Chapter 59: Jeff, Where is Your Sanctuary?

The game began, and Zydrunas Ilgauskas won the opening tip for the Cavaliers.

From Madrid to New York, Lynch had long since grown accustomed to letting the opponent attack first.

Yet, Lynch saw nothing wrong with this. It served as a constant reminder that an exceptional game invariably starts with defense.

Stephon Marbury showed Jeff McInnis no mercy on defense. His sturdy frame and agile lateral quickness left McInnis with zero opportunity.

While Marbury’s natural talent might seem modest when compared to players like Steve Nash and Jason Kidd, against a player of McInnis's caliber, it was the absolute top tier.

McInnis flicked the ball to number 23, and Grant Hill stood right in front of him.

LeBron James drove in a straight line. The moment of contact made Grant Hill feel as though he had been struck in a traffic accident, the vibration traveling up his shin and nearly causing him to stumble.

Lynch moved over to help, but James had already caught sight of Drew Gooden, who was primed and ready for a catch-and-shoot.

In a fraction of a second, Grant Hill suddenly thrust out a hand like a steel clamp, executing a precise steal in a millisecond opening!

Stephon Marbury immediately sprinted forward to scoop up the ball. In this sequence, Grant Hill had made the so-called Chosen One taste defeat without even needing Lynch's help defense!

Marbury pushed the ball on the fast break, using a crafty behind-the-back dribble to shake off McInnis. He charged straight toward the Cavaliers' basket and raised the ball for a layup.

Yet, just as the basketball left his fingertips, an all-encompassing shadow swallowed him whole, bringing back terrible memories of those three matchups last season.

"Damn it..."

"Thud!"

"LeBron James!!! Chase-down block!!!" the arena announcer cried out in astonishment. LeBron James's speed was entirely unyielding compared to guards like Marbury.

Phil Knight stood up to applaud, glancing over at Spike Lee, who had deep ties with Nike. "I'm glad MSG finally has the second-best young player in the league."

He deliberately emphasized the word "second."

Phil Knight savored the moment. He wanted to witness firsthand Nike's flagship icon crush Reebok's flagship icon, much like Nike crushed Reebok in sales figures.

Spike Lee offered a smile that didn't reach his eyes, resembling a hostess keeping company with Phil Knight. He had no desire to offend Phil Knight, considering how much money he had made through Nike in the past.

Yet, deep down, he desperately hoped Lynch would win, and perhaps even thoroughly beat down LBJ.

After completing the block, James tossed the ball to the recovering McInnis, casting a contemptuous glance down at the twenty-dollar sneakers on Marbury's feet.

McInnis looked at the stunned Marbury and laughed triumphantly. "I told you, LeBron will protect me."

He was blissfully happy, much like a dog fetching a bone tossed by its master.

The fans at Madison Square Garden had to concede that this was the first young beast they had seen all season whose raw natural talent could stand toe-to-toe with Lynch.

His physique, his speed, and his power made it impossible to believe he was still so young.

He and Lynch seemed like contradictory masterpieces deliberately crafted by the Creator.

After completing the block, James lifted his gaze to lock eyes with Lynch for a single second, their stares igniting gunpowder in the air.

Considering James had logged almost zero playing time during the Olympics, this essentially marked the very first head-to-head duel between Lynch and James.

Logically speaking, they should not have been such bitter enemies.

However, when the battle for commercial territory between Nike and Reebok became entangled with the torrents of capital, and when the clash of fan factions evolved into an exclusionary battle of faith, the two youths chosen by the era were forced to stand at opposite ends of the gladiatorial arena.

This era had constructed the stage for them, and the media had prepared the spotlight, much like the generational fable woven for Larry Bird and Magic Johnson years ago.

In an era where superstar narratives demanded a nemesis, LBJ and Lynch had no choice but to ruthlessly eradicate the brilliantly talented mirror image before them in order to carve their own coordinates into the map of history. Otherwise, they would ultimately be swallowed by the frenzied tide of the era, reduced to fleeting footnotes in someone else's grand narrative.

One of them simply had to win; it was the cruel law that geniuses were bound to follow.

Therefore, they clashed head-on from their very first meeting, an innate hostility existing between them.

The game continued. James called for a screen from Zydrunas Ilgauskas, and the Lithuanian giant's broad, wall-like frame instantly blocked Grant Hill's pursuit path.

By the time Hill navigated around him, he could no longer catch up to number 23. Had he possessed the overflowing physical gifts of his Pistons days, perhaps he could have relied on explosive burst to close the gap. But the sharp pain currently radiating from his knee served as a cruel reminder that time had worn this body down until it was terribly fragile—he could no longer catch up.

Kurt Thomas rotated quickly on the switch. Yet, even with his steel-like muscles, he was physically knocked back half a step upon colliding with James.

James shrugged off Kurt Thomas to plunge straight into the paint, exploding upward to detonate at the rim.

Stephon Marbury watched the airborne number 23. Last season, whenever an opponent completed such a humiliating slam dunk at Madison Square Garden, the entire arena would erupt into a tidal wave of boos that drowned out the home team.

This time, however, Marbury felt no panic.

Fuck you, LBJ. Do you really think MSG is the same as last season?

As expected, Lynch leapt into the air. The entire crowd held their breath, every camera lens locking onto the two comets about to collide in mid-air—this was destined to be a cataclysmic impact!

James swung his arm in a one-handed tomahawk toward the rim. The moment Lynch met James in mid-air, the immense force left Lynch's chest numb, his body immediately knocked backward. Lynch had never experienced an impact quite like this.

Yet James's body was also repelled backward. Before completely losing his center of gravity, Lynch swept his long arm downward, swatting the basketball away from James's grasp. Both figures plunged heavily to the floor like angels with clipped wings, the aftershocks of the wooden floor's vibration surging all the way up the stands to the rafters!

Not until the sound of the two crashing to the floor echoed throughout the arena did the twenty thousand spectators at Madison Square Garden realize they had been holding their breath for so long.

They drew in a massive gasp of air, and then erupted into fierce cheers!

"Lynch has blocked LeBron James's tomahawk slam! Good God! I've never seen anyone block his dunk before! The young Caesar doesn't merely conquer; he will defend his territory with his life! He protected Grant Hill, and he kept his word!" ESPN's Mike Breen felt as though his throat were burning, the words spewing forth like fire as they swept across America.

The visual impact generated by the first direct collision between Lynch and James was staggering enough to be etched into history books.

Though they hit the floor simultaneously, Lynch was the victor.

He glanced down at James and blinked. "Listen to that noise! This right here is my one and only Broadway!"

Phil Knight's expression turned grave. This was not the initial clash he had envisioned. Furthermore, he knew this exact scene would be replayed on television repeatedly for a long time, leaving a permanent imprint in the minds of fans.

Marbury had already gathered the ball and sprinted into the frontcourt, with McInnis dropping back to defend. He knew Marbury wouldn't pull up for a sudden jumper; he was bound to attack the rim. As long as he protected the basket, he stood a chance of shutting down this fast break.

Just as Marbury drove deep into the paint, he whipped the ball behind his head.

Lynch received the basketball beyond the three-point line. Just as he gathered it in both hands, James took a stutter-step forward to prepare for a contest.

Lynch anticipated the shift in LBJ's center of gravity and immediately drove past him off the dribble. LBJ possessed a remarkably high offensive IQ, but his defensive reading was temporarily inferior to Lynch's.

Lynch charged into the paint. McInnis's pupils dilated in despair as a rapidly expanding shadow filled his vision. He instinctively flung his arms open wide, only to realize his heels remained firmly nailed inside the restricted area's white semi-circle.

The very person he trusted most had personally allowed a wild beast to charge straight into the paint.

Mike Breen almost closed his eyes by reflex. "Damn it, this is going to be a murder scene..."

"Boom!"

Mike Breen's cry of shock was abruptly cut short by a deafening crash from the rim. Upon taking flight, Lynch directly plowed into McInnis, sending the guard's feet flying off the floor and out across the baseline. Amidst the thunderous rattle of the rim, McInnis curled up beside the baseline camera, watching the towering shadow that had overwhelmed him step right over his body.

Upon landing, Lynch stood directly over him, pointing a finger straight at the motionless number 23 standing outside the three-point line. With a smile, he asked, "Jeff, where is the person who's supposed to protect you? Is this what getting blown up feels like? Shut your mouth and stop critiquing Grant, you dead dog!"

The dignity of the number zero guard vanished entirely. Curled up in the shadow of the baseline, he watched his self-respect splatter across the floor alongside the glass fragments of the camera lenses.

Jeff McInnis had to admit this was an unforgettable night.

Yet the night was far from over. Lynch jogged back down the court, brushing shoulders with LBJ.

They were the central theme of MSG tonight.

Phil Knight, founder of the Nike empire, stared fixedly at the triumphant Lynch. Suppressing his anger, he settled back into his seat and crossed his legs.

He was suddenly reminded of that morning in Finland, when the unruly Chinaman had flatly refused him, displaying the exact same arrogance he showed now.

He despised everyone who refused to bow to his authority; Sonny Vaccaro was one, and Lynch was another.

"Just wait," Phil Knight muttered through clenched teeth. "LBJ will turn this around, and that arrogant idiot won't be laughing much longer!"

"No," Spike Lee finally burst, no longer willing to accommodate the master of the Nike empire. This die-hard New Yorker refused to pander any longer. "You won't live to see that moment, Phil. This is MSG. This is Lynch's kingdom."

Phil Knight cast a look of utter disbelief at the Black director, only to notice for the first time that tonight, Lee wasn't wearing Air Jordans, but a pair of Reeboks.

People were no longer blindly worshiping the authority of Nike athletes.

The twenty-year brand hegemony of Nike had suffered its very first crack inside the Mecca of basketball.