070: Shaq Can't Escape Either

The Shark’s anger raged within his chest, as difficult to quell as a hurricane in the Florida Bay.

He was completely fed up.

Despite leading his team to a massive advantage, everyone kept telling him to shut up, as if he had done something wrong.

Back in Los Angeles, no player would ever dare claim they were going to drop 40 points on him, let alone tell him to shut his mouth.

With his fingers glittering with championship rings, Phil Jackson would not even question how many women he had slept with or how many bottles of whiskey he had consumed the night before a game, all to keep him happy.

Yet ever since donning the red and black jersey, those trembling gazes that once cowered in the shadow of the "Big Diesel" had suddenly vanished without a trace.

Stan Van Gundy was screaming at him every single second.

Pat Riley treated him like a mere role player.

But none of that mattered. At least in the locker room, the respect from Dwyane Wade, Damon Jones, and the others offered him some solace.

What stung his nerves the most was the icy glance that punk Lynch had just thrown his way.

There was not a shred of awe in that look for a three-time Finals MVP; instead, it was as if he were sizing up a clown in a circus.

The feeling of standing above the entire league was gone.

The distance of falling from the Los Angeles throne to the South Coast was far greater than crossing the entire United States from Orlando to Los Angeles.

This crisis of identity left the Shark depressed, struggling, and furious.

Anyone facing such a dramatic reversal in life would need time to digest it.

Clearly, the Shark had not yet digested it; right now, all he could think about was destroying that number 20.

He wasn't someone who failed to grasp the fundamentals of life. When the first gorgeous woman had straddled O'Neal, he immediately understood the concrete meaning of the maxim: "The economic base determines the superstructure."

When the economic base was solid enough, the superstructure was truly wild and breathtaking.

And in competitive sports, victory was the only economic base.

Tonight, the Shark was determined to make that bastard Lynch look at him with utter submission!

Stephon Marbury heard what Lynch had said to the Shark, and that punk was far more dangerous than he had imagined.

He dared to challenge anyone.

Even before stepping foot in the NBA, he had challenged him. Once in the NBA, the Shark, Carter, Artest, and even the Answer were all targets of his challenges.

Such a rookie was indeed a rarity in the annals of NBA history. Just in his very first year in the league, you felt like he was here to flip the table and shatter the existing order.

Marbury remembered how he and KG had been just as fearless when they were young.

Yet young madmen never lacked daring; what they lacked was the ability to turn all their arrogant declarations into reality.

Lynch possessed that exact ability.

Marbury couldn't wait to play another frantic youthful symphony alongside Lynch and shatter all established order!

"Pass it over!" Lynch flashed out to the three-point line, his loud shout interrupting Marbury's thoughts.

Jamal Crawford passed the ball to Marbury, who immediately swung it to Lynch.

The moment Lynch caught the ball, Rasual Butler rushed out to double-team him.

Without a moment's hesitation, Lynch quickly distributed the ball, and Jamal Crawford's cut was perfectly timed. When he received the pass, he was already deep in the paint. He put up a floater over the Shark's defense, and the ball bounced three times on the rim before finally dropping through the net.

12 to 5. Crawford defiantly slapped his left bicep, and the players on the bench imitated his celebration.

Frustrated, the Shark ran back upcourt, slamming his shoulder heavily into Lynch and channeling all his lingering anger into trash talk.

"Heh, is that how you plan to get 40 points? Go on and attack yourself, softie."

"Can't wait? Don't worry, I'll definitely fuck you good later," Lynch replied unhurriedly.

"Heh, that's one of a man's biggest lies."

"No, no, we're different, Shaq."

Yet just one possession later, Lynch—the very person who had promised to fuck the Shark good—simply chose not to handle the ball, leaving Jamal Crawford to go one-on-one against Rasual Butler.

Crawford loved opportunities like this. He executed a series of alternating crossovers, throwing Butler off balance. Leaning left, he suddenly changed direction to the right, blowing past Butler in a single step, and then pulled up for a mid-range jumper inside the three-point arc, finding nothing but net.

This isolation play was so effortless and aesthetically pleasing that even the Heat fans could find no fault with it. As one of the smoothest isolation players in the league, Jamal Crawford was guaranteed to deliver a spectacular show whenever he had room to operate.

12 to 7, the deficit was closing in.

With his nerves frayed to the limit, Stan Van Gundy predictably started shouting.

"Dammit! Don't leave him open, never leave him open! Where is our rotational defense? Run!"

A desperate Rasual Butler aggressively drove against Crawford on the next possession. Even when defending shooting guards, Crawford's slender frame struggled, let alone trying to contain such a strongly built forward.

Yet the Knicks feared drives least of all. The moment Butler penetrated the paint, Lynch covered ground in a single stride, cooling off the Heat with his first block of the night.

As long as it wasn't Dwyane Wade, anyone who drove into the paint tonight was going to pay the price.

Under Stan Van Gundy's roaring commands, Rasual Butler no longer dared to double-team Lynch; he was pinned down entirely by Jamal Crawford.

The camera swept across the Knicks' bench, where Lenny Wilkens' wrinkled fingers tapped rhythmically against the tactical board, sounding like knocks on the door of destiny.

Come on, Lynch, it's your turn!

Lynch didn't demand the ball either. Instead, using a non-ball screen from Kurt Thomas, he drifted into his sweet spot on the right wing, and Stephon Marbury delivered the pass.

Heat starting shooting guard Eddie Jones had to rotate out to contest, but his height had virtually no impact on Lynch's jumper.

Seeing Lynch shoot with total composure, the Shark nearly bit his teeth to pieces, recalling the scene from opening night.

That night, it was precisely through those annoying pick-and-rolls—whether with or without the ball—that Lynch had racked up 40 points!

What made the Shark even angrier was that he himself was the defensive liability in that strategy.

Lynch was simply too fast for any frontcourt player to keep up with; another forward should have been assigned to guard him.

Yet that forward was currently glued to Jamal Crawford's heels like a dog on a leash.

The reason Lynch had let Crawford play one-on-one earlier was precisely to showcase his threat.

Once Jamal Crawford could attract defensive attention, everything else would fall into place.

"Swish!"

12 to 9, the gap was down to a reachable 3 points.

Lynch curled his finger at the Shark, using his own medicine against him: "Why don't you come and guard me yourself, softie."

O'Neal didn't respond; he tried to act as though he didn't care about Lynch's trash talk.

Yet the twisted, angry expression on his face screamed how much he cared.

That look thrilled Lynch. He suddenly felt that the once-silent European basketball scene had been a bit too boring.

Now this, this was fucking competition!

The Shark wanted to stabilize the situation. Battling Kurt Thomas's wrestling-like entanglement, he managed to carve out deep position.

Damon Jones hesitated slightly, unsure whether to lob the ball inside, as Lynch's malevolent gaze had already darted toward him several times.

"Dammit! What are you waiting for?!" O'Neal roared.

Almost simultaneously, Lenny Wilkens marched angrily up to the referee and yelled, "How the hell long are you going to let him camp in the paint for three seconds? Are you guys blowing the whistle wearing sunglasses?!"

Lenny Wilkens' words rattled Damon Jones, prompting him to rush a lob pass. Predictably, Lynch abandoned Udonis Haslem, flew through the air, and intercepted the ball mid-flight.

Ever since the league legalized zone defense, players like Lynch and KG—power forwards capable of moving rapidly on the defensive end—were a nightmare for everyone and the ultimate anchors for building a defensive system.

They could block shots, intercept passes, and shut down every passing lane.

They made opponents across all five positions miserable on the offensive end.

After stealing the ball, Lynch found Marbury with his peripheral vision and bolted down the court.

Faced with Eddie Jones' chase defense, Marbury flipped the ball against the backboard, and the trailing Lynch caught it mid-air for a thunderous slam dunk.

12 to 11. Following an 8-0 run, Stan Van Gundy called another timeout.

"Dammit, Shaq! Didn't I remind you to stay focused? Focused! Look at this now, look at the score! This is what happens when you let your guard down!"

O'Neal had no idea how he had let his guard down; he desperately wished someone would throw him a roll of duct tape. Stan Van Gundy was acting just like a crying, screaming woman facing minor setbacks, which only deepened O'Neal's mounting annoyance.

After the timeout, the Knicks substituted the muscular Nazr Mohammed for Kurt Thomas to continue battling the Shark.

Meanwhile, the Heat brought in Christian Laettner—the man who had once squeezed the Shark out of the Dream Team—to replace Udonis Haslem, adding height to curb Lynch's jumpers while utilizing his own shooting threat to space the floor for the Shark.

If Lynch kept lingering around the Shark, that damn ball was never getting passed in!

Yet Christian Laettner's very first possession on the court shattered all of Stan Van Gundy's illusions. Lynch was still hovering near the Shark, completely unfazed by Christian Laettner's shooting threat.

Damon Jones passed the ball to Laettner, who had popped out near the free-throw line, and Laettner caught and shot immediately.

However, in a single explosive stride, Lynch closed the distance to Laettner and raised his hand to contest.

Against a premier scorer, that single step might not have been enough to erase the threat.

But at the twilight of his career, Christian Laettner rushed his shot under Lynch's contest, a sign that he wasn't entirely confident in himself either.

"Clang!"

The ball caromed far away, out of the Shark's control zone and right into Lynch's territory.

The moment Lynch secured the rebound, it spelled the total failure of Stan Van Gundy's offensive adjustment.

"Wanna be a hero?" Lynch sneered at Laettner, but the former hardwood villain didn't take offense.

Unlike the Shark, Laettner had long since adapted to the massive shift in his status.

He had once been the sole collegiate player on the Dream Team and the third overall pick in the 1992 draft.

Yet now, he knew he was nothing more than a role player.

There was no shame in that; life was simply a process of adapting to different stages.

Sooner or later, the Shark would have to learn to accept it, too.

Back when the Shark first entered the league, he had crushed others' dignity in the exact same fashion.

Hakeem Olajuwon, Patrick Ewing, David Robinson—who hadn't been humiliated by posters courtesy of that Shark?

But competitive sports operated in cycles, and the Shark should have known that yesterday's victims were tomorrow's executioners.

Just as he had once trampled over Ewing and the others to claim his throne, he would now have to face the surging tide of the new generation in kind.

Lynch initiated the offense again. This time, he chose to handle the ball himself because Christian Laettner's lateral movement was slower than Haslem's and his center of gravity was higher. Lynch was confident he could attack him off the dribble.

Following the familiar pick-and-roll, Lynch penetrated to mid-range. The Shark still didn't step out, trapped in the paint like a grounded supertanker, allowing Lynch to pull up smoothly for a jumper.

This time, however, the Shark finally won his gamble, and Lynch's shot rattled out.

O'Neal's sinewy arms reached for the rebound, but his back was suddenly struck hard from behind, and the ball above his head was snatched away by another pair of giant hands and forcefully slammed back down through the hoop!

Possessing an absurdly high level of pride, the Shark refused to be dunked on. If a poster was imminent, he would fiercely foul to halt everything beforehand.

Yet this time, Lynch came from behind, leaving O'Neal with no chance to retaliate.

The giant stumbled forward, crashing out of bounds. Hanging from the rim with one arm, Lynch pointed down at the fallen Shaq: "Is this how you're going to make me cry in the playoffs?"

"Lynch posterizes Shaq! What terrifying athleticism! He missed his own shot and immediately followed up with a putback slam! The most dominant center in the league seems to have lost all his aura in front of him!"

Lynch dropped to the floor before the referee lost patience. Having been posterized, O'Neal finally snapped, scrambling to his feet and charging to shove Lynch.

Like a matador, Lynch lightly sidestepped the charge, avoided the impact, and with a gentle shove, knocked the off-balance giant back down to the floor once again!

Players from both sides rushed over immediately to prevent a secondary altercation.

"Motherfucker! Come here, come on, I'm gonna beat your ass to death!" O'Neal roared furiously.

Lynch simply maintained a smile amidst the crowd.

"Look at your state, are you crying from how good that felt? Save some breath to pant, old man, I haven't even dropped 40 yet."

Pulling the Shark back up, Christian Laettner shook his head. This was the Shark's destiny.

The pain those veteran centers had once felt was something Shaq could not escape either.