069: The Pitiful Self-Esteem of a Giant

Shaquille O'Neal leaned back on the bench, mechanically sipping the Gatorade in his hand.

The glaring numbers on the courtside scoreboard announced yet another crushing victory for the Heat, but not a single ripple disturbed the depths of the eyes belonging to the founder of the Lakers dynasty, a man who already clutched three Finals MVP trophies in his massive palms.

As the creator of the Lakers dynasty, regular-season wins and losses could no longer stir his nerves, nor did he need the validation of a routine victory anymore.

The threshold for the Shark's excitement had been pushed to infinity. In truth, the only three things that could give him a genuine thrill nowadays were crushing Lynch's arrogance with his own two hands, nailing Kobe to the pillar of shame every single time they met, and reaching the summit once again ahead of his arch-rival Kobe.

These were the three things he thought about both in his dreams and during his intimate moments.

His pride was immense, bordering on the pathological, refusing to allow even the slightest trace of trampling or challenge.

The mere existence of Lynch and Kobe was the ultimate desecration of the Shark's ego.

To his delight, as the year ticked over into 2005, the Heat had an opportunity to face the Knicks as early as January.

Yet, to his dismay, the Miami Heat lost Dwyane Wade at the very beginning of 2005.

The hidden seeds of Wade's injuries had been planted back during his college years, which was precisely why scouts had been hesitant about him prior to the draft.

As it turned out, the scouts' predictions were terrifyingly accurate; injuries were the ultimate roadblock preventing Wade from achieving true greatness.

Wade would go on to have a lengthy career, but he would only manage four seasons with seventy-five or more appearances.

Entering 2005, due to severe fluid buildup in Wade's knees, Pat Riley—a man who had historically treated his players like heavy farming equipment—was forced to issue a forced rest order for Wade.

One had to remember that Pat Riley had always championed the tough-guy policy of "no minor injury keeps you off the battlefield."

From the Lakers to the Knicks and now to the Heat, his coaching style might have undergone drastic transformations. But one thing had never changed: his obsession with intensity.

He would rather let Alonzo Mourning take painkillers like daily meals until his kidneys gave out than casually grant him a game off.

Even the Shark was not spared. Over the previous three seasons, the Zen Master had strictly limited the Shark to sixty-seven regular-season games each year. Yet in Miami, that rule had been abolished. Unless the Shark was genuinely unable to stand due to injury, Riley refused to let him rest.

Outsiders might view Pat Riley as ruthless, but if you put yourself in his shoes, would you ever pity the tools you used to till the fields?

From this, it was evident that if a man like Pat Riley was willing to let Wade rest for five games, it could only mean that Wade truly could no longer push through it.

And so, Shaquille O'Neal was forced to fight completely alone for a stretch of time.

Yet surprisingly, he began to display a bone-chilling dominance.

On January 1st, the Shark led his team in easily dismantling the Charlotte Bobcats.

Emeka Okafor put up a double-double of seventeen points and ten rebounds, but the Shark's twenty-six points and fifteen rebounds thoroughly overshadowed the third overall pick.

On January 3rd, facing the Seattle SuperSonics, the Shark posted a monstrous stat line of twenty-five points, fourteen rebounds, and seven blocks, carrying his team to a narrow two-point victory over the third seed in the Western Conference.

He felt his form was exceptional. Ever since arriving in Miami, he had been under the illusion that he was experiencing a second youth—an illusion, of course. The Shark was still unaware that the frantic training and punishing games of this season would drain the very last dregs of his physical peak.

Right now, however, the Shark cared little for the future; he only knew that the Miami Heat were currently the most formidable team in the Eastern Conference. He only knew that he was about to cross paths with Lynch for a second time.

And Lynch happened to be mired in trouble lately, presenting the prime opportunity to crush that little bastard.

Ever since the Christmas Day game, the New York Knicks had suffered their longest losing streak of the season—a three-game skid.

This was because they shared a misfortune similar to the Heat's: they had lost Grant Hill.

Grant Hill had sprained his ankle during practice, and at the time, everyone broke out in cold sweats. For Hill's ankles were like precious artifacts taken from a distant European museum, liable to shatter at the slightest misstep.

Although medical tests revealed no structural damage to his ankle, head coach Wilkens still issued a mandatory rest order, demanding Hill remain sidelined until his ankle made a full recovery.

To this, Grant Hill offered no rebuttal.

After all, he had once paid a catastrophic price for playing through injuries.

Contrary to popular stereotypes, Grant Hill had not been injury-prone from the start of his career. During his first four professional seasons, he had missed a mere five games.

The disaster began in the 1999-2000 season. Around mid-to-late season, Hill felt some soreness in his ankle, but the team doctors assured him after examinations that nothing was wrong. Grant Hill found that he could still execute windmill dunks, so he dismissed the warning and dragged his injured ankle all the way into the playoffs.

When he re-sprained it in the opening game of the playoffs, Detroit's medical staff stubbornly insisted it was merely a bone bruise and that he could continue playing.

In the third quarter of the second game, Hill was finally forced to leave the court early due to excruciating pain, and the post-game MRI revealed a shocking truth: his ankle had fractured long ago, and due to the prolonged delay, the soft tissue damage inside the ankle had become so severe that the optimal window for treatment had been completely missed.

Ultimately, that ankle became the curse of Hill's career.

This catastrophic misdiagnosis not only cost Hill his entire prime but also shattered his belief in the "tough-guy myth."

When the Pistons recaptured glory in 2004, the former darling of the Motor City could only chew on the bitterness of fate's mockery from a hospital bed.

As the people of Detroit cheered for Carmelo Anthony, who still remembered the high-flying, gravity-defying genius forward?

Fate had left him with nothing but the eternal scar carved into his ankle.

Therefore, Hill would never again play through injury in this lifetime; he readily accepted the advice to recuperate.

The absence of Hill was a fatal blow to the Knicks' offense, which was far from elite to begin with. The Knicks were now left with only Stephon Marbury as a playmaker, and the sophomore forward starting in Hill's place, "Sweet Chocolate" Michael Sweetney, was entirely incapable of filling the tactical void left by Hill.

The bulky forward's clumsy positioning and atrocious jump shot drove even Stephon Marbury to joke in front of the cameras: "I suggest Lynch give this wild boar a popcorn pellet for every shot he makes; maybe that'll unlock his potential for a thirty-point night."

The spacing on the Knicks was disastrous, regressing practically to the levels of the Ewing era.

Aside from Lynch and Marbury, the offensive output of the other three starters was practically negligible.

Even for this defense-first era at the turn of the millennium, such a barren offensive lineup looked shocking.

Anxiety permeated New York at this moment. With one prong of their trident missing, could Lynch silence that howling Shark who had been baying for blood for so long?

The Shark, of course, had no intention of staying quiet.

On January 4th, Shaquille O'Neal participated in WQAM, Miami's biggest local sports radio talk show.

Host Joe Rose brought up the Shark's experience playing for the Miami Heat.

"Perhaps you've all nearly forgotten that Stan Van Gundy is actually our head coach. Pat's influence is just too massive, making Stan overly nervous. Every single day he worries about what Pat might say to him, he worries about everything. More than once, we've been leading our opponents by twenty points with two minutes left in the game, and the moment they sink a couple of shots in a row, he calls a timeout and starts yelling at us. God, he's just wound way too tight. He's a brilliant coach, but I wish he'd loosen up. With me and Dwyane here, nothing is going to happen. Look, even with just me out there by myself lately, we've been doing just fine."

Mentioning this, the Shark looked immensely pleased with himself.

You could argue that the Charlotte Bobcats were merely a garbage team, seeing as the best player on that roster was apparently their forty-one-year-old minority owner.

Yet the Seattle SuperSonics were undeniably the third seed in the West, and O'Neal had still led his team to a victory over them.

This fueled his confidence and satisfied his vanity.

Joe Rose, naturally aware of the Shark's smugness, decided to bring up a name that would instantly wipe that smirk away: "Shaq, why don't you like Lynch? Ever since he stepped foot in North America, the two of you have been at each other's throats."

The Shark's smile vanished instantly, his facial muscles tightening abruptly. He thought for a moment, his deep voice carrying through the FM airwaves.

"Because Lynch has no respect for me. The moment he finished the draft wearing a New York hat, he ran off to the West Coast to film some damn sneaker commercial. I wasn't traded to Miami yet; I was still out on the West Coast. Once I got wind of his schedule, I decided to go say hello to the new number-one overall pick. After all, goddamn it, our names had been tied together by those suits in the front offices for a long time. I figured we must have plenty in common and could become friends. And guess what? When I got to the commercial shoot, two idiots wearing work badges blocked me at the door and told me, 'No appointment, you can't come in.' It was insane. I'm fucking Shaquille O'Neal, and the West Coast is my backyard. I just wanted to show some goodwill, chat with him, and make a friend. And they wouldn't even let me see him."

The host chimed in with a timely gasp of disbelief: "Unbelievable! And then?"

Shaquille O'Neal began to unleash his boundless imagination, much like the time he fabricated the story of "David Robinson refused to give me an autograph when I was a kid, so I hate him."

"I waited for two whole hours. When Lynch finished his shift and walked out to the parking lot, I purposely took off my sunglasses so he could see my face clearly. I am certain he saw me, but he just coldly got into his car, dodging me like I was some bum in a parking lot, without even muttering a single 'Hey, Shaq.' I remember thinking right then and there, damn it, what's with this kid's arrogance? Fine, the next time I run into you, I'll show you what I'm made of."

Two hours later, Lynch and the New York Knicks touched down in Miami.

The moment the cabin door opened, Miami's hot, humid air and a barrage of camera flashes rushed up to greet them.

Lynch was already unfazed by the throng of reporters before him.

Once you've had tens of thousands of people screaming your name in Times Square on New Year's Eve, these packs of reporters chasing you down were nothing more than opening-act warmups.

"Make way, gentlemen, please make way." Behind a human wall formed by security guards, Lynch moved calmly through the crowd.

He paid little mind to most of the reporters' questions, which were predictably along the lines of "Tell us about tomorrow's matchup against the Shark" or "Will this three-game skid affect your confidence?"

Suddenly, however, a reporter's question caused Lynch to remove his sunglasses.

"Shaq says you refused to meet him in Los Angeles and showed a lack of respect toward him. How do you respond to that?"

"Huh? What kind of nonsense are you babbling about?" If Lynch's memory wasn't failing him, he hadn't even set foot in Los Angeles last summer. And prior to opening night, he had never laid eyes on the Shark in person.

From that moment on, more and more bizarre questions flew his way.

After returning to the hotel and watching the evening news, Lynch finally realized that Shaquille O'Neal had cast himself in the role of the next David Robinson.

People often said you should never trust a creative writer.

No matter how many times a storyteller insisted they were telling the absolute truth, you simply could not believe them.

Because writers were a breed whose very livelihood depended on fabricating stories.

Yet right now, Lynch felt Shaquille O'Neal was on an entirely different level of absurdity.

The prerequisite for making up a story was that the story was purely fictional.

Yet the Shark had brazenly invented entirely nonexistent facts in broad daylight.

This was a direct assault on Lynch's public image. But before Lynch could issue any response of his own, Stephen A. Smith appeared on his late-night program, laying out Lynch's complete summer itinerary using photographs and news archives.

He concluded with a flourish: "Unless Shaq has somehow traveled through a parallel universe, there is zero chance he ran into Lynch in Los Angeles last summer."

This incident wouldn't cause any substantial damage to Lynch's reputation—much like how even after the Shark slandered the Admiral, the Admiral remained a paragon of morality in everyone's hearts.

Yet the Shark's behavior genuinely disgusted Lynch.

It was like finding someone had spat in your food; eating it wouldn't kill you, but it was enough to ruin the appetite for anyone tasting it.

At that moment, a prompt flashed before Lynch's eyes.

[You are both veterans, yet you have been repeatedly provoked by Shaquille O'Neal. Shut that idiot up and win back the respect due to a veteran!]

[New Objective: Win the duel against Shaq and outscore him by at least 10 points. Though this will require substantial playing time to achieve, hold the line for your dignity!]

[Reward: Shaquille O'Neal's signature mini-hook shot talent.]

This reward set Lynch's blood racing. Combined with his existing "Ankle-Breaking Flawless Footwork," it would allow Lynch to forge a low-post offensive game truly capable of breaking through stubborn defenses on his own.

Moreover, this reward was profoundly generous.

After all, the Shark's mini-hook shot was undeniably at the absolute elite tier of the league.

The price of such a generous reward, however, was that the task was far from simple.

Judging by the Shark's recent form, outscoring him by ten points meant Lynch would likely need to score thirty-plus points and secure the victory to complete the mission.

With the team missing Grant Hill and the overall offensive spacing looking utterly abysmal, this was indeed a tall order.

Regardless, Lynch would give it his all.

Failure carried no penalty anyway; he had to reach for it.

This farce filled the atmosphere for the following day's game with gunpowder.

Even though Stephen A. had thoroughly debunked the lies, some Miami fans still backed the Shark, choosing to believe his fabricated narrative, unleashing a tsunami of boos directed at Lynch.

"What a load of fucking bullshit. These idiots actually bought that hole-ridden fairytale?" Stephon Marbury stared at the Miami fans waving "Lying Lynch" placards, genuinely astounded by the intellectual capacity of his compatriots for the first time.

In the face of blind prejudice, the truth was nothing more than a scrap of parchment waiting to be torn apart.

In truth, it wasn't a big deal that the fans believed the story.

Because the Shark himself believed it; he had completely immersed himself in the role.

This self-hypnotizing master of narrative was thoroughly lost inside the epic script he had woven for himself.

He told himself he had to reclaim his dignity tonight!

The starting lineups gathered on the court. Lynch stared at the fat man who had repeatedly claimed he would make him cry in the playoffs and had now spun a yarn to smear his name, flashing a look of disdainful mockery.

He found him pathetic.

"So a giant's ego needs to be nourished by fictional humiliation."

"You can deny it all you want, but tonight you bastard will experience the consequences of disrespecting me."

The game commenced, and Shaquille O'Neal secured the opening tip for the Heat.

Without Wade, the focal point of the Heat's offense was unequivocally the Shark.

Damon Jones brought the ball past half-court and immediately fed it to O'Neal.

O'Neal was playing with immense effort today, sealing Kurt Thomas aggressively. The instant he caught the ball, he executed a spin move with an agility that defied his massive frame, floating a fingertip mini-hook that dropped precisely through the net.

It was clear his physical condition was exceptional, arguably even better than at the start of the season.

The Shark pumped his fist aggressively, supremely confident that he would take the win tonight and wash away his past humiliation.

Lynch's missed shot on the ensuing possession seemed to validate that sentiment even further.

The sluggish and lumbering Sweet Chocolate Sweetney was completely ignored by the Heat defense. The moment Lynch handled the ball, Udonis Haslem and Rasual Butler would immediately double-team the New York number twenty.

If Grant Hill were on the floor, the Heat would never dare to swarm him with such impunity.

Lynch had no choice but to pass to the wide-open Sweetney. Yet the fellow whom Marbury had dubbed the "moving popcorn machine" squandered the wide-open jumper.

The camera panned to Grant Hill sitting courtside in a sharp suit; his clenched fists betrayed his anxiety over the team's offensive vacuum.

He desperately wished he could step back onto the court, but the ghosts of his past kept him terrified of the consequences of playing through injury.

The Shark quickly helped the Miami Heat extend their lead. Catching the ball in the post, he drew a double-team before kicking it out to Damon Jones, the player he was closest to in the locker room.

The diminutive guard was playing at a top-tier shooter's level this season, maintaining a 43 percent clip while attempting 6.4 three-pointers per game.

Stephon Marbury, chasing from behind, collided with Haslem's off-ball screen. Damon Jones rose smoothly for the shot, swishing it through: five to zero.

Amidst the roaring din of the American Airlines Arena, the Shark gestured towards Lynch with his signature "night-night" sign-off.

"Hope you brought Megan Fox to Miami, or tonight you'll be jerking off in the hotel toilet to vent your frustration."

Over the next few turns, Sweetney remained an absolute non-factor on the offensive end.

Lennie Wilkens had started him purely for defensive purposes.

Clumsy though he might be, Sweetney possessed decent defensive instincts, holding his own in both help and individual defense without dragging the team down.

However, his offense was something far more terrifying than even Trevor Ariza.

At the very least, Ariza could scrounge up points through agile cuts, having gone four-for-five for eleven points in the previous game.

Sweetney, by contrast, was a complete black hole on offense. His sluggish cuts resembled a rusted bulldozer, and his stiff shooting motion allowed Heat defenders to leisurely finish a cup of coffee before leaping to block the shot.

Sometimes, Chinese fans found it miraculous.

How did the New York Knicks always manage to unearth such a collection of offensive dunces from the vast sea of humanity?

Five minutes in, the Miami Heat already held a twelve-to-three lead, up by nine points.

The Knicks' offense was completely locked down. Aside from a hard-driving and-one by Stephon Marbury, New York had failed to put another point on the board.

Lynch struggled immensely under relentless double-teams; at this stage in his career, he still lacked the ability to reliably break through double-teams single-handedly.

During the timeout, Shaquille O'Neal waved his arms, whipping the home crowd into a frenzy.

At this rate, he would lead the team single-handedly to a third straight victory!

Compared to Lynch, who had plunged into a three-game skid after losing Hill, this was more than enough to strip that punk of every ounce of dignity!

A ferocious grin broke across his sweat-beaten, dark complexion, as if he could already see the bold headline in the morning paper: 《Losing Rookie Kneels to Welcome Winning Shark King》.

"Freshman, holding up okay? You look like you're about to suffocate! Don't panic, this is just a preview of the playoffs! You better pray you don't run into this big man down the road!" the Shark bellowed toward the opposite end of the court.

Before Lynch could issue a retort, a frantic Stan Van Gundy yanked nervously at his tie on the sidelines, veins bulging at his temples.

"Shut up, Shaq! Do you want to piss him off!? Shut up, wouldn't it be better if we just cruise to a win here? Focus, or you're bound to screw this up!"

A fine sheen of sweat coated the bald, shiny pate of the dark-set coach, his pupils trembling behind his lenses from sheer tension.

The Shark had simply reached his limit with this perpetually paranoid fellow: "Piss him off so what? Don't you trust me? You shut the fuck up and just wait to embrace the victory!"

O'Neal completely brushed off Stan Van Gundy's warning.

On the other side of the floor, Lynch's fingertips dug deep into the fibers of a white towel, sweat dripping down his jawline.

The situation tonight looked grim. The Shark's form and the Heat's chemistry were leagues ahead of what they had shown on opening night.

Playing like this, let alone outscoring the Shark by ten points, even avoiding being severely outscored would be a monumental challenge.

The veteran coach's eyes were shot with red; Lennie Wilkens knew that staying the course meant certain defeat—change meant survival, stagnation meant death.

Thus, he substituted Jamal Crawford in for Sweetney.

The old-school coach, who had always prioritized defense, decided to commit heresy for once.

"Offense, offense, offense! Jamal, clear out the spacing for Lynch. When they leave you open, you better convert those damn open looks, because my patience is thin. If you brick consecutive shots, get your ass right back to the bench! Lynch, if they play you single coverage, run the pick-and-roll with Kurt and crush that loud-mouthed Shark the exact same way we did last time!"

If Wade were playing, this strategy would be suicide, because Wade could easily drop forty points right over Crawford's head. Hell, fifty was entirely within the realm of possibility.

Yet tonight, Miami lacked a dynamic perimeter threat to create off the dribble, prompting Lennie Wilkens to roll the dice.

As play resumed, the television announcers immediately caught wind of the New York Knicks' substitution.

The Shark, however, remained entirely unimpressed by the arrival of the erratic, high-scoring combo guard.

He strode over to a stone-faced Lynch, planting his hands on his hips: "Sending out a traffic cone for dessert? Is your New York team running a charity kitchen? Smile a bit, will you? I love watching that rebellious grin of yours—it's as foolish as that Los Angeles moron's, and it just gets me more hyped."

"You really should have listened to Stan, Shaq."

"What?"

"You've said plenty already. It's time for you to shut up. How do you even have the nerve to bring up Los Angeles? Overgrown beasts with big mouths always delusionally think they're still at the top of the food chain."

"Nah, I'm going to chatter right in your ear all night long until you lose your mind out of sheer humiliation!"

"You won't want to do that. Just shut up."

"What the fuck are you going to do to make me shut up?"

"Maybe give you another taste of watching me drop forty points in a single game. Is that enough to shut you up? You better get the oxygen mask ready, old man."

Lynch stared intently at the Shark, his eyes devoid of any liar's panic.

Instead, he looked like a man announcing an impending, inevitable reality.