

"I will achieve greatness, Mom." He choked out as he kissed the wrinkles at the corners of Wu Lan’s eyes—the place where the unfinished dreams of the girl she had been twenty years ago were stored.

Wu Lan held her son’s face, deeply convinced. Because ever since he had sworn never to tease Coach Boško again, the words "Mediterranean Commander" had never once escaped his lips.

He always did what he said he would do.

Mitch Kupchak waited for the trade to happen. After Dwight Howard’s name was called at the second pick, he still clutched his burning phone. It wasn't until the Charlotte Bobcats’ logo flashed on the broadcast that he realized the trade window had closed completely.

He knew Lynch wasn't coming to Los Angeles.

Inside the Knicks’ suite, Isiah Thomas finally relaxed his white-knuckled grip. The slip of paper that had accompanied him through the entire draft night floated down, unfolding its curled body on the carpet.

On the wrinkled paper, only a single line of text remained, worn down by constant rubbing, the ink stains having long since bled into a pale blue stream:

"No matter what, choose Lynch."

(The inspiration for the note comes from the movie *Draft Day*. Although it is a football movie and contains almost no actual gameplay footage, I recommend it to all fathers who love competitive sports. It is excellent.)