060: The Emperor's New Clothes (Please Subscribe!)

Phil Knight had never been one to tolerate any challenge to his authority.

Yet today, he had already laid eyes on two such men.

He no longer bothered joking with Spike Lee; that damned black director was no longer a loyal friend to the Nike camp.

As for Lynch, Phil Knight was simply waiting for number 23 to deal with him.

He anticipated Lynch's downfall tonight, not only because he was LeBron James's rival, but because he was the ultimate ace in the hole Sonny Vaccaro was using in an attempt to turn the tables.

When the wild card on the poker table was torn to shreds, it would be the exact moment Sonny Vaccaro sank forever into the commercial graveyard, and he would gladly watch that opponent chew the dust of defeat under his own shadow.

Out on the court, James reached out and pulled a pitiful Jeff McInnis to his feet. The swagger was entirely gone from the gaze of the humiliated number zero guard.

The past two possessions had shaken his faith somewhat. He now strongly doubted whether LBJ could lead them out of here with a victory.

Lynch had already proven that he possessed a level of athleticism that fell nothing short of LBJ's, and furthermore, he was furious.

Sensing McInnis's taut nerves, James broke into his signature smile, revealing pearly white teeth as if the previous two possessions were merely flukes: "Hey, don't forget our goal. Let's show these guys how hard it is to break into the playoffs."

McInnis felt slightly more at ease. He still trusted LeBron James, much like Phil Knight did.

Seeing this scene, Phil Knight chuckled aloud: "You see? He is a leader, and he will turn the tide!"

Yet no sooner had the words left his mouth than a burst of cursing cut through uninvited.

"Jeff, because of your stupidity, the difficulty of our game has at least doubled. Why on earth did you have to provoke Lynch? Why can't you just keep that mouth of yours, which smells worse than a common whore's discharge, shut? Are you happy now?"

On the Cavaliers' bench, Eric Snow pointed right at McInnis's nose and interrogated him harshly.

Before Jeff McInnis could reply, another voice erupted in a tirade: "Eric, shut the fuck up!"

Cavaliers head coach Paul Silas marched right up to Eric Snow, his roar sounding like a thunderclap.

Snow pulled a sarcastic, sneering smile as the humiliation of having his starting position stripped surged within his chest—early in the season during a match against the Bucks, when Eric Snow had merely committed a single turnover, Silas had grabbed him by the collar and yanked him straight to the bench, his furious reprimands drowning out even the arena's roar.

And after that game, Eric Snow lost his starting spot.

Consequently, Snow had always harbored deep resentment toward head coach Paul Silas.

Jeff McInnis was no easy character either. Aside from James, he respected no one in the Cavaliers locker room. With an unfiltered mouth, he shouted at everyone and habitually used vulgarity to humiliate his teammates. Ever since he snatched Snow's starting job, he had been especially merciless toward him.

Watching Jeff McInnis—the man who had replaced him as a starter—looking so utterly wretched, Eric Snow's long-accumulated grievances finally found a vent.

Faced with Snow's mockery, McInnis immediately fired back with even dirtier slang, spit flying across the bench.

James did not intervene in time, his bewildered gaze drifting among his out-of-control teammates. He did not want to offend Snow, nor did he want to offend McInnis. He wanted to maintain his persona as a "nice guy" who didn't alienate anyone in the locker room, but clearly, that wasn't going to solve the problem.

Lynch was free from the shackles of a persona, which was why he could use the most brutal methods to shatter Marbury's arrogance first.

LeBron's Adam's apple bobbed up and down before he finally swallowed the words of mediation back down deep into his throat. Amidst the conflict between these two men, he chose silence.

Phil Knight covered his head with his hands. He had just lavished praise on LBJ's leadership, only for the locker room friction to be laid bare under the spotlights moments later. Spike Lee's jeering laughter nearby made him feel utterly disgraced.

In the end, it took Paul Silas physically pinning Snow down to finally bring the farce to a close.

Spike Lee spread his hands and delivered a line that pierced straight into Phil Knight's nerves: "Conquer Lynch? LeBron hasn't even conquered the Cavaliers' locker room yet."

"Spike, I finally understand why Reggie Miller gave that gesture to an asshole like you!" Phil Knight's attitude toward Spike Lee grew increasingly hostile.

The two men began to lock horns on the sidelines.

The lingering smoke of the Cavaliers scrambled back onto the court. Grant Hill licked his dry lips and resumed his matchup against James.

Instead of contesting James's dribble, he used quick, choppy footwork to maintain distance. Grant Hill's exceptional sense of spacing had been mercilessly pulverized by Dwyane Wade's blinding speed when defending him, but against James, it proved effective.

James launched into a forceful drive, only to crash straight into Grant Hill. His forward's frame and physicality prevented him from slithering through the gaps the way Wade could.

Naturally, Hill couldn't absorb James's full impact and stumbled backward, but he bought enough time for Lynch to rotate over.

James had been waiting for Lynch's double-team; he bounced the ball hard off the floor, delivering a pocket pass to Drew Gooden, who excelled at mid-range jump shots.

Gooden had been ready to catch and shoot, but seeing the number 20, whose highlight reels always featured blocks that destroyed opponents' dignity, hurtling toward him, Drew Gooden grew intensely nervous.

His release was far too rushed, akin to tossing away a hot potato, and the basketball ultimately clanked off the rim.

The ball slammed hard against the front of the iron with a dull thud, and Jeff McInnis quickly used a roar to remind Phil Knight why he was so universally disliked.

"Damn it, what the hell are you doing?! We can't waste opportunities like that!"

Drew Gooden yanked at the collar of his jersey and fired back: "Save your damn dog barking! Lynch should have smashed your ass straight into the MSG floor just now!"

LeBron finally spoke up, though it was merely a meaningless, "Hey, focus."

In cruel contrast to the chaos of the Cavaliers were the Knicks. This was a team whose locker room had been equally chaotic last season, yet right now, they were entirely focused on victory.

Stephon Marbury handled the ball on the offense, and Lynch came up to set a pick. After Marbury easily blew past his man, James attempted a chase-down block, but just as he was about to leap, Marbury dished the ball out to Grant Hill stationed beyond the three-point line.

Hill wasn't a proficient three-point shooter, so upon catching the ball, he took a nimble half-step to adjust, stepped inside the two-point arc, and calmly drained the jumper.

You simply couldn't imagine how a Hill who hadn't played basketball last season and a Marbury who had been utterly atrocious last season were orchestrating such beautiful offense under the Knicks team rebuilt by Lynch.

"They all said you were going to ruin Grant, and yet he's the one who drew first blood right over your head," Marbury grinned slyly in James's direction, tapping a fingertip against the brand logo on his headband. He intentionally raised his volume so the Nike CEO could clearly hear his parting taunt, "Looks like expensive sneakers can't save you either, King James."

Stephon Marbury loved this God named Lynch to death. After holding it in for a year, he could finally hold his head high under God's guidance and strike back at James.

Grant Hill high-fived Marbury, while Kurt Thomas waved his arms and shouted: "Come on, come on! Get another stop, I think we can beat these idiots in three quarters!"

This reborn Knicks team displayed astonishing cohesion, creating a brutal reflection against the chaos of the Cavaliers on the opposite side.

On this possession, James drove and kicked once more, targeting Jeff McInnis this time. However, Marbury rushed out to contest the shot at the tip of McInnis's fingers; ever since crushing Phoenix, Marbury's defensive focus had remained consistently stellar.

The ball clanked off the iron, and this time it was Drew Gooden's turn to offer sarcastic remarks: "I thought the hell you were actually accurate for once."

James still hadn't scored, whereas Grant Hill successfully converted yet another bucket.

On this trip down the floor, Lynch suddenly cut from beyond the three-point line, drawing both James and Gooden to track him simultaneously.

Consequently, Grant Hill flashed out from the opposite side, caught Marbury's pass, and once again drilled a jump shot through the net.

The media noted that Lynch hadn't intentionally forced his own touches despite the match being hyped up for ages as the "destined clash"; instead, he acted as a tactical fulcrum, creating openings for everyone else.

He could take the ball and execute a terrifying play whenever he pleased, or effortlessly vanish among five similarly-colored jerseys.

This effortless control made the Knicks' offense and defense mesh together as seamlessly as precision gears.

Meanwhile, the Cavaliers were steadily falling apart amidst frantic, exhausting scrambles.

6-0, the Cavaliers still had no points on the board.

Faced with Hill's defensive scheme, James attempted a mid-to-long-range shot, only for the ball to clank off the rim once more.

Worse still, the consecutive misses began to erode LBJ's concentration on the defensive end.

The Chosen One jogged back on defense and mechanically spread his arms to anchor the corner, yet his gaze kept uncontrollably drifting toward the direction of the Knicks' number 20.

This subconscious lapse was precisely captured by Hill. The moment James turned his head, Hill had already slashed along the baseline. Facing Big Z's rim protection, he completed an acrobatic mid-air double-clutch layup.

8-0, and it was Grant Hill scoring yet again.

"Wait, why is Grant thoroughly destroying LeBron?" Mike Breen could hardly believe his eyes.

Cavaliers fans must have been deeply disappointed. The number 23 who was supposed to reign supreme in their eyes was currently being played like a fiddle by a veteran carrying the scars of multiple major surgeries.

Hill pointed toward Lynch, who had cleared out the space for him; the secret behind his ability to easily score over James lay entirely in number 20.

As the game progressed, the Knicks maintained their fluid execution.

Whenever Lynch faked a drive to draw a double-team, a backdoor cutting lane immediately opened up on the weak side. When he sucked the defense in like a magnet down in the post, Marbury's pinpoint passing gave teammates in the mid-range and beyond the arc plenty of breathing room. When he unselfishly set screens, Stephon Marbury and Grant Hill could soar on dual wings.

Lynch occasionally attacked with the ball, occasionally set screens, and occasionally drew defensive attention.

He controlled the boards, switched assignments, protected the rim, hustled for loose balls, and motivated his teammates.

You couldn't pinpoint any single primary component of his game because he was everywhere at once.

As for the Cavaliers, their primary highlight consisted of Jeff McInnis and his teammates shouting curses at one another.

Watching the widening point differential, Phil Knight's face turned ashen.

He recalled an exclusive interview Stephen A. Smith had conducted with James a month prior.

At the time, the notoriously bold media personality had bluntly asked number 23: "Are you the captain of this team? Are you the kind of leader who speaks up? When they aren't playing well, when they aren't practicing hard, will you say something right to their faces?"

Before the cameras, number 23 had stroked his diamond earring and declared with a composure that belied his years: "Yes, I have the right to speak up, and that's what I've been doing. Last year I could actually do those things, but I was still a rookie and I didn't think it was time. But now, it is time, and I am ready to be a leader."

So where was the leader of Cleveland right now?

When the situation plunged into crisis, James merely tugged at his headband, as if the accessory could somehow shield him from the embarrassment of a leadership vacuum.

His poise during interviews versus his helplessness right now made the Nike CEO cover his ears. It wasn't because of the harsh jeers from the crowd, but because Lynch's curse-like taunt echoed across time and space: "A performer who carves CHOSEN.1 into his skin..."

Every single syllable mocked the Nike frontman he had meticulously constructed.

By the third quarter, LeBron James had lost his way as well. He looked exceptionally discouraged and dejected—a demeanor never once seen from Lynch since entering the NBA.

Unlike Lynch's omnipresence, James had completely vanished.

His hesitant decision-making on offense lacked its former thunderous momentum, and his unfocused eyes on defense were repeatedly exploited by Hill's veteran cuts.

He displayed no determination of the "I'll fight you until my last breath" variety; when the team sank entirely into adversity, he actually chose to plunge to the bottom of the lake alongside them.

The media had hyped him up to supernatural levels, but tonight he showed the entire world that he was still just a boy among men. Only Lynch had truly broken free from that limitation.

Lynch hadn't deliberately engaged in one-on-one isolation or a duel with LBJ tonight, yet the gap between the two had manifested in an even more brutal fashion.

They possessed comparable athleticism, but the differences in every other aspect were far greater than people imagined.

With 8 minutes and 04 seconds remaining in the third quarter, the scoreboard at Madison Square Garden starkly displayed a gaping 33-point deficit.

Knicks ball. James stood guarding Grant Hill, but his focus had long since vanished.

Lynch held the ball beyond the three-point arc, while Drew Gooden failed entirely to drop his center of gravity. He foolishly took a step forward, allowing Lynch to easily attack his front foot.

People expected James to use his freakish physique to go toe-to-toe with Lynch, much like Lynch had blocked him in the first quarter.

Yet James, stationed near the corner, merely turned his head and watched blankly as his opponent vaulted into the air. Lynch's tomahawk slam made the goal stanchion groan in protest.

"35 points, go home, go home, New York fans can go home. It's over. LeBron is a gifted kid, 16 points, 5 assists, 6 rebounds—perfect numbers, but he's just a gifted kid. And Lynch, his numbers of 23 points, 9 rebounds, 3 assists, and 2 blocks don't even matter anymore. You just need to look at the cheers from the New Yorker crowd, look at it, he's a true superstar now." Mike Breen called the game ahead of time.

After completing the dunk, Lynch stood with his arms crossed over his chest, his stern gaze sweeping across the dejected James and the Cavaliers bench.

"Damn it, that's enough!" Phil Knight violently loosened his tie and stood up, intending to leave early.

Not only had James lost to Lynch today, but he had also been trash-talked mercilessly by Marbury wearing 20-dollar sneakers, and let ancient Grant Hill drop 25 points on him. He had simply seen enough.

Beside him, Spike Lee asked with a deliberate smile, "Aren't you going to stay and watch LeBron crush Lynch?"

The master of the Nike empire offered no reply. At least for tonight, he had no power to punish anyone who dared challenge his authority.

Jeff McInnis watched all of this unfold, his hands clutching his head.

LeBron had promised to take control of the game, yet he had done absolutely nothing in the hour of crisis.

The trust Jeff McInnis and Phil Knight had placed in LBJ had been turned into an absolute joke by Lynch.

As the game drifted into garbage time, the Cavaliers ultimately suffered a 41-point blowout on the road—the damn Jamal Crawford had far too much fun in garbage time, resulting in a thoroughly unseemly final score.

The instant the final buzzer sounded, LeBron James and Lynch engaged in a brief, polite shoulder tap. This much-hyped "hug of the century" orchestrated by the flashbulbs lasted a mere 1.7 seconds.

He turned away rapidly with a look of extreme displeasure across his face, the poise and humility touted by the media vanishing into thin air.

When a 41-point massacre was bloodily carved into the scoreboard, when the pus of locker room discord was exposed under nationwide broadcast lenses, and when his bewildered expression was mocked by all, the top pick who had declared before the game that he was "ready to be a leader," the guy whom the media had sculpted into a "mature superstar," had exhausted even the energy to muster a perfunctory smile.

Under such circumstances, even a natural-born performer could no longer keep up the act.

Stephon Marbury stood on the court with his hands on his hips, staring at the score, suddenly feeling like an absolute fool.

How on earth could I not win even a single game against such garbage last season?

—

"He isn't actually mature enough, he isn't actually strong enough, he isn't actually confident enough, and he isn't actually that amiable. Yes, his act was stripped away piece by piece by Lynch, and he was stripped bare on national television. You know what? Coach Larry Brown wasn't entirely useless at the Olympics; not letting LeBron play was a genius tactical decision." — Charles Barkley's post-game commentary.

By the way... I am utterly at a loss for words, LeBron's performance was just plain awful! Good grief, there was not a shred of pride; he looked like he didn't even want to be out there on the court. I've seen enough. — Stephen A. Smith.

"I don't know either, Lynch kept shouting something like '58' from the sidelines, so I just kept attacking, and at the end we won by 41 and he didn't even seem happy." — Jamal Crawford commenting on his own energy during garbage time.

"After tonight I can finally say, I don't give a damn whether LeBron James wears 20-dollar sneakers or not—who cares what a loser wears?" — Stephon Marbury grinned foolishly at the camera, successfully striking back after a year of holding it in.

"It's all thanks to Lynch; his unselfish screens and help defense allowed me to keep my dignity. He's fully capable of scoring 30-something points—hell, he proved on opening night that he can drop 40 in the NBA—but clearly, he isn't playing for those stats. Also, thanks to LeBron, for at least ensuring I didn't leave the floor with fewer than 206 bones in my body." — Grant Hill, who tallied 25 points, 6 assists, and 5 rebounds tonight, demonstrated true humility.

"It's completely normal that LeBron couldn't beat Lynch tonight, because Lynch has a vast amount of professional league experience, but that kind of experience won't keep him ahead for long. Besides, just look at the box scores of everyone else on the Cavaliers. I can say this fairly: the Cavaliers lost, but LeBron didn't lose." — Dave McMenamin.

"I don't know why so many people thought our playoff race with the Cavaliers would be fiercely contested. We aren't the kind of team that just barely squeaks into the playoffs; you all need to show us some respect." — Lynch in an interview with ESPN.

"Lynch dressed LeBron in the Emperor's New Clothes." — Headline on the front page of the New York Times the following day.