047: Only to You (Please Follow and Read!)

If Lynch received his "undergraduate education" in trash-talking from Dejan Bodiroga, then his "graduate advisor" was Stephon Marbury.

These two men made Lynch gradually fall in love with the lethal pleasure of dismantling opponents' wills with mere words.

When Lynch pointed at his temple and chattered endlessly at the Son of New York, the arrogant Dream Team had no choice but to call a timeout.

17 to 7—a scoreline that drove all American fans into a frenzy.

Facing an Asian team that had historically been irrelevant in international basketball, the Dream Team was actually trailing by 10 points, with only three field goals made in five minutes.

Of course, you could blame Larry Brown for the Dream Team's poorly constructed roster. They had no true point guard, no shooters, and not even a real center.

Tim Duncan? Everyone knew his favorite position in the NBA was power-forward. He hated constantly banging in the low post with guys like Yao Ming, hated taking hits down low play after play.

Yet the cruel law of competitive sports was exposed beyond doubt at this moment: once you stepped onto the court, all excuses lost their meaning, and the only thing that judged you was victory or defeat.

Spike Lee on the sidelines repeatedly took off and put back on his sunglasses; this die-hard Knicks fan was experiencing cognitive tearing caused by his dual identities.

As an African American, he was about to witness the most humiliating and historic collapse in the Dream Team's Olympic journey. But as a Knicks fan, Lynch's sky-blocking defensive dominance had already let him catch a glimpse of the dawn of New York's revival.

Lynch's defense was simply too fierce. His style was identical to that of the two best power forwards currently in the active league—using extreme defense to make you unable to execute your offense, and then defeating you with an above-average offense.

Lynch's offense wasn't truly top-tier; he couldn't create off the dribble, his shooting was limited to spot-ups, his low-post technique was crude, and there was really nothing to write home about regarding his scoring around the rim.

Yet when he suppressed the opponent's offensive efficiency below the passing line of 50 points, his own stable output of 70 points became more than enough to tip the scales of victory.

This was the kind of player suitable for the New York Knicks; he could make that riddled franchise recover the iron-blooded genes left behind by Pat Riley.

Only, that damned Stephon Marbury...

When Spike Lee shifted his gaze to the former darling of New York, all the beauty was cast in shadow.

What was most infuriating was that Stephon Marbury clearly possessed the foundation to play great defense.

He had exceptional lateral quickness and a strong physique, making him a perfect primary point-of-attack defender. When he actually tried on defense, no guard found it easy to break past him.

Yet his defensive intensity vanished as fleetingly as a middle-aged man's morning vigor.

His 1996 draft scouting report had precisely predicted his entire career:

"One of the best ball-handlers, able to penetrate at will, a great one-on-one scorer. But extremely ball-dominant and unable to play off the ball. Generous as a playmaker, but some players find it difficult to play with him because his passes are hunting for assists. Three-point shooting below average, poor pull-up jumper off the dribble. Defensively inconsistent; superb at stopping penetration when engaged, but easily loses focus, lacks effort off the ball, and struggles heavily against screens."

Spike Lee didn't know what destiny awaited the Son of New York; if he couldn't change, then disappearance was probably all that awaited him.

If there was any god who could redeem Stephon Marbury, where on earth was that god?

Only one thing was certain—Stephon Marbury would never again be the tactical core of the New York Knicks.

The buzzer sounded, and the game resumed, interrupting the black director's thoughts.

Dwyane Wade checked into the game, a sight guaranteed to infuriate Phil Knight.

He watched his own flagship star dozing on the bench while the endorsers for Converse and Jordan Brand shined on the court. This commercial hierarchy subversion was even more suffocating to him than the score on the board.

Keep going like this, and Nike was going to turn itself into a sub-brand!

Yet Wade's entry didn't change the status quo. What difference was there between him and Stephon Marbury? They were both slashing guards, identical in their lack of playmaking vision.

The only consolation was that Wade wouldn't wave opponents through for easy scores. Diligent and hardworking on the defensive end, the Chinese guard simply couldn't get any opportunities against him.

You couldn't seriously fantasize about Guo Shiqiang breaking past Wade; he couldn't even run any valuable scoring chances through off-ball movement.

But the Chinese team was leading by 10 points now. Even if they traded defensive stops with the Dream Team, they could grind the game to death.

This highly anticipated Olympic marquee matchup had turned into a defensive strangulation battle reminiscent of the 2004 Finals, every possession steeped in the bloody scent of colliding bodies. It was even more exaggerated than the 2004 Finals because FIBA basketball had no defensive three-seconds rule, and the shorter three-point line made collapsing the defense much easier, turning any flashes of brilliant penetration into a luxury.

At the end of the first quarter, the Chinese team still led by 7 points.

However, entering the second quarter, the American team gradually nibbled away at the deficit relying on their bottomless bench depth.

Whenever either Yao Ming or Lynch left the floor, the Chinese team's defensive system was like a building with its load-bearing walls removed, trembling under the onslaught of American athleticism.

The moment either Yao Ming or Lynch stepped off the court, China's defense struggled to suppress the sheer athletic talent of the Americans.

Del Harris walked on thin ice on the sidelines. The veteran American coach, known as the "Silver Fox," knew all too well the double-edged sword he held in his hands: Yao Ming needed sufficient rest to maintain paint deterrence, while Lynch had to preserve his stamina to sustain their suffocating help defense. Every time the two walked toward the bench, the clock seemed to transform into a ticking time bomb, forcing him to make rotation decisions calculated down to the second.

When should Lynch lead the frontcourt alone? When should Yao Ming return early to guard the restricted area? When must the twin towers be on the court simultaneously to stabilize the situation? Every choice tugged at the scales of victory, and the slightest misstep could trigger a catastrophic chain reaction.

Fortunately, the former NBA Coach of the Year possessed formidable control over the flow of the game, and his rotations remained faultless all the way into the fourth quarter.

The rests and entries of Yao Ming and Lynch were always orchestrated to absolute perfection.

With the final eight minutes remaining, when Tim Duncan bullied past Yao Ming for a hook shot to narrow the gap to just 3 points, Harris called a timeout.

He knew Yao Ming had hit his physical wall once again; otherwise, Duncan wouldn't have tasted success in the paint so easily.

He decisively pulled the exhausted 2002 No. 1 overall pick, shifting the defensive burden onto the shoulders of the 2004 No. 1 overall pick, who had already rested for two full minutes.

"For the last five minutes, I will send Yao back in, and we will close out the game! But for the next three minutes, Lynch, you must hold the fort alone—at least don't let us fall too far behind, listen to me!" Harris suddenly raised his voice, slapping the tactical board hard against his palm. "For the past twelve years, the Dream Team has trampled all challengers with raw athleticism. But tonight, the chance to make history is right at our fingertips! Wake up, all of you! You aren't facing some invincible Dream Team, but a bunch of arrogant men on the verge of collapse! I want you to hold the deficit on life support, and then in the final five minutes, make those guys witness the Eastern Dragon soaring beneath the Five Rings!"

Well, this American coach possessed a strong sense of professional integrity. Until the end of the Olympics, he fully lived up to the Chinese team jersey he wore.

The game resumed. Seeing Yao Ming subbed out, the Dream Team knew their opportunity had arrived.

The deficit was only 3 points, and if things went smoothly, they could turn the tide in a very short span of time.

China's ball. Lynch handed the ball to Liu Wei, then set an off-ball screen for Li Nan—a signature Horns set.

Yet Carmelo Anthony glued himself to Li Nan, giving him no window to catch the pass.

Lynch cut after the pick-and-roll, and Lamar Odom immediately pursued.

Instead, Lynch abruptly halted at the edge of the paint, stepped back out beyond the three-point line, received the pass, and held the ball high above his head.

Odom flew out to contest, but Lynch calmly pulled the ball back, dribbled in one step, and rose for a jumper.

The moment Odom stumbled back onto the floor, the ball had already pierced through the net.

"Swish."

"Lynch's shooting range is even longer than KG's; he can shoot from deep, he can hit long twos. He's smart, Lamar can't guard him! He just can't! Coach Larry has to make a change!" NBC's Bob Costas lost confidence in American players on the international stage for the first time.

Yet who could they switch to?

Amar'e Stoudemire? Richard Jefferson? Carlos Boozer?

In this roster renowned for its athleticism, they couldn't find a single person who posed a real threat to Lynch.

The lead grew to 5 points. Lynch didn't celebrate, instantly roaring, "Get back! Get back! If we want it, basketball can take us anywhere, even to the summit of Athens!"

Stephon Marbury, dribbling the ball, felt a momentary trance, as if he saw that roaring Wolf from Minnesota crossing through time and space. That guy always injected power into the whole team with passionate shouts and influenced the game.

The Dream Team wanted to attack the rim while Yao Ming was out. Allen Iverson cut, and Stephon Marbury delivered a pinpoint pass.

Bateer guarded the paint; he had the bulk and could absorb contact, but his shot-blocking ability at this level of competition wasn't exceptional.

AI hit a floater, bringing the gap back to 3 points. The Dream Team had to race against the clock to widen the gap before Yao Ming returned.

Yet their illusions were quickly shattered by reality because Lynch scored again.

Lamar Odom swore not to give Lynch any breathing room for a shot, only to be blown right past by Lynch.

Lynch's ball-handling wasn't elite; it was just a simple, brute-force pound of the ball followed by a long stride inward, but it was more than enough to deal with a poor defender like Lamar Odom.

Tim Duncan finally shook off the immensely strong Bateer and prepared to rotate back to the rim, but it was already too late.

Tim Duncan could be called the Superstar Bus because any player who hadn't posterized Duncan couldn't truly be considered a superstar. Now, Lynch had his ticket.

No one would blame Duncan, who had already given his all; what Lynch shattered was the last shred of Lamar Odom's dignity.

"Damn it, you can't use Lamar! Sub out that idiot who manages to get caught soliciting prostitutes!" Spike Lee's national identity made him furious; he didn't want to see the Dream Team knocked out in the first round of the tournament—it was just too shameful.

It was fine if he sat behind closed doors in New York eating shit, but he couldn't eat shit under the gaze of the entire world!

The lead widened to 5 points again, and Larry Brown called a timeout.

Del Harris cheered like mad, buying another few dozen seconds of breathing room for Yao Ming.

Out of the timeout, Shawn Marion substituted for Lamar Odom, and Richard Jefferson shifted to the small forward position.

This meant Lynch would face a formidable perimeter defender, which also meant the Dream Team completely locked down their own shooting—both Marion and Richard Jefferson were slashing wings.

If their defense couldn't stop Lynch, the Dream Team was marching to their own doom.

True to form, the Dream Team's offense was an absolute mess; Stephon Marbury couldn't find anyone to pass to, and no one had an opening.

He helplessly dumped the ball to a cutting Richard Jefferson, but the latter missed his layup under the iron fortress of Bateer.

Lynch secured the rebound, halting the Dream Team's attempt to close the gap right as it started.

Larry Brown didn't know when Del Harris would sub Yao Ming back in; he only knew his own time was running out.

The Chinese team played patiently, controlling the clock as much as possible and lowering the possession count.

The fewer the possessions, the safer the advantaged Chinese team would be.

Allen Iverson pressed Liu Wei directly, forcing a rushed pass to Lynch.

Lynch could catch the ball at the high post to initiate the offense, which meant he wasn't nearly as passive as traditional centers like Yao Ming.

This possession, Shawn Marion guarded Lynch. The Phoenix Matrix's long limbs cast spiderweb-like shadows under the spotlights. Knowing that his amateur-hour ball handling made him an easy target for a steal against this guy, Lynch stuck his rear end out and opted to back him down!

Shawn Marion was an exceptional defender, but guarding the post-up was his weakness. Seeing Lynch progress step by step, Tim Duncan stepped up to help.

Lynch's passing technique wasn't as flamboyant as Nikola Jokić's or Chris Webber's, where he could thread needles and whip one-handed cross-court skip passes on a regular basis.

However, short-range distribution posed no problem for Lynch.

He flipped the ball to Bateer. Duncan had been teammates with Bateer and knew the guy possessed a reliable mid-range jumper. Under normal circumstances, you could gamble on him missing, but the current Dream Team had zero margin for error.

He closed out hard, but Bateer's trebuchet-style jumper spun on the rim like a flamenco dance before finally tumbling out.

Yet the moment Duncan leaped out to contest, whether that shot went in or not no longer mattered.

Because that rebound was undoubtedly going to be Lynch's.

Helping on defense and securing the rebound remained the two hardest problems in the world of basketball outside of inbound plays.

Shawn Marion possessed exceptionally long arms and a quick second jump, making him a naturally gifted rebounder.

Yet he never even got the chance to compete with Lynch in terms of raw athleticism. Lynch used brute contact and his forearm to shove Marion completely out of the restricted area; if you wanted to grab a good offensive rebound, you had to fight like a Roman gladiator.

Lynch securely hauled down the offensive board, marking his 12th rebound of the game.

Duncan scrambled back into the paint in a panic, but Lynch's second jump was simply too fast. By the time Duncan arrived, the young Caesar was already hanging from the rim with both hands.

"The lead is back to 7 points! This time, Lynch didn't let the Dream Team capitalize on the substitution window to narrow the gap! He gave everything he had, keeping the flame of ultimate victory alive!"

Del Harris breathed heavily; Lynch's performance far exceeded his expectations.

He had originally only hoped Lynch could barely tread water and maintain the lead during the three minutes Yao Ming sat, but the young man clad in red on the court was stirring up monstrous waves.

At this moment, Stephon Marbury stood at the top of the key, his jersey soaked in sweat clinging tightly to his back. Shawn Marion set a screen for him, allowing him an easy drive, but Lynch switched onto him almost instantly.

Lynch dropped back to protect the rim, simultaneously guarding against Marbury's penetration and Marion's cut.

Marbury pulled up for a jumper, but this night of frustration had already broken his spirit. Seeing Lynch's long arms stretch out, seeing those eyes that forever burned with the desire to win glaring directly at him—Marbury, who was already uncomfortable pulling up off the dribble, panicked. The basketball jumped restlessly in his palm, reminding him of Iverson's blocked three-pointer.

Lynch couldn't actually block the shot, but his immense defensive presence forced Marbury into a rushed release.

American fans across the arena rose to their feet, Spike Lee's sunglasses sliding down his bridge in hopes of finding chocolate hidden beneath the crap.

The basketball sailed toward the rim under the gaze of the entire world, then flew directly out of bounds without touching anything.

"Dammit, goddamn it!" The director could never have imagined that what was hidden under the crap was a lump of moldy dog turd!

"Stephon has been completely dominated by Lynch tonight. This missed shot is a crushing blow to the Dream Team." Bob Costas buried his face in his hands in agony at the broadcast desk; though the game wasn't over yet, Lynch seemed to have already tolled the death knell for this cognitive-shattering epic battle.

The Chinese bench had long since transformed into an ocean of joy, with Yao Ming waving a towel and laughing as he collapsed back into his seat. The arrogant swagger Marbury had once displayed when crossing up the Giant now turned into an ironic footnote of destiny's wheel.

With the 7-point lead intact, Stephon Marbury's eyes bloodshot, tears nearly welling up.

He saw the humiliating headlines of the *New York Times* flashing menacingly in his mind, hearing virtual boos surge from Madison Square Garden and transform into thorns pricking his nerves.

Immense pressure enveloped him; the "New York curse" Isiah Thomas had warned Lynch about was clearly torturing him right now.

He had acted unorthodoxly to escape pressure, only to plunge himself deeper into its abyss.

Yet none of that mattered to Lynch; victors never cared about the tears of the defeated.

The air-ball brought the game to a dead ball, and Del Harris made his substitution as the 226-centimeter shadow heavily descended upon the Dream Team once again.

They no longer even had a chance to struggle.

"Game over, 77 to 71! The Chinese team defeats the Dream Team in the knockout stage! For the first time since NBA players were allowed to participate in the Olympics in 1992, Americans have lost the Olympic gold medal! Lynch has made history! 25 points, 14 rebounds, and 4 blocks—this No. 1 overall pick who hasn't even officially entered the NBA has given North American fans a profound awakening ahead of time!"

Bob Costas maintained basic professional composure in his commentary, while the CCTV commentators had already gone completely wild.

"History made!!! They have made history!!! Way to go!!!!"

Players from both teams exchanged ritualistic hugs after the match. When Lynch embraced Stephon Marbury, two tear tracks stained the opponent's face.

He looked like a puppet possessed by an evil spirit, his pride and anger entirely gone, leaving only hollow eyes and a trembling voice: "New York is hell, Lynch. It's a man-eating hell! It's nothing like you imagine! You're the next me, you're the next me!"

Lynch patted his opponent's trembling shoulder.

"Only for you, Stephon."