066: Otherwise, Get Out

Based on individual statistics alone, Jermaine O'Neal undoubtedly delivered the best performance of the night.

If Lynch were compared to Stephen Curry pouring out 52 points, 10 rebounds, 8 assists, and 5 steals, then little O'Neal was Nikola Jokic exploding for 61 points and a triple-double.

Yet the person who ultimately killed the game was Russell Westbrook, missing an open layup in the final moments.

Ron Artest played the role of Russell Westbrook. Much like Westbrook, he drove the game's progress largely through pure athletic instinct.

This kept their game forever filled with passion and fiery energy, but it also made it much easier to test the fans' blood pressure.

Crushing the Pacers made New York fans even more confident in this season's Knicks.

Even though the opponent was missing legendary shooter Reggie Miller, it was still enough to showcase the competitive caliber of the New York legion this season.

Stephen A. Smith thought so as well.

"Twenty-seven-year-old Stephon Marbury, twenty-four-year-old Jamal Crawford, nineteen-year-old Trevor Ariza, eighteen-year-old Lynch, along with Grant Hill and Kurt Thomas who have eleven and ten years of professional experience respectively—this young and energetic team truly has a boundless future."

Thomas and Hill: ...

New Yorkers loved this team so much that even when the Knicks lost to the Detroit Pistons in their next game, the New York fans did not panic.

Against the Pistons, Trevor Ariza continued to display his unique value on the defensive end.

His slender frame was exceptionally well-suited for defending off-ball shooters like Richard Hamilton. He shadowed Hamilton like a second skin, locking down all his opportunities and holding the Masked Man to just 15 points on 6-of-18 shooting.

Yet Ariza's own feeble offensive output made the Knicks' scoring pace struggle terribly.

The live commentators even joked, "This is a fair game; both sides are playing four-on-four on the offensive end."

Trevor Ariza's utterly invisible presence on offense allowed the Pistons to boldly double-team Lynch.

The terrifying "Twin Wallaces" combination from the dark era of defense was already enough for Lynch to handle, and the Pistons' occasional perimeter harassment made things even more uncomfortable for him.

Because of Ariza's weak offense, whether the Pistons sagged off Grant Hill or Marbury on the perimeter, they could always spare a man to rotate and help, perpetually maintaining a local numerical advantage.

In short, completely ignoring Ariza was simply the right play.

During the bench rotation stretches, Jamal Crawford also lacked support.

He could generate points for the Knicks through chaotic skirmishes, but facing a team with such exceptional defensive discipline as the Pistons, Jamal Crawford's individual isolation offense was easily contained, and his scoring efficiency plummeted drastically.

Furthermore, during the rotation periods, because the Knicks' bench was filled almost entirely with rough-around-the-edges players or veterans like Penny Hardaway who possessed no jump-shooting threat, Crawford had no idea who to pass the ball to when he wanted to distribute.

Coupled with the fact that the Pistons' bench featured a defensive specialist like Tayshaun Prince, the Knicks could not gain a single advantage during the bench battle.

This was an ugly game with a low shooting percentage. Lynch's shooting accuracy was restricted to 45 percent, and Carmelo Anthony's accuracy was just over 40 percent.

Yet relying on superior defense, the Pistons ultimately secured an 87-82 victory.

When the final buzzer sounded, Carmelo Anthony was mobbed by the Pistons players in the center of the court.

The sophomore who had spent the previous regular season's games glued to the bench was now, at this moment, the undisputed future leader in the hearts of the Detroit players.

Everyone adored him, and he had successfully stolen Lynch's spotlight right inside Madison Square Garden.

He was a legend who had captured consecutive freshman championships in both the NCAA and the NBA. He was currently the biggest winner in the Eastern Conference's terrifying talent pool, carving out his own empire amidst the glittering tidal wave of Eastern Conference superstars.

His playing style, polished under Larry Brown, was adored by all the media outlets, and his brilliant achievements meant his gang background was rarely mentioned.

It seemed this team might rule this territory for a long time to come. After all, their new core was still very young.

It seemed all the other top young talents in the Eastern Conference would be shrouded in Carmelo Anthony's shadow for a long, long time in their careers.

Lynch clutched his towel tightly on the sidelines; he had no desire to be overshadowed for long.

He certainly knew that lifting a championship trophy in the NBA was a long and arduous process. Talent alone was not enough; every opponent defeated by those who won championships was also a genius.

Wasn't Shaquille O'Neal a genius? He didn't hoist a championship trophy until his Lakers years.

Wasn't the Admiral a genius? He had to wait for Tim Duncan before finally winning a title.

Yet, as a young man, Lynch also hubristically believed that he was the best player in this draft class.

The best player ought to have an early championship under his belt; the championship trophy was the true medal of a king.

How could you have the nerve to boast about being the best when you didn't even have a championship?

Lynch's thoughts were interrupted by a hand extended by Carmelo Anthony. Melo smiled with the pride of a victor as he shook hands and embraced Lynch.

"That was a tough game, Lynch. You were truly amazing; beating you was much harder than beating LeBron. I think you're probably the best player among our batch, aside from me."

How to offend Lynch and LeBron simultaneously with a single sentence? Anthony pulled it off.

The phrase "aside from me" burned against Lynch's eardrums like a red-hot branding iron.

Yet Melo possessed the capital to look down upon the world; in this timeline, his basketball career resume was simply too legendary.

Lynch smiled back at him, his grip tightening imperceptibly: "Congratulations, Melo. A fine victory. But it's far too early to talk about who is the best."

"Whatever," Melo shrugged. "I can remind you who the best is anytime."

With that, Melo turned and walked away to greet the forest of media cameras and microphones.

Lynch clenched his fists, resolving that the scales currently tipping toward Anthony would eventually be reversed by his own hands at some point in the future.

And that moment wouldn't take too long.

Of course, wanting to defeat such a formidable Pistons team was never an easy task.

The team still needed reinforcement. Even if it couldn't be done before the trade deadline this season, preparations needed to be made for offseason upgrades.

The Knicks' salary structure this season remained abysmal. The team carried four players making eight-figure annual salaries (Marbury, Penny, Hill, Houston) yet lacked top-tier firepower matching those wages.

Considering the league would introduce the "Amnesty Clause" next summer, the Knicks still had a chance to change their current predicament.

With the amnesty clause available to deal with Allan Houston, if Isiah Thomas wanted to improve the team, he should start working right now to offload Penny Hardaway's massive contract and then figure out how to bring in a shooting guard capable of entering the rotation.

Yet the Smiling Assassin had taken no action whatsoever thus far.

When the team shouldn't be making moves, he inexplicably stirred up trade rumors.

When it was actually time for him to make a move, he fell silent like a machine with a severed power supply.

Thinking of all this made Lynch extremely furious.

He turned and walked toward the player tunnel, forcing himself to look away from the celebrating Pistons players, his sneakers squeaking irritably against the floorboards.

Despite the loss, Lynch had been suppressing his emotions.

Spike Lee greeted him, and he smiled and nodded in acknowledgment.

Fans on the sidelines asked him for autographs and photos, and he patiently paused to oblige.

Until a pair of fair and rounded large breasts appeared before his eyes, rendering all of Lynch's restraint useless.

The frustration he had been holding back suddenly flared up even hotter.

Wrapped in a fragrance, Megan Fox tilted her face upward, the graceful curves of an 18-year-old girl outlined striking and clear against her tight T-shirt. Her long eyelashes fluttered beneath the overhead lights, and her honey-sweet voice pierced the noisy commotion: "They say a future MVP's autograph brings good luck."

Lynch took the pen and signed the jersey handed over by Megan Fox: "Shooting a movie in New York?"

"Wait, you know who I am?" The girl asked in pleasant surprise. She had started her modeling career at 14 and officially entered show business at 17, but she had only landed obscure, minor roles.

She had never expected a major star in New York to know her name.

Amidst the crisp click of the pen cap snapping shut, Lynch handed the signed jersey back: "This is MSG, and I am the master of this place. Of course I know who the guests are, especially certain..."

The trailing note hung in a well-timed pause. Lynch suddenly stepped closer, and Megan felt her wrist caught by warm, calloused knuckles. Megan Fox's heart raced; the clash of hormones between young people sometimes only required a single second to spark a flame.

However, she quickly realized Lynch had merely taken the marker from her hand and added the date onto the jersey.

"Alright, enjoy your evening, Megan."

"Wait!" Megan Fox called out, her fingertips brushing against the veins on his wrist. With an alluring rose-colored nail, she picked up the pen and scribbled a string of numbers across Lynch's palm.

“I’ll be in New York often lately, if you’d like…”

"I'm hosting a party tonight, and the pool has a constant-temperature system." Unlike when he met Jessica Alba last previous time, Lynch didn't refuse. The suffocating heat of defeat boiled into a different kind of craving within his veins.

He really was furious tonight.

—

The next day, following practice, Lynch walked into Isiah Thomas's office.

A cleaning lady was dusting the room. Isiah Thomas watched Lynch walk in with disappointment written plainly across his face.

Flustered, the cleaning lady quickly packed up her vacuum cleaner and hurried out of the room, the dull thud of the wooden door closing acting like some ominous prelude.

"What is it?" the Smiling Assassin asked stiffly.

After the previous incident, the two no longer needed a veneer of politeness to mask their relationship.

"I just wanted to ask, how are we doing on finding a shooting guard? And what about our salary cap space—how do you plan to clear it? We can't rely on the draft to upgrade our roster every single summer," Lynch said straight to the point.

"Why don't you explain this to me instead?" Isiah Thomas pointed to a gossip tabloid cover spread out between them, featuring a stealth photo of Megan Fox climbing into the passenger seat of a Lamborghini.

"Partying with a minor celebrity right after losing a game? Is this the way you bring honor to MSG? What do you think the media and the fans are going to say about you?" The Assassin attempted to seize the initiative with this incident.

Lynch didn't deny it; he had indeed gone out with Megan Fox last night.

It had been a wonderful night.

She mixed drinks for him and sat on his lap while drinking. Beneath her dress she wore silk lingerie, and his hands grew increasingly restless, slowly sliding up her hot thighs. Everything that followed was simply indescribable.

This wasn't true love, but the girl was so pretty and so sincere that you couldn't really find any fault.

"So what? As far as I know, no mainstream media is bashing me. When did David Stern ever forbid players from having girlfriends? Don't change the subject; I asked you first," Lynch refused to yield an inch.

The Assassin's little tactic to take control failed.

"You fucking think this is easy? You think Penny Hardaway's rotten $14 million contract is a Christmas present? Every general manager is begging to take it off our hands? Our salary cap space is a total mess. How am I supposed to make another team agree to take on a guy who can't even get playing time yet makes $14 million a year? How am I supposed to bring you a qualified shooting guard in a team where I can't make trades left and right?"

"Are you asking me? Then maybe I should just have my people take over as general manager."

"Ha, your people? Who do you have besides that European agent with the stuttering accent? I will handle this, so stop fucking bothering me and stop interfering with my work!"

"I'm not interfering with your work, I'm just reminding you that time is running out, and you'd better do your job."

"Or what?" The Smiling Assassin slammed his palm down on the desk. The veins on his temples bulged like twisted earthworms as he roared; he couldn't stand this kid challenging him over and over again.

Yet Lynch was not intimidated by his outburst. The muscles in his arms braced against the desktop as his shadow cast a pall over Thomas's flushed face.

"Or what? Or else pack your bags and get out! You can try me!"

Yes, this was Lynch's expectation for the ultimate fate of the Smiling Assassin.

Outside the window came the roar of a tour bus starting up, and New York's neon signs flickered on one by one in the twilight.

As Lynch slammed the door and walked out, the Smiling Assassin's roar pierced through the soundproof glass: "You think you can threaten me?"

At the end of the corridor, Lynch pulled out his vibrating phone. It was a text message from Megan Fox, saying she wanted to stay at Lynch's place for a few more days.

He slipped the phone back into his pocket, paying little mind to the text.

A woman's beautiful flesh and charm were wonderful things, but they held zero importance when it came to worldly affairs.

He would continue to build his own prestige.

Until he possessed the power to let a capable person handle the matters off the court for him.