046: Every Move Is a Point-Blank Ultimate (Please Keep Reading!)

The day before the match, inside the locker room of the Dream Team training center.

The pale overhead lighting cast a dim and ambiguous shadow over Stephon Marbury's drooping face.

Allen Iverson looked at the disgruntled son of New York and asked, "Stephon, why do you hate that kid?"

Stephon Marbury casually replied, "I don't hate him."

"Come on, do you really think an eighteen-year-old rookie can threaten your status in the locker room? Kobe Bryant drove Shaquille away, but it took him a full eight years."

Stephon Marbury offered no further response.

Did he wish Lynch wouldn't come to New York? No, he desperately hoped that New York could have someone who could actually play basketball.

Because he yearned to be the pride of New York.

His basketball story had shone with extraordinary brilliance since childhood. Unlike most players who only emerged in high school, this prodigiously gifted Coney Island boy was dubbed the " number one elementary schooler in America" by mainstream media outlets like The New York Times as early as 1988, becoming a rare, underage phenomenal player in the history of North American basketball.

His family genes constituted a veritable Coney Island basketball dynasty; all three of his elder brothers were locally renowned for their transcendent athletic talents, and the entire Marbury family remained a constant media focus from street courts to community tournaments, much like a basketball version of the Kardashians.

Both sides were indeed no different, making their living entirely off the ball.

Under the halo of such a basketball lineage, Stephon had been tracked by newspapers since the age of six. When this basketball prodigy, nurtured under the spotlight, entered high school, he already possessed the aura of a superstar, becoming one of the rare players in history to play high school games in the "Mecca of Basketball," Madison Square Garden, receiving cheers from the entire city in the sanctuary of New York basketball.

Unlike his brothers who fell short at the doorstep of professional basketball, he became the only player in twenty years of family anticipation to make it into the NBA, realizing the generational dream of the entire neighborhood.

He came with his own halo; he was the savior of Coney Island and the idol of countless Coney Island children.

He was New York's chosen one, the most dazzling basketball star in the city since Patrick Ewing.

Although his professional career started in distant Minneapolis, New York fans always held a special place in his heart.

Last season, he finally arrived at the team he had dreamed of playing for since childhood. He longed to lead the Knicks to success and continue the legend of his campus basketball days.

Yet reality dealt him a resounding slap in the face.

Allan Houston was ruled out for the season, and while the injury announcement was still plastered on the front page of The New York Times, Isiah Thomas could not wait to tell him, "Our goal this season is to get that kid playing in Spain."

Then, Isiah Thomas traded away the few remaining players who could actually play, leaving Stephon Marbury to struggle in the vortex of tanking.

He frequently suffered emotional breakdowns, shouting at home after returning, "Why did we lose, and they act like nothing happened!"

From New York's chosen one, he transformed into "New York's most despised player" in The New York Times, with the media frequently mocking how the Nets turned the entire Eastern Conference upside down right after trading him for Kidd, highlighting his incompetence.

Now, the nightmare was not yet over.

New Yorkers had a new darling—that guy who had never set foot in New York for even half a step had captured the hearts of all New Yorkers.

He had merely played a summer league game, yet he enjoyed nationwide televised broadcasts.

Before he had even officially worn a Knicks jersey, some people were already anointing him as the leader of the Knicks.

Stephon Marbury did not know what he had done wrong to be abandoned by the New York media and fans.

Therefore, he craved to prove himself at the Olympics, hoping to let the entire New York see that given a group of capable teammates, he could win just as well.

Now, fate had brought him face-to-face with that Chinaman from Madrid.

How he wished to tell the New York media that he was the answer capable of leading the empire to rise.

Stephon Marbury raised his head and gazed at his haggard face in the locker room mirror. It reflected the stinging headline from the New York Post labeling him the "Most Despised Player," as well as the prodigy chased by camera crews on the streets of Coney Island back in 1988.

Tomorrow night, he had to win.

Because he yearned to be the pride of New York.

On the other side, at the Chinese team's training court. It was the same white overhead lighting, but it made Lynch appear full of vitality.

The rhythmic echoes of a basketball striking the floor filled the empty space. Lynch's jump shot carved a graceful arc, and beads of sweat flew off in a fine spray of silver as he sprung into the air.

Lynch was still putting in extra work on his jump shot, eager to translate Kyle Korver's shooting prowess into his own immediate combat effectiveness as soon as possible.

"Hey! Keep practicing like this and the arena is going to raise our rent!" Yao Ming leaned against the door frame and tossed a can of Gatorade, the aluminum can rolling across the floor with a crisp sound. "I swear you genuinely look like you want to murder Marbury."

Lynch caught the drink rolling to his feet: "When you played against Serbia, you looked like you wanted to murder all of them too."

"That's because..." Yao Ming wiped his face with a towel, "Because I had to ensure we could advance. That feeling is magical—you let go of everything, you... once you enter the NBA, you'll understand this feeling."

"What feeling?"

"The NBA... is utterly insane. There are eighty-two games in the regular season alone, and for seven and a half months, basketball is the only thing on your mind. For seven and a half months, everything revolves around competition, which instills in you an intense competitive instinct. Of course, had I known we could take down Argentina and Spain later, playing Serbia might not have been quite so desperate, hahaha."

"Yeah, I understand that feeling too," Lynch nodded. "At Real Madrid, my captain made me someone who wants to win. So this has nothing to do with Stephon Marbury; I just want to win the next game."

"Even if it has to do with him, it's normal. It looks like Marbury isn't as good as Francis. Sigh, I'm sad about him being traded. But they got Tracy McGrady in return, and he's a player on the same tier as Kobe. I think we have a chance to win a championship."

Lynch glanced sideways at the giant and went back to picking up basketballs to shoot.

McGrady being on the same tier as Kobe was Yao Ming's greatest misconception about the NBA, but Lynch didn't want to pierce that bubble so directly.

Seeing the topic drift back to himself, Yao Ming immediately pivoted: "Seriously, what are your chances tomorrow? That's the US team after all. Man, I never imagined one day we'd be fighting the US team for a victory—that's something only my idol, Arvydas Sabonis, could pull off."

"Hard to say, eighty percent? As long as the US team's outside shooting fails to find its rhythm, everything will be fine."

"I'd say a hundred percent." Yao Ming stepped onto the court, his 7-foot-5 frame casting a massive shadow on the floor. "Before you came to the training camp, to be honest, I lost my temper in the team a few times. Because apart from me, I didn't feel like anyone else wanted to win that badly; there was no fighting spirit, as if coming to the Olympics was just checking off a task. After you came, everything changed. Everyone became more confident and worked harder. Every single one of your serious defensive possessions and relentless chase-down blocks has been changing things. You're someone who can transform an environment. You made guys like us believe we can actually plant the Stars and Stripes in the graveyard of the defeated."

"Really? I just hope I can inject that kind of DNA into New York. By the way, regarding tomorrow's game, I must remind you of one thing."

"Shoot."

"Watch out for Tim Duncan's standing windmill dunk."

August 26, 2004, Athens.

The eyes of basketball fans worldwide were focused on the birthplace of the modern Olympics.

In the old district of Plaka, little Yannis, who should have been peddling souvenirs to tourists in Monastiraki Square, was curled up on a tattered sofa at this moment, staring unblinkingly at the old, static-flickering television in his home.

He and his brothers had always loved football, but this marquee matchup made the winds of basketball sweep across Greece.

He didn't know who Lynch and Stephon Marbury were, but these past few days he had heard their names countless times from the radio and the people around him.

He was full of curiosity about this marquee matchup.

And the first thing he saw was an old man flying into a rage.

On the sidelines, Larry Brown was still emphasizing, "Discipline! I want to see goddamn discipline!"

Stephon Marbury completely ignored him, casually adjusting his wristbands. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Carmelo Anthony, feeling a hint of sympathy for this super genius.

He clearly had a chance to win the Finals MVP, yet he had to endure a grumpy old-school coach nagging endlessly about "sensible offense and all-out defense," only to watch the Finals MVP handed to a guard who hadn't even made the All-Star team.

"Let's go," Marbury said softly, stepping onto the court first.

The starting lineup for the US team remained luxurious.

The scoreboard illuminated Marbury's pupils, Iverson's signature cornrows drew camera flashes, Anthony's triple-threat stance—famous across America since his college days—was measuring the three-point line, Boozer's granite-like muscles gleamed with a bronze luster under the spotlights, and the great Tim Duncan gently grabbed the basketball with his fingertips.

The bench was equally luxurious; players like LeBron James—who shared the same renown as European champion Lynch, playoff superstar Wade, and freshman champion Anthony—were biting their fingernails.

Yet the biggest star tonight was not in the Dream Team's roster; the real storm originated from the other end.

When Lynch took the court, Greece seemingly became a home game for the Chinese team.

As a basketball player, Lynch's popularity in this Olympics led everyone else by a landslide. Because whether in Europe, North America, or Asia, everyone who loved basketball was familiar with him.

In the previous match against Spain, the jeers directed at Lynch by Catalan fans were enough to startle the Greek gods—if you didn't have enough popularity, the fans wouldn't even bother booing you.

The camera cut to the stands, where Spike Lee sat courtside, having traveled thousands of miles simply for a taste of the finest cuisine.

The game began, and Yao Ming won the opening possession for the Chinese team.

Lynch held the ball outside the three-point line, forcing Carlos Boozer to step out and guard him. Consequently, Lynch handed the ball back to Liu Wei, who lobbed it inside to Yao Ming.

Yao Ming executed a turnaround hook shot, which missed under the disruption of Duncan.

Yet a crimson lightning bolt slashed into the paint, leaping into the air the moment Boozer and Duncan bent their knees to load up, securing the offensive rebound and scoring with a put-back dunk!

"Carlos, fuck you, are you a fucking idiot?! Box out, box out! That's a rebound your grandmother could box out for! Fuck!" Larry Brown's bloodshot eyeballs nearly popped out of his frames, his screaming explaining why he wasn't popular with his players.

And Lynch only knew that Boozer blowing up Yao Ming was something that wouldn't happen at the Olympics.

He couldn't get offensive rebounds, he couldn't hit mid-range jumpers, he couldn't do anything.

Stephon Marbury bit his teeth, dribbling the ball across half-court.

Under Larry Brown's system, AI naturally played the two-guard position, while Stephon Marbury was the point guard.

Yet Marbury had no intention of distributing the ball at the top of the key like a traditional point guard; he lowered his center of gravity, the basketball continuously weaving between his legs. With a sudden crossover, Liu Wei was left a full step behind.

Stephon Marbury was a slashing guard, and penetration was his most lethal weapon on the offensive end.

He was one of the best ball-handlers in the world today, his dribbling trajectory akin to a living specimen in a basketball textbook, every stride carrying the wild rhythm of Coney Island's street courts.

He was practically a museum of dribbling.

Like a spear, he charged straight into the Chinese team's interior, leaped, and evaded Yao Ming in mid-air. Another palm lunged toward him; he knew it was Lynch, evaded him once more, completed an incredible double-clutch, and shot—Stephon Marbury's hang-time had always been vastly underestimated, which was why he could still frequently pull off aerial flying kicks in the CBA in his later years.

A gorgeous double-pump, but it remained merely gorgeous, reduced to an aerial ballet of pure aesthetic value.

Under the canopy blocking the sky by Yao Ming and Lynch, Marbury's layup missed.

Lynch sprinted toward the front court, and Yao Ming secured the rebound before boldly launching a direct full-court pass.

Upon receiving the basketball, Tim Duncan suddenly appeared, blocking Lynch's path forward.

Carlos Boozer immediately converged for a double-team, trapping the eighteen-year-old rookie.

The American audience held their breath, waiting for the eighteen-year-old rookie's desperate struggle as a cornered beast, but Lynch flicked his wrist and effortlessly turned the crisis into an offensive opportunity. Calmly within the encirclement, he delivered the ball to the trailing Li Nan, who showed no fear of Anthony standing right beside him and rose directly for a jump shot.

He had confidence; even if he missed, Lynch had a high probability of grabbing the rebound.

Yao Ming was right—since Lynch's arrival, many things had changed, making everyone more confident.

Of course, Lynch didn't get a chance to grab the rebound; Li Nan's three-pointer went straight through the net.

A set of data that subverted common perception: in the 2002 World Championships and the 2004 Olympics, Li Nan, then in his prime, shot 45.9% and 43.5% from beyond the arc respectively. Considering he averaged 4.6 three-point attempts per game in the World Championships and 6.6 per game in the Olympics, the sample size was not small, leading to the conclusion that he was genuinely accurate.

NBC commentator Bob Costas looked glum: "It's good! Lynch used his gravity to create opportunities for his teammate, and the Dream Team trails by five points right from the start!"

Lynch glanced at Marbury. Although Lynch hadn't scored on the previous possession, Marbury felt provoked.

Eager to prove himself, he took the ball again, called for a screen, and hoisted a three-pointer right off the dribble to test his shooting touch.

"Clang!"

Yao Ming rebound +1. Carmelo Anthony was cursing under his breath, deeply missing Chauncey Billups.

China's offense: Yao Ming stepped out to the mid-range to draw Duncan away, while Lynch posted up Boozer in the paint, received the pass, and played one-on-one.

The moment of the drop-step turnaround, Carmelo Anthony arrived. The sound defensive habits cultivated during his time with the Pistons made his defensive effort night-and-day compared to his historical counterpart.

Lynch raised the ball high above his head and passed it to the cutting Liu Wei.

Marbury had long forgotten that there was someone else beside him, while the tactical sense cultivated by European youth training allowed Lynch to swiftly spot his teammate's cutting path.

Liu Wei's layup went in, and the crimson 7-to-0 scoreline stung the Dream Team's dignity, stinging even harder that Coney Island teenager once elevated to the altar by the New York media.

Spike Lee on the sidelines could no longer sit still.

He hated this feeling of being fed a mixture of crap and fine cuisine.

"Dammit!" The Black director even resorted to such crude language. "This is why we only trust Lynch now, instead of you, you idiot!"

Over the next few possessions, Lynch activated the game on both ends of the floor, while Stephon Marbury was utterly helpless against the Dream Team's collapse.

His penetration and kick-outs to AI and Anthony both resulted in missed perimeter jumpers, and his defense failed to change the course of the game.

Halfway through the first quarter, the Chinese team still maintained a seven-point lead.

Stephon Marbury drove into the paint once more, kicking the ball out to AI in the corner.

AI immediately caught and shot, while Lynch turned and rushed out, leaping to contest the shot just a step outside the paint.

This wasn't a conventional shot-blocking range, and whether the ball went in seemed to depend entirely on AI's own touch.

Yet halfway through the ball's flight, AI saw Lynch's fingertips miraculously brush the bottom of the ball, turning what should have been a surefire corner three into an off-target airball under Lynch's terrifying defensive range!

Marbury immediately retreated on defense, temporarily staying close to Lynch to cut off passing lanes. Seeing this, Lynch sprinted to the top of the key beyond the arc, stopped dead, and raised his hand to demand the ball, completely ignoring Marbury.

Upon receiving the basketball, Lynch rose straight up into the sky right over Marbury's desperately outstretched arms—the son of New York was entirely out of reach for this play.

The basketball swished through the net cleanly, extending China's lead to ten points!

"That's a verdict of a shot! Stephon Marbury has been lynched!" NBC's Bob Costas delivered a clever piece of commentary using Lynch's name as a pun.

Lynch jogged backward on defense, gently tapping his temple with his index finger, and curled the corner of his mouth at the pale-faced Marbury: "You'd better keep those finals tickets for yourself. Love you, Stephon."

Spike Lee was practically treating this place like Madison Square Garden: "Damn it, that's you, Stephon, that's you! You have zero impact on this game! Lynch is the future of New York, get the hell out of here!"

Lynch's trash talk, Spike Lee's cursing... Marbury felt like Speedishow visiting China, constantly getting jumpscared point-blank.

Larry Brown called a timeout, looked at Marbury with disappointment, and then waved his hand at Wade: "Sub for Stephon."

The son of New York covered his head with a towel. He wanted to be the pride of New York, but the harder he tried, the more the starlight belonging to New York slipped through his fingers.

He knew everything in New York no longer belonged to him.