051: New York is clearly paradise

After finishing his loud roar, Isiah Thomas cast a cold glance toward the other side of the training court, where the injury-plagued veterans, Penny Hardaway and Allan Houston, were going through their stretches.

Those two injury-prone guards were like fish bones stuck in his throat. Pushing such fragile bodies into the starting lineup would be no different from dancing on a ticking time bomb.

Thinking of how the team's most lethal shooting guard was forced to cower on the bench, only able to pick up scraps when Stephon Marbury was given a rest, the Smiling Assassin's fingernails almost pierced his own palms.

Isiah Thomas firmly believed that the backcourt duo of Marbury and Jamal Crawford carried the genetic code of the Bad Boys era's golden age.

They might not reach the all-around dominance in offense, passing, and defense that he and Joe Dumars once possessed, but that versatile attribute of switching freely between scoring and playmaking was the concrete projection of the perfect backcourt in his mind.

This was the standard answer for the backcourt in the Assassin's mind.

After delivering his harsh words, Thomas left the training court, the loud bang of the slamming door echoing through the arena.

Head coach Lenny Wilkens gritted his teeth and picked up the tactics board broken into five or six pieces. Those cracks seemed to mock his naive fantasy that he could actually change the New York Knicks.

He looked up at Lynch.

That was a player of transcendent talent; he had the opportunity to achieve greatness.

If he were to sink into the vortex of the New York curse, it would be a desecration of basketball talent.

Lenny Wilkens knew very well that Lynch could bring change to New York, and all of this could not be ruined by that asshole Isiah Thomas.

He threw the broken tactics board into the trash can, tearing apart the mockery in his mind.

Back then, that elbow from Karl Malone must have rattled something loose in the Assassin's brain; he had to set all of this right.

Lenny Wilkens also left the training court, and one could guess that he and the Assassin would erupt into a second round of arguments in the general manager's office.

"Then who should we use for the starting shooting guard? Penny? Allan? Their knees are filled with shards of glass! Damn it, I made a timely, beautiful, and correct reinforcement, but my head coach refuses to let that guy start!" Thomas put his hands on his hips, already trying hard to control his temper.

"Listen, Isiah, you and old Joe are legends, and legends are uncopyable. Jamal cannot play the ghost of Joe Dumars, and Stephon can never wear your mask! You're trying to imitate Chuck, but you aren't him either!"

The last sentence stung the Assassin.

Yes, he had always been imitating Chuck Daly.

When he was in Toronto, he wanted to be the "Daddy Isiah" to the Raptors players, but he failed.

When he was in Indianapolis, he wanted to be a great defensive coach, but he failed.

Now, he was still trying to build a team using Chuck Daly's philosophy, only to be refuted by his own coach.

He wasn't Chuck Daly; he was just a clumsy imitator.

At this moment, the thorns winding around his neck were those of self-deception.

Just then, Lynch pushed open the door.

Both sides instantly realized that this was a figure who could break the balance.

The tall figure cut into the tense air, and Thomas instinctively straightened his back, a scorching light bursting within his pupils—this young man he had personally selected was his sharpest dagger.

"You've come at the right time!" The general manager approached Lynch in two steps, "Tell this stubborn old-timer that modern basketball requires a combo guard who can handle the ball and make plays! We need fresh blood!"

"Isiah," Lynch's expression was cold and rigid, his voice wrapped in the bitterness of a biting wind, "you shouldn't challenge the head coach's authority and question his decisions in front of all the players."

The Smiling Assassin widened his eyes.

He thought Lynch was here to back him up!

"I'm not challenging him," Isiah Thomas tried to display his majesty by shouting, "I'm fucking correcting a mistake! I..."

"There's nothing that needs correcting. We are doing fine, and Jamal has already adapted to the sixth-man role," Lynch's tone remained calm, which instead made the shouting Assassin look like an unreasonable clown.

"We will be on the path to victory," Lynch continued, closing in on Thomas, his shadow completely enveloping him, "Why don't you wait and see first? If the Knicks want to make the playoffs, no one can afford to make mistakes. I can't, and Lenny can't. And that certainly includes you, Isiah. I only know that if we fail again, the one who gets kicked out won't be me."

Isiah Thomas looked up, meeting Lynch's gaze.

What flickered in the teenager's pupils was not the timidity or flattery usually seen from young players in front of management, but a combative spirit as sharp as quenched steel blades, causing him to instinctively recoil half an inch.

This was Michael Jordan's look when he stared at someone!

"It's not your place to point fingers!" The Assassin clenched his tie into a ball and slammed it onto the mahogany desk, bulging veins spreading from his temples to his neck, though his voice lowered, "Listen, you have a margin for error in the preseason, go with your strategy. But if it turns out that making Jamal a substitute is a mistake, you have to listen to me."

"Deal, Isiah. Just wait for the results, we're good between us." Lenny Wilkens immediately responded, then pulled Lynch out of the general manager's office.

At the end of the corridor, far away from the office, Lenny Wilkens stopped and suddenly turned to face Lynch.

"You just did a very dangerous thing, kid, like striking a match in a powder keg. You shouldn't have defied him to his face. I know you achieved huge success in Europe and the Olympics, but the NBA is a much more complex system."

Wilkens looked toward the training court, "This place is filled with struggles, locker room struggles, management struggles. This is about basketball, but it's not *only* about basketball. By angering Isiah, he might become your obstacle."

"But Isiah is wrong, and you and I both know it. When a false theory becomes truth, silence is complicity." Lynch had long since decided not to let the Knicks' chaotic management become his stumbling block; he would never blindly submit to anyone.

"I just want to remind you that he is currently the most powerful person in the team apart from James Dolan, the regent beneath James's throne. He holds absolute authority from player trades to roster construction, and that will directly affect your achievements."

Lynch was unimpressed: "In that office just now, we already rewrote the script of power once. As time goes on, I think I can continue to rewrite it."

Wilkens realized with a start that the noise of the training court had somehow quieted down, the overhead lights casting a cold silver sheen over Lynch's silhouette. This young man, who should have been trembling with fear in his rookie season, now looked like a knight standing with a sword atop a chessboard.

He didn't want to be Isiah Thomas's chess piece; he wanted to be the chess player, a chess player like Michael Jordan.

Lynch's leadership surprised Lenny Wilkens, and his toughness toward management surprised him a second time.

Yes, this time Lynch had won.

As Lynch continued to win in the upcoming season, and as he truly led the Knicks into the playoffs, the balance of power in the Knicks would tilt further.

Isiah Thomas was the most powerful person on the team besides James Dolan, but he wouldn't be forever.

In the distance came the squeaking sound of a janitor's cart, shattering the stagnant air of the corridor.

Lenny Wilkens snapped back to reality and patted Lynch's shoulder.

"Focus on the games, kid, don't think about so much. And hereafter, whenever any divergence occurs, I will confront Isiah; don't let these damn trifles delay you."

The two returned to the training court, and Lenny Wilkens saw Jamal Crawford waiting with an expectant look.

"Boss, so can I start now?"

"Get lost!"

"Oh."

This was about Jamal Crawford, but he couldn't even get a word in.

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The Knicks' preseason performance excited New York fans, as they brutally crushed the Bobcats by a full 43 points in their opening game.

And the prelude to this massacre was personally written by the top draft pick Lynch—he efficiently slashed a near triple-double of 15 points, 13 rebounds, and 3 blocks in just 20 minutes of playing time, following up on his suppression of the second overall pick Dwight Howard in the Summer League by pinning the third overall pick Emeka Okafor to the background poster.

The reason the Knicks could win by so much, aside from Lynch's dominance, was that Lenny Wilkens' rotation strategy had taken effect.

When Lynch, Marbury, or Grant Hill sat down, just when the Bobcats players thought they could finally catch a breath, Jamal Crawford would step off the bench and push their heads back under the water.

Jamal Crawford's presence in the rotation greatly enhanced the endurance of the Knicks' offensive firepower, and he also had a great time playing individually, because in the rotation unit he could play iso basketball to his heart's content, showcasing the gorgeous dance choreographed by his dribbling.

He blossomed recklessly in the sixth-man position, perfectly solving the chronic disease of offensive droughts during transitional periods that plagued many teams.

After the game, while all the New York fans were celebrating, the Smiling Assassin amid the crowd wore a gloomy expression.

The good news: the Knicks won by a landslide.

The bad news: it was a landslide because the head coach didn't listen to his commands.

The Assassin was so hot-headed right now that he even found the female janitors at Madison Square Garden looking pretty.

In the following games, the Knicks won streak after streak, and Lynch showed no discomfort whatsoever; his integration with the NBA was almost seamless.

Watching him play in the NBA seemed no different from watching him play in Europe.

Ultimately, the Knicks capped off the preseason with a glorious record of five wins and no losses. Under Lynch's leadership, this team, once seen as the league's laughingstock, was reshaping the glory of New York basketball with the force of a falling avalanche.

The winning expert had achieved what the Son of New York had never done, writing a perfect prelude that even Patrick Ewing had never touched.

Returning to the locker room after the preseason's final opponent, the Wizards, Lynch held up *The New York Times*, the cover frozen with his majestic pose raising his arms high at Madison Square Garden, the headline simple and crude—King of the Newish Land.

Lynch's gaze pierced across the locker room, landing on Stephon Marbury in the corner. He intentionally flicked the newspaper to produce a crisp snapping sound, raising an eyebrow and smiling lightly at his quieted teammate:

"Look, Stephon, New York is clearly heaven."

Stephon Marbury still didn't respond, but deep down he knew he was completely done for.

-----------------

On the morning of the day before the regular season began, the Assassin drove toward the Knicks' training center in Greenburgh, his Cadillac cutting a harsh screech through the autumn wind.

On the New York car radio, almost every channel was talking about the new season's opening game between the Knicks and the Heat.

Shaquille O'Neal had declared a day earlier: "Lynch's superstar dream stops with me."

In the past, the Diesel could play however he wanted in New York, and even have enough stamina after the game to hit three New York girls at once.

But this season, New York fans confidently believed that the Diesel would run aground at the mouth of the Hudson River.

Stephen A. Smith believed the same.

"We have the perfect rotation, we have a temporarily healthy Grant Hill and Allan Houston. Most importantly, we have Lynch. This Olympic champion has already proven his value through the preseason, and he will restructure the power dynamic of the East. The Diesel is just the first step for Lynch in restructuring that power."

The phrase "restructure power" was like a poisoned arrow, precisely piercing the Assassin's bulging temples, reminding him of his argument with Lynch that day.

His right foot pressed the accelerator pedal heavily toward the floor, the dashboard needle breaking into the red alert zone amidst wild tremors, and his eyes, reflected in the rearview mirror, were webbed with bloodshot veins.

No one could restructure the power structure of the New York Knicks.

No one could!

Ahead, a crimson river of brake lights forced his right foot to hover between life and death. The engine's reluctant roar echoed in the confined cabin, like a beast trapped in an iron cage.

The Assassin ultimately released the accelerator, letting the embers of his anger smolder dully in his chest.

There was no help for it; amidst the tide of public transportation, he could only move along with the current.

To insist on swimming against the current would most likely result in a wrecked vehicle and death.

Yet the Assassin seemed to have forgotten that this was also the eternal rule of the game beneath the dome of Madison Square Garden.