058: Sometimes, He Truly Is a Performer

Lynch's scathing rebuke of Jeff McInnis made the front page of The New York Times under the headline: "A Leader's Roar."

Across the country, the media universally praised Lynch's response. The romantic narrative of a leader willing to stick up for his teammates naturally resonated with the sports press.

In the locker room, Lynch also won the unanimous support of his peers. After all, a leader willing to stand up for others always commands respect.

This incident elevated Lynch's standing within the team and forged an even tighter bond in the locker room.

Yet, Lynch had not orchestrated any of this. For an eighteen-year-old Lynch, the logic was simple: Hill had done so much for the team, so the team naturally had to stand up for him. They were a single, united entity.

Ever since Grant Hill joined the Knicks, his impact had been entirely positive, his value woven into every intricate detail.

Both on and off the court, he made the team better, and his professional ethos was the cornerstone of rebuilding the franchise's culture.

To Lynch, Hill was his Alberto Herreros in the NBA.

When such a pivotal figure on the team suffered disrespect, Lynch could hardly sit idly by and watch.

Furthermore, Grant Hill was never aggressive or overbearing like Shaquille. He simply kept his head down and did his job, only to become fodder for cheap jokes by bores like McInnis.

That was entirely unacceptable to Lynch.

Amidst the chorus of national media praise, only the Cleveland press responded with cynical sneers.

On the shores of Lake Erie, the columnists of Cleveland did not mince words for Lynch.

"Wait, does this kid think Grant is his personal property?"

"Childish grandstanding."

"Jeff McInnis was just stating facts. Grant is indeed going to be destroyed by LeBron. Since when is telling the truth considered disrespectful?"

The Cleveland media naturally rallied to defend their team. Most importantly, bad blood had long existed between Lynch and Cleveland.

LeBron's attacks on Reebok over the summer, Reebok's counterattacks against LeBron, and Lynch's cutting remark branding him a "performer wearing a temporary tattoo" had long since cast Lynch as Public Enemy Number One in Cleveland.

Against this backdrop, an already highly anticipated matchup grew even hotter.

Nike CEO Phil Knight had already leaked that he would personally attend Madison Square Garden to watch the game.

Before facing the Cleveland Cavaliers, the Knicks still had a few games to play.

However, the media and fans could hardly wait—and neither could the system. The moment Lynch woke up that morning, the system abruptly popped up and dropped a new mission in his lap.

[At thirty-two years old, you are about to face the most hyped young prodigy in the nation. Put LeBron in his place and show the world you are still just as formidable as a nineteen-year-old punk!]

[New Objective: In the upcoming game, score more points than LeBron James and secure the victory.]

[Reward: The "Unstoppable Fluid Offensive Footwork" talent (covering both face-up and post-up).]

Lynch: ???

What the hell kind of reward was this?

As a product of European youth academies, Lynch naturally never made mistakes with such fundamentals.

Besides, he was already playing in the NBA; telling him he needed a special talent just to avoid traveling?

Yet Lynch quickly realized that the impending duel with James had clouded his judgment.

Whether or not he committed a travel was entirely beside the point of the reward. More fluid offensive footwork meant Lynch could develop deadlier and more intricate post-up moves, and execute European steps with even greater agility and variation when driving to the rim.

True to a showdown heavily hyped by the media as a battle of destiny, a single game offered such lavish rewards.

Even without the reward, however, Lynch would have fought tooth and nail to win that game.

Under the national spotlight, declaring "this is the last time anyone disrespects Grant Hill" could not simply remain empty words.

All talk and no action turned a "leader's roar" into a "clown's lament."

Over the next few days, the Knicks maintained a solid winning percentage.

The team swept the Atlanta Hawks twice. Antoine Walker's shot selection looked positively retarded next to high-IQ players like Lynch and Grant Hill.

On their western road trip, the Knicks smoothly dispatched the Clippers.

The clash between Darko Milicic and Lynch felt like a prelude to the upcoming showdown on the twenty-ninth, as this marked another fateful encounter for Lynch before facing LBJ.

Since arriving at the Clippers, Darko Milicic had predominantly featured at the five, leaving the four open for the 1999 number one pick, Elton Brand. But for a giant standing over 213 centimeters tall, playing center presented zero problems.

Logging thirty-six minutes per night, Darko displayed All-Star caliber prowess, averaging 18.2 points, 10.1 rebounds, 3.2 assists, and 3.1 blocks per game. He proved to be an elite rim protector with top-tier defensive instincts.

While his offense lacked the absolute dominance of his European days, he maintained a steady output of firepower.

Interestingly, upon seeing Lynch on the court once again, Darko Milicic felt no anger.

Between these two veterans who had once sparked brawls across European basketball, the tension people imagined simply did not exist.

After two years in America, Milicic had completely transformed.

Lynch's basketball philosophy was simple: championships were a holistic experience, and if you weren't going to enjoy life, why bother winning a title?

Milicic's current basketball philosophy, meanwhile, was equally straightforward: you play in the NBA to enjoy yourself.

Los Angeles's dazzling neon lights and opulent mansion parties had thoroughly eclipsed Milicic's competitive drive. He might not have been the highest-paid player in the NBA, but his earnings easily afforded him a lavish lifestyle, fueling his indulgence in the Californian sunshine. The lingering regret of being drafted sixth overall had long since faded into oblivion beneath his wealth and comfort.

He harbored little desire for fierce competition anymore. After all, he played for a hopeless team that rarely won; nobody batted an eye even if they dropped dozens of games.

Who the hell in Los Angeles cared about the Clippers anyway?

With a smile, he greeted his "arch-rival" in Serbian near the center circle: "God, finding someone to speak the mother tongue in this godforsaken place is a luxury. How have you been, Lynch?"

"Great. You look like you're enjoying yourself too. How many Hollywood bimbos have you banged?"

"Hahaha, I wouldn't do something like that. I'm a family man." Milicic said, though his wicked grin completely betrayed him.

The two exchanged no further pleasantries. Once the game tipped off, Lynch sensed a strange, heavy wave of lethargy drifting through the air.

Milicic glided across the floor in his Clippers jersey as if he were merely going through the motions in practice, those eyes that had once captivated Europe entirely dull and lifeless.

Darko Milicic was simply working a shift. He wasn't intentionally tanking, but he played completely devoid of passion.

Faced with fifty-fifty rebounds, the 213-centimeter giant merely raised his arms in a token gesture, allowing Lynch to swoop in like a falcon snatching its prey.

It wasn't just Milicic; the entire Clippers roster operated the same way.

The ball-handlers lazily circulated the ball through possessions destined to fail, while defensive rotations felt as sluggish as boots filled with lead.

They possessed no surging adrenaline, no desperate defensive stands, no passionate drives to the basket—only the numbers ticking away on the game clock and silent glances among teammates.

Lynch realized just how terrifying it was for a franchise to lack a winning culture.

When an entire team stopped caring about victory, raw talent became utterly worthless.

Fortunately, he and Hill had fundamentally reshaped the culture of the New York Knicks from the ground up.

In the end, Milicic still posted respectable numbers: 15 points, 8 rebounds, and 2 blocks.

Lynch finished with 17 points, 12 rebounds, and 4 blocks. His scoring remained under twenty not because Milicic's defense was suffocating, but because the game drifted into garbage time far ahead of schedule.

As the final buzzer sounded, the Serb slicked back his immaculately styled American pompadour and walked over to the Knicks bench to shake hands with Lynch. "See you, Lynch. Great to see you. I've got a date tonight, otherwise I'd definitely take you out for dinner and introduce you to a few Hollywood hotties. Next time for sure."

His shadow stretched long beneath the golden lights of Staples Center, looking nothing like the Balkan Eagle who had once mesmerized all of Europe.

A fateful showdown, huh?

Lynch shook his head. This was entirely different from what he had imagined.

Milicic had grown utterly indifferent to the pursuits of basketball. In stark contrast stood Grant Hill—a five-time All-NBA selection and two-time All-Star vote leader who still believed there were heights left for him to conquer on the hardwood.

"What do I think of the game on the twenty-ninth? Oh, it's bound to be a tough night, a crucible. Perhaps people are just waiting to see me carried off on a stretcher? Hahaha, before that happens, I'll use every last working bone in my body to stop him."

The vast chasm between Milicic and Hill explained precisely why Lynch respected Hill.

These words were about as sharp as Grant Hill ever got. The Duke alumnus customarily presented a mild-mannered facade, burying his fierce competitiveness deep beneath a gentlemanly exterior.

Lynch stepped forward and delivered a heavy pat to his shoulder. "Don't sound so tragic, Grant. 206 bones are way too many for just a game of basketball."

A day later, playing on the second night of a back-to-back, the Knicks fell to the Eastern Conference powerhouse Indiana Pacers. As long as they weren't staging traditional brawls at the Palace of Auburn Hills, the Pacers remained an immovable mountain in the East.

With that, fate intertwined once more: the records of the Cavaliers and the Knicks stood dead even at 6-4.

This seemed to portend a fierce, season-long war of attrition for playoff seeding between the two squads.

At last, this remote rivalry was set to transform into a face-to-face collision at Madison Square Garden.

On the eve of the game, LeBron James touched down in New York.

As the plane taxied to the gate, Jeff McInnis glanced sideways at the young man beside him. "Look at that, even the airport is plastered with his billboards. That lucky bastard Lynch—if not for playing in the New York media market, how could his influence ever compare to yours?"

James shook his head. "Markets only play a supporting role. The value of reaching the playoffs far surpasses any LED screen in Times Square."

"Aren't you pissed off? That asshole called you a 'performer with temporary ink on his back' earlier. Dammit, just because you took a shot at Reebok? Reebok shoes are trash anyway, and you're no mere performer, and we both damn well know it!"

The overhead cabin lights cast sharp shadows along LeBron's jawline, and the suppressed vibration in his throat sounded like the low growl of a caged beast. "I'm angry, of course."

"Yet you've never blown up in front of the media."

"What's there to be mad about? A guy wearing twenty-dollar shoes, a guy one injury away from a lost season, a guy surrounded by hype who thinks he's already a megastar... what a pathetic combination. With guys like that? Lynch has no clue how damn hard it is to drag a team to the playoffs! Jeff, we're here to show him just how hard it is."

Amidst LeBron's contemptuous smile, the plane came to a complete stop.

The moment the number twenty-three touched foot on New York soil, reporters swarmed him.

A reporter from The New York Times thrust a microphone forward first. "LeBron, what do you make of New York's 'Big Three' combination of Lynch, Stephon, and Grant? Will this pose a challenge to the Cavaliers' playoff ambitions?"

The beast that had bared its fangs in the dark instantly morphed into a humble rookie. "Oh, they're fantastic, one of the best combinations in the league. We'll have to give it everything we've got tomorrow."

Jeff McInnis averted his gaze, his cold snicker swallowed by the chorus of camera shutters.

At times, LeBron James truly was a performer.

Twenty-four hours later, Madison Square Garden.

The moment Lynch stepped onto the floor, he marched straight toward the Cavaliers' half of the court and walked right up to Jeff McInnis.

"Welcome to MSG, Jeff. You're in for an unforgettable night."

Gazing at Lynch's towering frame and icy glare, Jeff McInnis—so eloquent in front of the reporters—felt a shiver of fear.

"Don't try to scare me, Lynch," McInnis forced his voice steady, desperately trying to keep it from trembling. Catching a glimpse of LeBron's sculptural silhouette nearby, he grabbed onto it like a drowning man and raised his volume. "LeBron is going to tear your pathetic defense to shreds!"

Lynch shifted his gaze toward James. Number twenty-three wore a stern expression. "Get back to your side of the court, Lynch. This isn't Broadway; nobody's here to watch you perform."

From the sidelines, Phil Knight's voice rang out: "Well said, LeBron! Take him down!"

How deeply they trusted him—whether it was McInnis or Phil Knight.

Amidst the roaring waves of the crowd, Lynch suddenly smiled. He reached out to straighten McInnis's crooked headband, his fingertips lightly tapping the other man's temple. "LeBron can't protect anyone."

Returning to his own half, Stephon Marbury gritted his teeth.

He still hadn't forgotten how LBJ had humiliated his Starbury brand last season.

Yet he warned Lynch: "Don't get too cocky. That guy isn't easy to handle. I played him three times last season, and I lost every single one."

Lynch let out a laugh. "Remember what I told you at the Olympics?"

"What?"

"Not easy to handle—that's only true for you, Stephon."