057: He Belongs to Me

At noon on the day following the game, the flight carrying the entire New York team was soaring through the clouds, heading back to New York.

Grant Hill leaned against the cabin window, turning the pages of a book, when a shadow suddenly blocked the light. Raising his eyes, he saw Lynch standing by the seat holding a cup of coffee, steam rising from the mug.

"Hey, the man they call God." Hill tucked his bookmark between the pages of *The Republic* and greeted Lynch.

"Don't put it that way," Lynch waved a hand. "The Israelites will get angry, and whenever they get angry, they beat up those poor guys in the Middle East. So for the sake of world peace, don't say that." Lynch seamlessly settled into the empty seat beside Hill.

"Want to talk?"

"That's right. Let's talk about Stephen."

Hill's gaze drifted past Lynch's shoulder, glancing at New York's number 3.

On the other side of the cabin, Marbury's head was tilted, his hoodie rising and falling gently with his snores.

After thrashing Nash last night, Marbury had promptly led a few teammates straight into the most boisterous nightclub. After all, he used to play there and knew every neon-lit corner of that desert city intimately, knowing which club had the most proactive girls.

Grant Hill had never been fond of such activities, but he didn't think an occasional blowout would ruin anyone. The media always loved to exaggerate narratives, completely demonizing nightclubs and various entertainment venues. In reality, as long as it wasn't the night before a game involving late-night drinking, a little occasional relaxation was understandable.

Hill thought Lynch had come for this matter, assuming the young Caesar was furious about Marbury hitting the clubs.

"It's fine, Lynch. In Europe, maybe your basketball culture doesn't have this. But in America—though I personally don't condone it—I don't oppose teammates indulging themselves occasionally either. Who isn't made of flesh and blood? As long as Stephen can maintain his good form, who cares."

"You've got it wrong. In Europe, my teammates aren't angels either. I couldn't care less how many hookers that scumbag fucked last night. I'm just curious why a hopeless case like Stephen Silva Marbury suddenly found himself again."

Hill shrugged. "The human heart is a maze; who can say for sure? Perhaps a sudden moment of epiphany can turn everything around."

"But Stephen is definitely not the type to self-awaken. Stop pretending, he laid it all out for me. You talked to him, right?" This was the real reason Lynch had sought out Hill; he wanted to verify the fact.

The overhead cabin lights refracted sharp reflections in Lynch's eyes, as if trying to slice through all pretense.

Grant Hill could only nod. "Yes, but my conversation with him was insignificant. What truly awakened him was the belief you established in the locker room, those..."

"Thank you, Grant," Lynch cut him off preemptively. "Thank you for quietly doing all this for me. If I had handled it, Stephen would probably be embroiled in trade rumors by now, and the team would be in shambles."

Lynch sipped his coffee and looked out the window. "I won't let down everything you've done for me. We are both going to become part of greatness in New York. Meeting you is my fortune, Grant."

Outside the porthole, the Manhattan skyline was looming closer. Marbury was already rubbing his eyes and sitting up straight, looking around with sleep-heavy eyes.

He remained completely oblivious that his fate had been altered by Lin Yunlong and Grant Hill.

Underdeveloped geniuses usually needed a proper environment and a mindset shift to make their careers truly brilliant.

The flashy White Chocolate Williams met Pat Riley, and thus he became the championship point guard of the 2006 Miami Heat—a floor general with high assists, low turnovers, and reliable three-point shooting.

AI met the rigorous Larry Brown, put aside dominating the ball, reined in his butterfly-like solo dances, increased his off-ball movement, and played like a true shooting guard, leading to the brief yet dazzling glory of 2001.

Michael Jordan, before encountering the triangle offense, was merely a guy with gorgeous individual stats who always fell just short of the ultimate goal. As his playing style grew more grounded, his victories came increasingly easily.

Lynch's advantage was that he had already experienced his own metamorphosis in Europe, allowing him to face the NBA with a more mature mindset.

And Stephen Marbury had finally completed his transformation within this Knicks team.

The Knicks' flight landed in New York. After getting off the plane, Stephen Marbury proactively bade farewell to his teammates and prepared to drive home.

Turning on the car radio, Stephen A. Smith's voice drifted through the airwaves.

"Stephen mentioned Minneapolis in yesterday's interview. Yes, his decision to leave the Timberwolves back then baffled me. You and KG were such good friends, yet you complained every day that it was cold. Weren't there coats? Wasn't there air conditioning? Couldn't you pull up an extra blanket? Didn't KG hand you a hot coffee? If I were as close to you as brothers, I wouldn't leave you over such petty reasons.

The only thing Stephen did like a human being was that he gave KG a heads-up before he left."

Marbury's fingers tightened around the steering wheel, only relaxing slowly when he heard the second half.

"But now I have to say something fair: Stephen has finally grown up. Welcome back, Son of New York. Now I'm even more excited about the Knicks' performance this season. Folks, the playoffs might no longer be the standard to measure everything; we can be a bit bolder—maybe this season we can win a playoff series? As long as Stephen doesn't lose his mind, anything is possible."

Next came the fan call-in interactive segment.

Most New York fans were expressing their love for Lynch, though some interspersed the name Stephen Marbury.

"Every post-game now, I tell my kid, 'Look, that's the slashing king your dad was obsessed with in high school!'"

"Focus, Stephen. As long as you stay focused, you're the second-best player in New York. Hahahaha, hope you don't mind me saying that."

"If we get to see the Son of New York succeed in New York, it'll be the greatest fairy tale in the NBA. Don't miss the chance to be the protagonist of the fairy tale, Stephen. Don't be like the Son of Cleveland who can't even drag his motherfucking team into the playoffs."

The people were too passionate, too lovely. This was the first time Marbury felt this way since arriving in New York.

And this was precisely what Marbury needed as a human being.

The scorching wave of sound prompted Marbury to roll down his car window, letting the early spring chill and the clamor of Times Square rush into the cabin. He suddenly realized that this city, which once suffocated him, was now offering him an unprecedented sense of belonging in the most rugged way possible.

The regular season continued. After defeating Phoenix, the Knicks fell to the San Antonio Spurs at home.

On the Olympic stage, Lynch hadn't felt Duncan was all that formidable, but under Gregg Popovich, the Big Fundamental was truly his complete final form.

Every box-out by the Big Fundamental was calculated down to the millimeter. When Lynch unleashed his infallible drop-step power moves and newly learned Euro-steps, he was always met with those arms that anticipated every offensive pathway. Duncan's elite defensive footwork forever kept him glued to your body.

And once reaching the basket, no matter how many pump fakes Lynch tried, TD never misjudged.

The moment Lynch intended to actually attack the rim, Duncan would raise his hands 0.5 seconds in advance to contest, as if foreseeing the future.

The most fatal part was that every time Lynch missed, that calm voice would ring in his ear: "Nice try."

This gentle remark carried more psychological destructive power than any trash talk.

With his low-post offense stymied and an off shooting night overall, Lynch managed only 21 points on 43% shooting.

For a power forward, such shooting percentages were indeed rather embarrassing.

In the Olympics, when Yao Ming suppressed Duncan in the low post, Lynch was largely unaffected by him.

But in the NBA, when Duncan personally guarded you with a benign smile, you realized the terrifying prowess hidden beneath his unpretentious style.

TD wasn't a guy who ruled the court through superficial, violent aesthetics; he forged his perfect basketball IQ, defensive technique, psychology, and experience into an invisible cage that clipped the wings of geniuses.

Aside from KG, Duncan was the second person to make Lynch feel defensive pressure. They truly deserved to be the two finest power forwards of this era.

Of course, Lynch had reason to suspect that Sam Presti had acted as a double agent, giving Duncan private lessons tailored to his own traits.

Lynch wasn't the only one suffering; under Bruce Bowen's defense, Marbury's offense was equally arduous.

The Spurs were absolute masters at punishing slashing guards like Marbury. Bowen bit down hard on your steps, and even if you used a screen, he could snap right back to your hip.

He would force you into the paint, leaving you face-to-face with the greatest player in Spurs franchise history.

Of course, considering Duncan's defensive range wasn't as freakish as KG's or Lynch's, if you possessed the ability to shoot pull-up jumpers out of high-speed contact, you could tear the Spurs apart.

Unfortunately, much like slashing guards such as Rose and Westbrook, Marbury's pull-up shooting was absolute garbage.

The only trait Marbury possessed that outshined other slashers was his accuracy on catch-and-shoot jumpers, but his off-ball frequency was too low, rendering his strength a total decoration.

The Spurs won. To punish Sam Presti for acting as a double agent, Lynch made him treat him to dinner.

A day later, the Knicks fell again to a Sonics team whose three-point shooting exploded across the board, suffering their first losing streak of the season and bringing their record to 6-3.

Then, the media found a highly compelling narrative angle—the Cleveland Cavaliers and the New York Knicks both started with 6-3 records. Evenly matched, the Cavaliers and Knicks would fight tooth and nail for a playoff spot, a rivalry that would begin right at the start of the season, kicking off with their first encounter on November 29th!

The Cavaliers' trajectory this season was slightly different from the Knicks'. LBJ initially opened with a three-game losing streak, followed immediately by a flamboyant six-game win streak.

During the win streak, LBJ proved his strength; scenes of him rolling through opponents' defenses like an armored car became a fixture of ESPN's daily top five plays, and a growing number of people believed he and the Cavaliers were fully prepared for the playoffs.

The Nike media also launched a war of words, not forgetting Reebok's provocative advertisements from the summer.

Looking at the schedule where the two teams were set to meet for the first time at the end of November, *The Plain Dealer's* ace reporter Dave McMenamin finally opened fire.

"When true one-on-one basketball arrives, let's hope Lynch can remain as composed as he is in the commercials. After all, LeBron's chasedown blocks don't come with pre-written scripts like studio ads."

Before this showdown arrived, LeBron James wrote a grand prologue first—in a match against the defending champion Detroit Pistons, facing another destined rival, the Melon, he scored 43 points to lead his team to victory, while his teammates totaled a mere 44 points.

He saved the team, defeated the defending champions, and the halo of individual heroism gleamed brightly above his head.

Post-game, when ESPN reporters aimed their microphone at Cavaliers point guard Jeff McInnis, they threw out the question the entire league was waiting to answer: "After crushing the Pistons, how do you plan to deal with Lynch nine days from now at Madison Square Garden, the Mecca of Basketball?"

"Please," McInnis curled his lip with disdain. "LeBron literally just packed the Melon into a freezer tonight. Lynch won't be matching up directly with LeBron anyway; he isn't as fast or as strong as LeBron, and he can't guard LeBron. When LeBron launches his death charge, poor old Grant Hill is going to be uprooted and probably end up back in a hospital bed, leaving Lynch to simply watch this talent-based execution happen."

McInnis's remarks convinced all media outlets that, regardless of the outcome, it would be a tragically historic night in Grant Hill's career.

This season's LBJ was simply too unstoppable, especially for an injury-riddled Grant Hill.

Only Grant Hill himself didn't feel that way.

He wouldn't claim to be better than the current LBJ, but Lynch wouldn't let him become a tragedy.

His trust in his 18-year-old teammate had reached an unbelievable height.

However, Lynch's reaction was even more fierce than Hill had imagined.

During the locker room interviews after practice the next day, Lynch yelled angrily into the camera.

"This is the last time he disrespects Grant, I promise!"

Ever since that heart-to-heart above the clouds, Hill had long since been categorized by Lynch into the "untouchable" zone, much like a medieval lord branding his family crest onto a knight's armor.

Lynch had taken Grant Hill as his own.

He would forever shield him beneath his wings.