062: I Am a Magnanimous Person

After crushing the Cavaliers by a margin of 41 points, the New York Knicks' trip to Milwaukee turned out to be a disappointment, ending in a defeat against the Bucks led by Michael Redd.

The team's performance was visibly off-color, with everyone appearing absent-minded. They were clearly still under the influence of the incident that had occurred on the team plane the day before.

When the game ended, reporters tried to squeeze some information out of the usually outspoken Stephon Marbury, but the Son of New York remained uncharacteristically composed. "I have no comment," he said.

Kurt Thomas, the player caught right in the whirlpool of trade rumors, also intended to sidestep the issue. "I don't want to discuss the details. Some fractures need to be mended within the locker room itself."

Grant Hill cleverly dodged the question while simultaneously making his stance clear. "Every team encounters difficulties during a season, but so far, Lynch has always steered us through the hard times. At the end of the day, we just need to trust Lynch."

In the locker room, Lynch was also cornered by reporters. Looking at the dense forest of camera lenses pointed at him, he suddenly felt a twinge of envy toward Isiah Thomas. At a time like this, that old bastard only needed to sit in his office fantasizing about inappropriate things regarding the cleaning lady's posture, rather than having his eardrums pierced by dozens of pointed questions like himself.

After yesterday's confrontation, Isiah Thomas had immediately flown back to New York alone, simply to shield himself from the press. This decision could be described as exquisite—ostensibly framed as "preventing the situation from spiraling out of control and letting everyone cool down," but in reality, it left all the messy aftermath for Lynch to digest alone.

Lynch gazed wearily at the lenses, feeling for the first time that these things which used to make his blood boil were so glaringly annoying.

"Lynch, did you actually throw punches at the Isiah?"

"No. If I had, you would be interviewing him at a hospital right now."

A second reporter shoved through the crowd. "Is Kurt Thomas being involved in trade rumors the main reason for your argument with him? Are you opposing the management's decision? Why?"

"Why on earth would we trade away a brother who is actively helping the team win?"

A third voice came from overhead, giving Lynch no breathing room whatsoever. "Eddy Curry is about to join the team. Does partnering with him put pressure on you?"

"I never evaluate unrolled dice."

Immediately following came the fourth question. "Isiah is considered a top candidate for Executive of the Year this season, yet you seem to lack trust in his operations."

"After LeBron takes out a mortgage on the playoffs, Isiah is starting to take out a mortgage on Executive of the Year? Well then, I'll take out a mortgage on two dynasties right now, and I hereby declare myself the greatest player of all time."

Lynch's answers were perfunctory; he just wanted to change his clothes quickly and hop on the team bus back to the hotel.

Inside the team bus, the damp, cold windows were covered in a layer of condensation. Lynch pressed his forehead against the glass as the sporadic streetlights of Milwaukee blurred into patches of light in the night. The desolate quiet of this wretched place actually made Lynch feel relaxed.

Head coach Lenny Wilkens tapped Lynch's seat gently with a rolled-up newspaper. The recently concluded game had left his voice raspy. "I told you, kid, confronting Isiah was supposed to be my responsibility."

The breath Lynch exhaled formed a hazy mist on the glass. "Isiah wouldn't listen to you. Do you know why Michael Jordan's scepter was able to hang over Jerry Krause's head? It's because of the authority of the core player—a deterrent force strong enough to make the general manager hear his own heartbeat. Scottie Pippen stayed in Chicago, and it was never because of anything pretty the Zen Master said."

Lenny Wilkens had no counterargument and could not squeeze out a single syllable. As the head coach, he had yet to establish genuine authority within the Knicks. In fact, if it hadn't been for Lynch previously, he might even have been forced to start Jamal Crawford by now. He wanted to protect Lynch, but his influence was inferior to that of this rookie.

"Still, you were indeed a bit excessive yesterday, and this will become the focal point of public opinion. The public can accept you having flings with Hollywood starlets, but it's hard for them to accept a player talking back to the general manager."

"To hell with public opinion!" A light unique to youth flashed in Lynch's eyes. Their differing attitudes toward Isiah Thomas truly reflected their age gap. "As long as I can lead the team to victory, Spike Lee would gladly do a striptease for me to celebrate. But Isiah's stupid trades are destroying this team! Eddy Curry? Good lord, what on earth is wrong with the Isiah's brain? Karl Malone should really be held responsible for this absurd decision!"

As one of the Chicago hopes pinned by Jerry Krause, Eddy Curry had finally become the leading scorer for the Bulls this season. With a soft shooting touch and massive weight making his back-to-the-basket game a genuine threat, he was a reliable low-post scoring option. When Jerry Krause chose him and Tyson Chandler back then, he hoped one would develop his offense and the other his defense, becoming Chicago's ultimate twin towers.

However, Curry's performance was as fickle as Chicago's weather. When he was in high spirits, he could become a menace in the low post. When he was in a bad mood, he would rather grab a bucket of popcorn and sit at the center circle watching his teammates play. And on the defensive end, he was never in a good mood.

When Tyson Chandler played a great game, Curry would be very excited. But when Eddy Curry himself played a great game, he showed no expression whatsoever, because he simply didn't care.

He was a man who didn't care about winning at all, which was his fundamental difference from Stephon Marbury. Marbury could be reborn in this current Knicks team, but Eddy Curry stood no chance; his inherent casualness destined him to be completely incompatible with New York's hardcore, gritty DNA.

The next day, the entire team returned to New York.

The front pages of all major New York media outlets were occupied by the public war of words between the player and the management. *The New York Times* published a full-page composite photo of Lynch rebuking Thomas, with the striking headline: "Clash of the New King and the Court Jester."

Lynch slipped into his Rolls-Royce Phantom with a displeased expression. In the back seat, a pink card bearing a lipstick kiss mark exuded a faint trace of perfume—Jessica Alba's private number rested quietly on the leather upholstery, as accessible as the forbidden fruit of Eden.

Lynch picked up the card, and the driver assumed this young superstar was looking to unwind today. As far as he knew, Jessica Alba hadn't left New York yet. Going straight to her would be fine; the velvet glove compartment of the Rolls-Royce always kept a full box of protective supplies prepared for the car's owner.

Just as the driver was about to ignite the engine, the command from the back seat left him stunned: "Drive to that fat pig James Dolan's estate."

With that, Lynch crumpled the card into a ball.

Right now, what was rolling through Lynch's mind was not the graceful figures of Hollywood starlets, but Eddy Curry's lazy defense and Isiah Thomas's sinister smile. He wouldn't let these two idiots ruin the Knicks team that had finally gotten back on track.

If Dolan wanted to talk with Lynch today, then they were going to have a thorough and definitive conversation!

---

This massive estate and its retro architectural style briefly made Lynch wonder if James Dolan might actually be the caped crusader of Gotham City from the comic books—until he remembered that Dolan's belly and sagging double chin could never squeeze into a Batsuit, and that his loose jowls would wobble with his laughter, causing him to hook the corners of his mouth in self-mockery.

A maid wearing a lace bow tie received Lynch and led him up to James Dolan's cigar room on the second floor.

Lynch pushed open the heavy walnut door just in time to catch Isiah Thomas bowing as respectfully as an ancient Roman slave, lighting a cigar for Dolan, who was sunk deep into a leather sofa.

Lynch wasn't surprised; matters like this were best discussed with all parties present.

The Isiah wore a smug smile on his face because James Dolan had personally granted him privileges beforehand. Furthermore, he and Dolan shared a much deeper bond. He had shared more glasses of whiskey with Dolan than the number of days Lynch had even known Dolan. Dolan could not possibly stand on Lynch's side.

"My boy, it's so good that you could make it," James Dolan motioned for Lynch to sit down before standing up to select a cigar.

The Isiah crossed his legs and lifted his chin. With James Dolan present, he seemed to possess even more confidence. "Lynch, the way you grabbed my collar on the plane made you look like a crazy bull, but I've always been magnanimous. I'm willing to forgive your rudeness on the plane that day—all I need is a sincere apology."

"What kind of nonsense are you talking about? Why don't you apologize to me first? We just built some chemistry, yet the locker room has been torn to shreds by your whimsical ideas. You used to be a player yourself; you know how much impact inexplicable trade rumors have on a team. Last week, Kurt even proactively helped your head scout celebrate his birthday, and now he won't even share a breakfast table with the front office!"

The Isiah leaned forward aggressively, the tip of his cigar almost poking Lynch's nose. "Oh, so you're trying to pin the loss in Milwaukee entirely on me? Yes, I used to be a player, so I know that as a player—as someone playing out on the court—you must never blame the defeat on the guys in suits after losing a game!"

James Dolan fondled the collection in the cigar humidor, his short, thick fingers wandering across the dark wood grain, trying to use unhurried movements to defuse the gunpowder in the air. "Alright, gentlemen, there's no need to be so antagonistic. Lynch, tell me why you oppose this trade, and why you're so agitated?"

"Eddy Curry is an idiot, plain and simple. He might average 16 points, but how many games have the Bulls won? Kurt averages only 8 points, but he gives you rebounds and help defense. When someone like Shaq rolls through like a steamroller, Kurt anchors himself in the paint like a rivet! Eddy? Good lord, he'd be standing one meter away from the Shark watching him dunk!"

"Put away your arrogance!" Isiah Thomas couldn't hold back anymore. "Eddy Curry just lacks proper guidance. Listen, we all know how good Jermaine O'Neal is in Indiana, but before he went to the Pacers, he was a failure of a player. It was me—I became his head coach and turned him into an All-Star! I spotted that pearl wrapped in mud back when he was in high school, and when he came to my team, I polished him with my own hands and let him shine. I know how to deal with young guys like them; I know how to groom them, just like I'm going to polish Eddy Curry now! His frame is what's needed to prop up our frontcourt—your friend Kurt is just too undersized!"

"If you think Eddy Curry and Jermaine O'Neal are the same kind of person, Isiah, then I can only say you're truly blind. Jermaine dared to throw his body in front of bullets even during less than ten minutes of garbage time in Portland, and what about our dear Mr. Eddy? He plays thirty minutes a game in Chicago and is too lazy to even lift his hands. I'll be blunt, James: if you want your team to crawl out of the mud, you have to let me play alongside the people I like, and stop letting certain people mess things around."

"What did you say? Do you mean you don't need me to achieve success? Who brought Grant over from Orlando's sickbed to the Garden? Who went against all opposition on draft night to put the Knicks jersey on you?"

"The night we slaughtered the Cavaliers by 41 points, the night we crushed the Miami Heat—there were no suit-wearing saviors in that locker room. I led the team to those victories, and I am the one making James's money well spent. So yes, I don't actually need you that much." Lynch loosened his collar. "Besides, you already messed up once early in the season. If I hadn't insisted on moving Jamal to the sixth man role, you'd probably be hiding in a toilet stall right now calling other general managers with scam pitches begging for trades! Eddy Curry cannot come to New York, and Kurt Thomas cannot leave. That is my demand."

James Dolan finally selected a cigar, glancing over at Lynch and the smiling Isiah as if weighing his choices in his mind.

"No need to argue. We are all doing this for the team, and Isiah's operations this season are indeed commendable." Dolan paced behind the Isiah, resting his heavy hand squarely on the shoulder line of that Armani suit. The Isiah's mouth curled into a victorious arc, his fingertips gently stroking the back of Dolan's hand like a flattering Persian cat.

"But Lynch has indeed led the team to its best record in recent years." James Dolan shifted his tone and walked toward Lynch, causing a chill to run down the Isiah's spine. "He certainly has the right to play alongside the players he likes, and Isiah, you truly shouldn't have initiated the trade regarding Kurt just like that."

Just like that, the Isiah heard the scales of power shatter. He knew that Lynch was establishing his authority.

James Dolan knew full well that the key to forging the Bulls dynasty was Michael, not Jerry Krause. Jerry Krause was certainly important, but not nearly as important as MJ. Just like how Isiah Thomas couldn't make Knicks ticket prices skyrocket to triple what they were last season.

"You said I had trade authority!" The Isiah, who had kept his composure until now, panicked like a child trying to grab the last piece of candy in the house.

"Oh, well, the rules need a slight adjustment now. Making trades is still Isiah's job, but every single move..." Dolan paused with pitch-perfect rhythm, a gap in time during which one could practically hear the sound of the Isiah's heart skipping a beat, "...must first get the opinion of our young lion. Of course, under the condition of winning, gentlemen. If Lynch can lead this current roster to a record we're satisfied with, you'll have this privilege."

With that, Dolan handed the carefully selected cigar to Lynch, cut it himself, and helped Lynch light it.

This contrasted sharply with the scene moments earlier where Isiah Thomas had lit Dolan's cigar. This was the coronation ceremony for Lynch to wear the New York crown, and simultaneously the collapse of Isiah Thomas's fortress of power.

Lynch leaned lazily against the sofa, taking a deep drag and letting the mellow aroma of the cigar linger on his tongue for three turns before slowly exhaling. A greyish-white smoke ring accurately enveloped the Isiah's incredulous face.

"Now," the young man crossed his legs and lifted his chin, his face cast in shadow save for the burning spark of the cigar, "I am still willing to forgive you, Isiah. I'm a magnanimous person."

He reached out his hand, and James Dolan silently tilted his head aside. Isiah Thomas had no choice but to stand up, bend over, and gently shake that outstretched hand.

The smile lurking in the shadows reminded the Isiah of that number 23 after the 1991 Eastern Conference Finals. That was precisely the beginning of his status being completely overturned.

Twenty-four hours later, Lynch scored 32 points, grabbed 14 rebounds, and blocked 3 shots at Madison Square Garden to lead the team to a victory over the Philadelphia 76ers, bringing the Knicks to an 8-5 record and back onto the winning track.

After the game, an ESPN reporter questioned Lynch.

"The trade for Kurt Thomas has been called off. How are things between you and Isiah? What happened?"

"Nothing happened. It was all just a misunderstanding. My team—" Facing the ESPN microphone, Lynch deliberately prolonged his syllables, allowing everyone to clearly hear the possessive phrase, "—is only focused on winning right now."

*(More chapters coming later tonight!)*