005: Here, there is no such thing as monogamy (Please continue reading!)

Red Star and Partizan were the two most influential basketball teams in Belgrade and across the entire Balkan Peninsula.

Flipping through the yellowed chronicles of the Serbia and Montenegro League, one finds that over the past decade, these two giants had shared seven championship trophies between them.

Their dominance was akin to that of the Celtics and Lakers in the NBA during the 1950s and 60s, but their rivalry was even more bitter.

While the Celtics and Lakers faced off from opposite ends of North America, Red Star and Partizan clashed within the same city, even sharing the same arena.

Imagine the Staples Center adorned simultaneously with the championship banners of both the Celtics and Lakers—that would be a spectacle of unparalleled intensity.

Red Star and Partizan were exactly that.

These two storied clubs, sharing one arena yet locked in fierce enmity, embodied the most fiery and fateful rivalry on the Balkan Peninsula.

Therefore, tonight, virtually all Serbian basketball fans were focused on this derby.

The anticipation among Serbs for this game was as eager as Chinese netizens awaiting the Ma Dou version of Nezha.

Yet, on this night when the storm of this marquee matchup swept across the Balkans, the “Young Guns Derby” between the FMP youth team and Partizan’s youth team also aired live nationwide.

What were the fans looking forward to? The showdown between Miloš Teodosić and another prodigious guard, Aleksandar Gajić.

Scouts from all over Europe had their eyes fixed on these two young, graceful duelists.

Aleksandar Gajić, the basketball prodigy born around the turn of the century, had led the Serbia and Montenegro U16 national team to a clean sweep across Europe in 1999, earning the MVP of the European Championship.

The following year, he leapt ahead to the U18 national team and again led the “Iron Cavalry” to plant their flag atop Europe.

This young guard, who had consecutively captained teams to U16 and U18 championships, had risen to become a superstar in the Balkan basketball world.

The debate among Serbian fans about who was the greater genius between him and the newly emerging Teodosić was a favorite pastime.

Tonight, the answer was about to be revealed.

In the eyes of fans and media alike, this was a match belonging to Gajić and Teodosić.

But what they did not know was that tonight’s answer might lie elsewhere.

Lynch understood very well that this was also his chance.

More scouts had gathered here tonight than in the entire previous year.

If Lynch could seize this moment, his name would resound in the basketball world for the first time.

It might even reach across to North America.

Lynch was tying his shoelaces when Boško approached, handing him a new jersey.

Lynch eagerly accepted it and quickly pulled it over his head. “Done so fast? Thanks, Mediterranean Commander!”

“Oh, no need to thank me. Sit down!” Boško said irritably, pulling out a comb.

A few days earlier during training, Lynch had asked Boško if he could change his jersey number to 10.

At the time, number 10 belonged to Luka Modrić, so Boško refused.

Yet the next morning, Luka had approached Boško voluntarily, offering to give up number 10 for Lynch.

So Boško arranged for a new jersey to be made for Lynch.

To this day, Boško still couldn’t understand what Lynch had said to persuade Luka.

In truth, Lynch hadn’t used any rhetoric; he simply won him over by virtue.

Lynch didn’t lecture Luka with grand principles but spoke plainly about the physics of basketball.

The two had delved deeply into the study of “the positive correlation function between forearm angular velocity pivoting at the elbow joint and the area of bruises on teammates.”

Luka was impressed by Lynch’s profound knowledge of physics and tearfully handed over number 10 with both hands.

After changing into the new jersey, Lynch patted Luka Modrić on the shoulder. “Thanks, mate. From now on, you won’t have to worry about defense. I’ve got your back.”

Nearby, Teodosić casually asked, “Why number 10?”

“Just like it.”

In fact, Lynch wore number 10 because his favorite character in Slam Dunk was the protagonist, Hanamichi Sakuragi.

That fiery enthusiasm always stirred Lynch’s heart.

Of course, Lynch couldn’t explain all this to someone who had never seen Slam Dunk, so he brushed the question off casually.

After this small episode, Boško led the team onto the court.

Though the modest high school gym held only several hundred spectators, the cheers were still passionate.

The rusted dome vibrated under the roar. Grandmothers wrapped in Partizan scarves, children with painted faces, uncles raising beers and shouting—Serbians’ passion for basketball transcended age and gender. Here, there was only madness and fervor.

Partizan’s players soon took the court. Aleksandar Gajić surveyed the FMP team with the confident gaze of a conqueror.

An old man wearing a hat suddenly smashed a beer bottle, further igniting the already blazing small arena.

Teodosić and Gajić locked eyes across midcourt; the entire court was suffused with the scent of gunpowder and black earth.

Suddenly, Luka, as if stung, cried out in panic, breaking the tense atmosphere.

“Lynch!”

Lynch leisurely chewed his gum. “Yeah? What’s up?”

“Look at that guy!”

Following Luka Modrić’s pointed finger, Lynch spotted a towering shadow beside Gajić, at least 210 centimeters tall.

The man was stroking his chin with fingers like steel files. His developed biceps made him seem utterly out of place on a youth basketball team.

Standing with Gajić, they resembled Vegeta and Nappa from Dragon Ball—tall and short, both radiating pride.

“Damn it, I thought Blagota Sekulić had already moved up to the first team.” Luka’s voice trembled slightly.

“Hell, how come there are more names ending in ‘ić’ here than pigeons in Belgrade? And who the hell is this guy?” Lynch was nearly dizzy from all these complex names, each ending with ‘ić.’

Wait, doesn’t my own name end with ‘ić’ too...?

“That tallest one, Blagota Sekulić, was the starting center on the 2000 U18 European Championship team. Lynch, you promised to help me, right? You absolutely have to help me—he’ll treat my skull like a bowl!”

“Don’t worry,” Teodosić interjected. “Blagota can’t kill the game. Lynch has his own task. Don’t let him get distracted.”

Boško had assigned Lynch to help Teodosić defend Gajić, who was Partizan’s most dangerous offensive threat.

But Lynch waved his hand. “Of course I’ll handle Aleksandar Gajić.”

“And what about Blagota?” Teodosić raised an eyebrow.

“I’ll handle him too. The Mediterranean Commander only said Gajić’s on me, but he never said I could only have Gajić. This is basketball, not monogamy.”

As the game was about to start, the pre-jump ball atmosphere remained relatively cordial.

This was not the lawless land of exiled criminals called America, where players trash-talked like sewer rats. European players were distinctly less enthusiastic about trash talk.

Still, the intensity of the impending battle was palpable.

Partizan won the opening tip. Aleksandar Gajić advanced the ball with steady control.

At 183 centimeters, a traditional European point guard, his first move was decidedly American-style—a direct drive.

Teodosić was a genius in offense but notoriously poor on defense.

He was weak in physical confrontations and slow-footed, a flaw well known throughout Serbian youth basketball.

Naturally, Gajić seized the chance to exploit this soft spot. With scouts and media watching, he aimed to decisively defeat this rising star.

He hoped to recreate Michael Jordan’s moment of “If I don’t destroy him, you’ll think we’re on the same level.”

A hesitation step followed by a behind-the-back dribble, and Aleksandar Gajić tore through Teodosić’s defense.

The instant he sensed blood, he left the FMP youth star’s dignity far behind.

After breaking through, Gajić executed a skillful abrupt stop, smoothly launching into his shot.

He even had the luxury midair to regulate his breathing rhythm—until the dome lights suddenly dimmed, swallowed by the shadow of the Great Wall of China.

That lanky number 10’s leap left everyone in the arena breathless. Cameras captured that astonishment and shared it with viewers beyond the court.

Aleksandar Gajić himself was stunned. Where had this incredible leaper from FMP suddenly appeared?

By his experience, if he continued his shot, it would most likely be blocked.

But Gajić was a genius point guard, possessing the same cool-headedness and superb passing skills as Teodosić.

When his shooting lane was sealed off, he folded his body midair and passed the ball to the already positioned Blagota Sekulić beneath the basket.

He admitted he was forced to pass by this number 10. But there was no shame in that—basketball was not a one-man sport.

Sekulić, standing 213 centimeters tall, wasn’t much taller than Luka but seemed much bulkier.

Receiving the ball, his muscles turned to iron as he pushed back fiercely.

Luka felt as if his insides were being crushed—few youth players in Serbia could withstand such a blow.

After clearing Luka out of position, Sekulić prepared, as usual, to pulverize his opponent with a two-handed dunk.

But at the moment he launched, Lynch’s thunderous help defense descended like divine punishment.

“Smack!”

The ball was fiercely blocked, ricocheting toward the baseline.

“The dome of St. Sava Cathedral isn’t this high! And... does Lynch have teleportation powers!? How did he move from beside Aleksandar to under the basket in an instant!?” The announcer’s voice cracked in disbelief.

In the stands, scouts all snapped open their notebooks, their pens scratching furiously on paper.

That number 10 had just forced the European heir’s sure shot into a pass, and then ruined the Belgrade Tower’s dunk.

Singlehandedly, he had defended both of Partizan’s stars.

The scouts’ professional instincts told them this was no ordinary kid.

This was an extraordinary kid!

After landing, Lynch remained calm. He had practiced countless times in training recently and knew he was fully capable.

His outstanding mobility and defensive awareness allowed him not just to guard one player but to cover the entire half-court.

He liked to shield the whole half under his wings.

Having experienced the joy Rodman found in defense, he was beginning to understand the happiness Kevin Garnett spoke of.

Partizan’s two stars exchanged surprised glances, then fixed their eyes on number 10.

Their expressions flickered with provocation, excitement, and rage—they imagined countless reactions that might erupt from Lynch.

But none of these happened.

They only saw the tall, slender Chinese man nonchalantly point to Luka Modrić.

“Don’t worry, number 10 isn’t just for show. No one can bully you like I do.”

Then he scanned his teammates.

“Hey, anyone else need help? Sign up quickly.

These two guys are pretty good, so I guess I’ll just have to guard one more.”

(Grateful thanks to the generous patrons: those aspiring for the top five universities, the ever-smiling, and others—much appreciation!

Thanks also to Western Enlightenment Joyful Buddha, Dreamy Rivers and Mountains, Mr. K, Confirmed Receipt, Time for Tea, Celestial Benevolence, Ideal is Homeland, Wandering to Shanghai, and other benefactors—deep gratitude!)