Chapter 65: A team can play without a starting shooting guard, but not without their leader (Please subscribe!)

Lynch changed Trevor Ariza in just a single possession.

He possessed the trait to transform his teammates, which was the core code of his success in building his legacy with the New York Knicks.

"Come on, guys! Come on! Let's lock these bastards down on defense! We are the second seed in the East, and they're just the third! Step on them!"

Lynch continued to clap while shouting loudly.

The disdainful look on Ron Artest's face had already vanished, because he hadn't expected the fledgling rookie in front of him—who was shivering just a few minutes ago—to now have eyes burning with the exact same unyielding defiance as Lynch's.

This was why Grant Hill was certain that Lynch would ultimately achieve greatness.

Even though his statistics were already dazzling, they still failed to quantify Lynch's profound reshaping of the team.

Lynch would always inspire you on the defensive end and provide practical help defense.

Whenever you were threatened by an opposing player, he always had your back.

Whenever a teammate was knocked down, he would always rush over to pull you up.

He always focused on victory rather than stats, and he would always set screens for you like a blue-collar worker whenever your hand was hot.

These were all trivial details, but like every step of an infant, as they continuously accumulated along the trajectory of the regular season, they ultimately forged the backbone of the Knicks' team spirit.

In this transforming powerhouse, every player could hear the pounding of their own blood-engorged heartbeat amidst Lynch's defensive roars.

As long as you weren't the type of person who despised winning, Lynch would warmly welcome you aboard.

An ordinary superstar would sink upon coming to New York because the Knicks' toxic locker room would erode him.

Instead, Lynch reshaped the entire team, almost single-handedly altering the careers of Grant Hill and Stephon Marbury.

Yet this was not his ultimate goal; his goal was to thoroughly transform this city, even with Allan Houston out for the season.

Trevor Ariza lowered his center of gravity, his gaze making the hot-headed Ron Artest grind his teeth.

This rookie actually isn't afraid of me, damn it!

As a native-born son of Queens, Artest refused to lose face in his hometown.

He waved his hand, calling for Jermaine O'Neal to set a screen.

However, Trevor Ariza chose to go under the screen, continuing to restrict Artest's penetration.

Ron Artest did not possess an exceptional pull-up jump shot; his offense relied heavily on drives.

Therefore, Ariza only needed to stay glued to him, preventing him from rushing full speed toward the rim, and his offensive threat would plummet.

Artest wanted to pass the ball back to Jermaine O'Neal, who had popped out after the pick-and-roll, but Kurt Thomas remained glued in front of him.

Today, Lynch was neither matched up against Jermaine O'Neal nor Ron Artest; he was assigned to the white forward Austin Croshere, a guy so mediocre in every aspect that people easily forgot him.

And a man who was excessively mediocre was destined to struggle in keeping his pretty wife's loyalty.

The mediocre Austin Croshere could never capture Lynch's heart; this player with minimal offensive threat allowed Lynch to safely "cheat" and focus his attention entirely on helping defense against players with greater offensive punch.

Consequently, when Ron Artest barreled through Ariza and into the paint, Lynch's timely help defense and rim protection caused Artest's layup to miss once again.

"F***! That was definitely a foul!" Ron Artest's unstable emotions began to flare up as he pounded his chest and yelled at the referee.

Trevor Ariza, meanwhile, pumped his fist fiercely. Last season's All-Defensive Third Team forward, and that's all he had?

Ariza looked down at the faint outline of the tattoo on his chest visible beneath his jersey, and ran forward with even greater effort.

"The Knicks' defense these past two possessions has been phenomenal, but the Pacers' defense is precisely what tests you the most." As a witness to the golden era of the "Cornfield Legion," ESPN's Mark Jackson understood the founding foundation of this hard-nosed, gritty team all too well.

While Lynch could guard the weakest player on defense, he wasn't nearly as fortunate on the offensive end.

This man, who had snatched the Defensive Player of the Year award from the hands of the "King of the Dark Defensive Era" Ben Wallace last season, enveloped the New York rookie with his iron physique.

This guy made Lynch feel the best defense he had encountered in the NBA outside of Tim Duncan and Kevin Garnett.

As a violent defender, Ron Artest would body you up every single second.

His vice-like arms precisely locked down all passing angles, making it difficult for Lynch to receive the ball no matter where he positioned himself.

Sinking into the low post? That wasn't the best way to deal with him either; prime Ron Artest's terrifying strength was more than enough to match Lynch.

In fact, any choice to isolate and battle Ron Artest with the ball was suicide.

His powerful body would make every step a struggle, and his terrifying steal anticipation would cause you to lose the ball the moment your motion deformed.

Artest's finger strength was immense; he could complete a fatal interception with just a gentle fingertip touch.

This was why Ron Artest always sparked domestic drama.

For most people, using fingers was just a warmup, but Ron Artest using his fingers would directly kill all your mood.

The Pacers' defensive master performed the aesthetic of violence to the absolute limit: the sharp screech of sneakers frictioning against the floor during lateral slides, the muffled thuds bursting from colliding muscles, and the anticipation that always blocked driving lanes half a beat early, all combining into a suffocating symphony of defense.

Grant Hill was carefully controlling the offensive tempo, every friction between his fingertips and the leather commanding two thousand pairs of eyes.

He delayed passing the ball to Lynch, causing Ron Artest's mouth to split into a grin.

"What? Caesar can't get his blade anymore?"

Lynch paid him no mind; he suddenly moved toward the free-throw line area and set a screen.

Jamal Tinsley crashed directly into this human wall, caught completely off-guard. In a flash, Stephon Marbury emerged like an unquenched blade drawn from its scabbard, bursting out to the top of the key. Receiving Grant Hill's pass, he pulled up immediately and drained a three-pointer!

This offensive play astonished the New York fans and made Rick Carlisle nervous.

Because this was completely not how the Knicks were supposed to play!

In the mountain of tactical footage accumulated over the past twenty games, Stephon Marbury had never played an offense like this!

Mark Jackson also hadn't expected the Pacers' defense to be dismantled in such a manner. Did Lynch just watch Marbury commit murder? Why was the Lone Wolf willing to make so many changes this season?

This was fucking Stephon Marbury, a guy who had always loved keeping the ball in his own hands to score!

Lynch gave Marbury a thumbs-up. This catch-and-shoot jumper was crisp and clean, proving that Marbury's grueling work on off-ball offense had not gone to waste.

Playing well off-ball was no easy feat; it required deep tactical understanding, tireless and smart cutting, and a reliable jump shot. Marbury had spent a considerable amount of time adapting to these demands.

Even though his off-ball movement still looked somewhat raw and his timing on cuts left room for improvement, this willingness to change had completely subverted the outside world's preconceived notions about the Lone Wolf.

The biggest flaw in this tough Pacers team's defense lay at the point guard position, so today, Marbury would shoulder the responsibility.

The Pacers scored quickly in response; O'Neal answered right back in the low post with his signature turnaround jumper.

Before Lynch could even rotate over for a double-team, O'Neal had already finished the play.

It didn't matter, though. As long as they didn't let O'Neal and Artest catch fire simultaneously, the fangs of this gritty team would struggle to fully bare themselves.

Sure enough, after one possession, the Pacers' illusion of scoring consecutively was shattered.

The moment Jermaine O'Neal caught the ball in the low post, Lynch had already arrived to double-team.

Previously, Lynch had been somewhat wary of Croshere's mid-range jumper. But now, Lynch decided to be even bolder.

He outright abandoned that soft and incompetent man, flirting with other players right in front of him.

Jermaine O'Neal and Ron Artest had a terrible personal relationship, barely speaking a few words to each other in the locker room all season.

Yet with Reggie Miller absent, the annoying Ron Artest was the very person O'Neal had to trust on the court.

Facing the double-team, Jermaine O'Neal's primary reaction was to find Artest.

True to form, Artest appeared in his field of vision, having run out to the right wing beyond the three-point line to provide support.

O'Neal passed immediately, and Artest launched a direct shot. Ariza, lacking defensive experience, failed to stay tight on Artest in time, giving him shooting space.

However, his long arms made up for the mistake.

The ball Artest shot grazed right past Ariza's outstretched fingertips, spinning heavily into the front iron.

"Clang!" The vibration of the rim ignited a deafening roar from Madison Square Garden, a sound that scorched Artest's eardrums.

"F***! F***!" Artest's eyes instantly bloodshot; he couldn't believe he had gone three consecutive possessions without scoring under a rookie's defense.

Trevor Ariza pumped his fist and roared in triumph upon hearing the crowd cheering for him. It had been years since he last heard cheers like this.

Once upon a time, Trevor Ariza was also a prodigy, a five-star high schooler ranked 18th nationwide.

Yet a single game against St. Vincent-St. Mary High School completely ruined him.

In that matchup, Ariza faced the nation-renowned Chosen One.

Everyone anticipated this duel, expecting Ariza to make a name for himself against LeBron James. He was a California champion, the core of a championship team; he deserved to be the center of attention.

And then LeBron scored 52 points—the entire opposing team Ariza played for scored a total of 52 points.

That was the beginning of Ariza becoming mediocre, and from then on, he was no longer in the spotlight.

He joined UCLA, but was merely a role player, which caused his draft stock to drop rather than rise.

He still got drafted thanks to his decent physical tools, but only in the second round, a far cry from his initial expectations.

He lost the youthful vigor he once had; he grew cowardly, terrified of super prodigies and terrified of being ruined by LeBron the same way again.

He drifted into obscurity, having spent a long time without attention under the bright lights, feeling that this was all his life would amount to: a year or two in the NBA, and then cashing in overseas in some obscure European league.

That was why he had been trembling with nervousness before the game.

He felt that the starting spot didn't belong to him at all, and he desperately wished Lenny Wilkens would change his mind and start Penny Hardaway instead, allowing him to cower back on the bench and avoid making a fool of himself.

That was until Lynch and Hill gave him confidence, and until he locked down Ron Artest on the very first possession.

He finally cast off everything from his past.

He glanced at the tattoo on his chest once more, then ran forward with even greater determination.

He wanted to win—he had to win, winning as an NBA starting player.

While running, Ariza glanced at the idiot who had sworn to drop 30 points on his head.

He looked so fierce.

But with Lynch here, f*** it all!

"Ron, stop taking those damn shots, you're just wasting possessions!"

"Shut the fuck up, rookie! There's still plenty of time left in the game!"

"Right, and you'll keep bricking plenty more shots."

"Damn you!"

"F*** you too!"

Marbury's mid-range jumper made Artest even angrier, as the lead was extended once again.

At the end of the first quarter, the Knicks, playing without Allan Houston, led the Pacers by 7 points.

The Kings of the East who secured 61 wins last season were now being tightly suppressed by the Knicks.

Lynch had 4 points, 4 rebounds, 1 assist, and 1 block—not particularly explosive stats.

Ron Artest couldn't understand it. He clearly locked down Lynch; he clearly restricted that bastard to running off-ball like a little girl, yet why was the damn margin expanding like a magic spell?

Of course he couldn't understand the dangerous transformation Madison Square Garden was witnessing: when the Lone Wolf willingly surrendered his usage, when a broken-winged genius reforged his edge through defense, every single bone in New York's backbone clicked loudly amidst Lynch's roars.

At the ESPN broadcast table, Mark Jackson let out a long sigh.

"People thought the absence of Allan Houston would cause the Knicks to collapse. No, unless Lynch is gone, the New York Knicks will never collapse. Those who thought the Knicks would fall apart can start being disappointed. Good luck to the Pacers, and hopefully they get their leader Reggie back soon. A team can survive without a starting shooting guard, but not without their leader."

In the second quarter, as Lynch wiped away his sweat on the bench, Jamal Crawford's flashy dribbling turned to dust against Indiana's iron-clad defense, and the bench unit led entirely sputtered.

Artest finally managed to tear through Ariza's defense for two bloody drives.

These plays helped the Pacers claw back some points.

When the lead shrank to just 3 points, Lenny Wilkens subbed his core players back in; he knew his trump card was ready.

Lynch spreading his arms as he checked into the game instantly turned this basketball cathedral into the eye of a storm.

The deafening cheers of Madison Square Garden immensely satisfied Lynch's vanity.

The new King of New York closed his eyes and tilted his head back, letting the roaring torrent of cheers wash over his ears—when the pulse of an entire city rose and fell with your breathing, when the rival's fangs shattered before your iron wall, when teammates and coach trusted you, this sense of conquest lifting you into the clouds far surpassed filling up any statistical box score.

Ron Artest, having just tasted sweetness, continued to smash his way forward with his shoulder. Trevor Ariza's chest was already covered in purple-red bruises, yet he still stood before the beast like an unbending steel bar.

Because the days of sinking into despair in the past taught him that cowardice and dejection couldn't win back anything.

Ariza gritted his teeth. The deeper this asshole drives, the easier it is to fall into our trap!

Artest bulldozed into the paint, shrugged off Ariza, and went up for a layup. The basketball sailed over Lynch, who had rotated over to help block. The adjustment Artest made to avoid being blocked ultimately caused the ball to glance off the backboard and carom off the rim.

"Yes!" Ariza roared, pumping his fist after a successful defensive stop.

Why did he gain confidence? Because Lynch never let his efforts go to waste.

Since Lynch was back, then—

Keep f***ing them!

"Ron, can't find where the rim is? Shaq's grandma could have made that last shot!"

Ariza wildly trash-talked right in Artest's face, venting his long-suppressed humiliation.

When battling LeBron in high school, that guy's terrifying physique had crushed Ariza time and time again, leaving Ariza with a deep sense of powerlessness.

Yet now, facing an equally unstoppable driver in Artest, he no longer felt that way.

He clutched his chest and smiled slightly. Above the old scar where LeBron had inflicted psychological trauma, a brand-new Knicks logo glowed brilliantly, moistened by sweat.

With an unyielding leader standing behind him to back him up, he had nothing to fear.

In the second quarter, Artest still found few opportunities, and his wretched performance nearly made Trevor Ariza an overnight sensation.

True, this guy's offense was offensively atrocious; his fundamentals were so poor he didn't look like an NBA player, and Lenny Wilkens had shouted more than once when Ariza held the ball: "No! No! Don't shoot! Don't dribble! Pass it out, hurry!"

True, he was still somewhat slender, and every collision with Artest felt like the final chapter of his life.

Yet his passion for defense never faded; his resistance against Artest's drives never wavered, and his excellent frame and agility were more than enough to become a nightmare for most wing players.

Without Allan Houston, the Knicks' offense naturally regressed significantly.

Yet people discovered that their defense seemed even stronger.

In the second half, the Pacers kept the score close, but simply could not take the lead.

Jermaine O'Neal wasn't the type of player who could kill a game with explosive scoring; once Artest went cold, his individual offensive firepower was simply too thin.

Stephen Jackson also struggled to make an impact under Grant Hill's experienced guarding.

The Knicks' suffocating defense was writing a new aesthetic of gritty toughness, wrapping a rope around the 61-win Pacers from last season. As the clock ticked down, that rope grew tighter and tighter.

In the fourth quarter, Lynch, who had remained restrained on the offensive end, finally bared his sharp edge.

He conserved his energy specifically to take over the offense in crunch time.

Ron Artest was a near-perfect perimeter defender; his sole flaw was his atrocious ability to chase players off-ball—an age-old issue he could never resolve.

His excessively bulky physique destined him from ever becoming an elite chaser.

Furthermore, the massive energy expenditure earlier in the game severely impacted his recovery speed.

Thus, running off screens set by Kurt Thomas and Grant Hill, Lynch repeatedly received perfectly timed passes from Stephon Marbury in defensive vacuums and buried his jump shots.

The basketball pierced the roof of Madison Square Garden time and time again, puncturing the Pacers' lingering hopes of a comeback.

Lynch, who had only tallied 12 points through the first three quarters, scored 11 consecutive points in the final moments, completely ending the battle for the night.

In the end, the New York Knicks secured a 102-93 home victory.

Jermaine O'Neal was the statistical king of the night with 35 points, 9 rebounds, 5 assists, and 3 blocks; he was everywhere.

However, Lynch walked home with the victory behind 23 points, 15 rebounds, and 3 blocks.

As for Ron Artest, who had boasted about scoring 30 points, he ultimately left the tunnel carrying a 13-point stat line after smashing a $130,000 camera in the hallway.

Following the Chicago Bulls, the New York Knicks also claimed a nine-game winning streak—tying the longest winning streak in the Eastern Conference this season!

In the stands, amidst the fans' cheers, Isiah Thomas felt a wave of dizziness wash over him.

A nine-game winning streak—a number he had never imagined before.

Lynch's winning streak made his position increasingly precarious.

Because he knew that more victories meant greater prestige, and greater prestige would grant Lynch greater authority.

James Dolan was a man who only looked at results; whoever could deliver the results he wanted was whose opinion he would heed.

The Assassin recalled the slip of paper from draft night. It was the most correct decision, and yet the most incorrect decision.

Back in the locker room, Lenny Wilkens's raspy voice rang out clearly amidst the cheers: "Tonight's victory belongs to everyone who played suffocating defense—especially our first-time starter, the little bulldog!"

He raised Ariza's hand.

Teammates pounded their lockers to create a rhythmic ovation for the young man who had contributed 4 points, 4 rebounds, and 1 steal. The vibrating metal doors shook loose the sweat hanging precariously from Ariza's brow.

Ariza took off his jersey and smiled shyly amidst his teammates' applause.

Lynch lazily leaned back in his chair and pointed at the portrait tattoo on Ariza's chest: "I've been wanting to ask for a while, who is that?"

"My younger brother." Ariza looked down at the image he had stared at countless times during the game.

"He's cute, did he come to the arena? I'm about to change shoes anyway, I'll give him this pair." Lynch said as he began signing his shoes.

"He passed away when he was five years old, a accidental fall from a building." Ariza spoke, his fingertip unconsciously tracing the forehead of his brother's portrait tattoo, reminiscing about the feel of touching his head one last time.

"Oh," Lynch's smile vanished, the superstar momentarily flustered. "Sorry, I should have asked before..."

Ariza shook his head: "It's fine. In fact, he should be very happy tonight."

"Because his older brother became an NBA starter?"

"No, this game meant much more to me."

Ariza stood up and gently tapped Lynch's shoulder with his fist: "I'm going to keep attacking."

Stepping into the shower room, Trevor Ariza let the hot water pour down over his head.

It was an unimaginably dreamlike night; he had suddenly become a starter, suddenly been granted an opportunity, and helped the team secure a victory. He had transformed from an expendable nobody into a star under the spotlight.

He closed his eyes, his mind replaying the details of tonight's game.

Ron Artest's roars, Lynch's help defense that never missed a beat, the fans' cheers, the joy of victory...

Suddenly, the scene shifted to California.

On a dusk-lit streetball court, Taj Ariza held an old basketball, stumbling around as his childish declaration mixed with the salty Pacific wind blew into his ears—My big brother is even better than Michael Jordan!

This little guy who couldn't dribble at all viewed his older brother as his idol because he was the best basketball player in the neighborhood.

"Of course, I'm going to be an NBA superstar, I'll be a hero, a role model for you guys!"

"I heard Mom say that's really hard."

"Yeah, but I'll never be beaten, Taj! We are never getting beaten!"

Water droplets rolled down his spine, tapping out a lonely rhythm on the tiles.

Trevor Ariza wiped his face, no longer able to tell whether the water on his cheeks was from the shower or tears.

"We are never getting beaten!"

He punched the shower room tiles hard.

He hadn't been beaten yet.

And the Knicks, missing Allan Houston, hadn't been beaten yet either.

He would not let this team go down!

—

"I think the Knicks have internally developed the best shooting guard option. Well, if you ignore Trevor's fundamentals being so bad they make mine look good." — Stephen A. Smith commented on his radio show.

"Ron Artest should take the blame for the loss. Honestly, I think Pacers fans must be sick and tired of this emotionally out-of-control idiot." — Charles Barkley fiercely criticized Artest for his mindless drives after losing his cool.

"Losing to Cameron this time is normal because he has better teammates, and we still need to grow." — David McMenamin commented on the Cavaliers' loss tonight. The last time they lost to the Knicks, he also said losing to Lynch was completely normal.

"New York is on the right track. Allan Houston's injury has indeed caused some impact on this team, but it's not devastating. We expect Isiah to bring back a qualified shooting guard, but even if he doesn't, Lynch as a leader won't let this team sink. This Knicks team's goal is no longer just the playoffs. In fact, I'm already wondering who will become Lynch's first sacrifice in the postseason." — Mark Jackson evaluated the Knicks' current status.

"If I can, I'd love to be the first person to defeat Lynch in the playoffs. Yeah, I want to see him crying his eyes out, just like that pathetic look of his on draft night." — Shaquille O'Neal talking about the Knicks' nine-game winning streak.

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