011: We Are the Goliaths! (Please Follow!)

The dome of the Belgrade Arena trembled. Though outnumbered, the FMP fans’ roars now surged like a torrent of the Danube, drowning the Red Star banners in a flood of mud and debris.

Luka Bogdanović bent over, hands on his knees, sweat darkening the wooden floor beneath him.

The crushing defeat he felt in this game was more intense than all the setbacks he had ever endured in his life combined.

This war machine, which had once shredded adult defenses in the King’s Cup final, was now dismantled into scrap iron by a Chinese youth with the simplest of back-to-the-basket moves.

What Luka found most unbearable was that Lynch had beaten him using just one move from start to finish.

Establishing position on the back, receiving the ball, then immediately turning and driving to the basket—this was the only offensive weapon Lynch had used in the entire first half.

By halftime, Lynch had already scored 30 points with 8 rebounds and 3 blocks, leading FMP by 14.

Durović glanced at Lynch’s stats on the scoreboard and whistled, “That’s some damn elegant post play.”

It was clear that Lynch’s decision to develop his back-to-the-basket game first was utterly wise.

Mastering the post move perfectly is difficult, but just getting it to a usable level is far easier than refining shooting or dribbling.

Because in post play, a player’s physicality and toughness can compensate for some technical shortcomings.

Most renowned guard post masters—like Magic Johnson, Mark Jackson, and Andre Miller—relied largely on their size advantage at the point guard position to overpower opponents, with few intricate techniques.

Giannis Antetokounmpo’s post moves are also straightforward, yet in the entire league, aside from his teammate Khris Middleton, few can stop him. (For older fans unfamiliar with the comparison: it’s like how only Russell Westbrook could reliably guard Kevin Durant.)

The importance of a man’s toughness in post play is self-evident.

A player who subconsciously shies away from physical confrontation will never be a serious threat down low.

Admiral Schofield, Anthony Davis, Chris Webber—they all fall into this category. Their instinctive aversion to intense contact doomed them to never fully dominate the post.

Joel Embiid possesses a far more refined low-post technique than Giannis, but in games he prefers to float outside as a power forward, so his post threat is less than Giannis’s rugged style.

Shooting and dribbling are skills you either have or don’t. No amount of physical talent or mental toughness can aid if you lack the fundamental ability.

Post play is different. Your physique and grit can make your moves much easier.

Lynch chose the right path.

At halftime, in the locker room.

Lynch tilted his head back and gulped down a sports drink; the sound of liquid sliding down his throat was unusually clear in the enclosed space.

Thirty points at halftime—he had steamrolled his opponent but had taken many shots to do so.

Yet the team’s other core, Teodosić, showed no jealousy; instead, he slapped Lynch’s hand and said, “Well done.”

Teodosić’s forearm still bore scratch marks from defenders.

Earlier at dinner, Teodosić had made it clear he wouldn’t be selfish for stats, but Lynch hadn’t expected him to remain this composed.

Smiling, Lynch shook his head. “Teo, you’re crazy.”

“What? You’re the first to call me that.”

Indeed, Teodosić’s calm style hardly fit the “crazy” label.

But to Lynch, someone who handles the fiercest moments with the coolest head must be crazy in some way.

Teodosić didn’t dwell on stats. He raised a finger and, in the calmest tone, delivered the coldest words.

“Destroy Luka in the second half, then it’s just Dako left.”

Nearby, FMP youth center Luka Modrić swallowed nervously.

Though he knew Teo wasn’t referring to him, the icy tone still sent chills down his spine.

“Come on, didn’t I destroy him in the first half? I put 30 points on him,” Lynch replied, wiping sweat.

“But you let him score 8.”

“Eight points—is that a lot?”

“You know you could do better.”

Lynch admitted he had enjoyed offense too much in the first half, which distracted him on defense, allowing Luka Bogdanović to steal a few points.

Pulling the towel from his neck, Lynch locked eyes with Teodosić—this man’s obsession wasn’t just winning, but absolute domination.

He didn’t just want to beat Luka and Dako; he wanted Lynch to crush them alongside him.

“I get it, Teo. I’ll shut him down on defense in the second half.”

“Good.”

The second half began quickly. Red Star switched tactics.

They no longer double-teamed Teodosić desperately but chose to trap Lynch during his post-up plays.

“Foolish choice,” Vlad Durović sneered from the bench.

Red Star didn’t realize they had only unshackled another demon.

Teodosić had taken just three shots in the first half, appearing as harmless as a lamb.

But every FMP player knew in the locker room—he was colder and more ruthless than anyone.

On the first possession of the second half, Teodosić breezed past Wilke in a one-on-one.

As Teo drove, Wilke reached to steal, but before his fingers touched the ball, Teo’s perfect rhythm stop and behind-the-back dribble left Wilke grasping air, falling like a mud doll melting in water.

After shaking Wilke, Teodosić adjusted his balance and rose up for a three-pointer, sinking it.

From his fourth attempt onward, the lamb was gone; Satan had arrived to finish the job.

In the first half, Red Star’s extreme traps suffocated Teo’s scoring.

But in isolation, Wilke was no match for him.

Teodosić’s greatest strength was being a true combo guard.

Most combo guards have some scoring and some playmaking but master neither.

Teodosić was the opposite—he possessed point guard-level passing and organization, coupled with shooting guard-level scoring.

At this level of competition, he was indeed that kind of player.

Scoring, continuous scoring—FMP steadily extended the lead.

Teodosić was selfless but never soft when given an opportunity.

A Greek scout in the stands tore up his previous notes about Teo’s “lack of aggression,” “no killer instinct,” or “limited potential.”

He rewrote them: “Best offensive guard in Europe for the next decade.”

Red Star fans, scorched by Lynch’s first-half heat, now faced absolute zero.

Lynch was a berserker, charging with dunks, shouts, and collisions, as if afraid of making too little noise.

Teodosić was a professional assassin, bloodied but expressionless.

With Teo unleashed offensively, Lynch became Luka Bogdanović’s nightmare on defense.

Lynch didn’t guard the Red Star prodigy directly, but every time Luka prepared to shoot, Lynch appeared like a shadow, forcing him to pass again and again.

Five minutes into the second half, Luka was still scoreless.

He tried driving with the ball and off-ball movement.

But wherever he went, the moment he received the ball, number 10’s shadow loomed over him.

At the sixth minute of the second half, Teodosić’s step-back three-pointer pushed the lead to 25.

Under tremendous pressure, Luka had to step up, or Red Star would suffer a humiliating defeat.

He called for the ball beyond the right side of the three-point line and drove straight in.

As expected, Lynch glided out like a ghost.

Luka remembered he had once beaten Lynch early in the game, so he tried the same move again.

Stop, step back, fadeaway jumper.

The sequence flowed smoothly; for a 203 cm forward, Luka’s ball-handling was enviable.

The sudden rhythm change during his drive often saved him.

The ball left his hands, bearing the weight of the team’s fate.

But soon after, his face twisted in despair.

He saw it clearly—the fadeaway would never escape Lynch’s blocking fingertips.

Lynch had missed this move early on from lack of preparation.

But it couldn’t work twice on him.

*Smack.*

Despair engulfed Luka Bogdanović and the entire Belgrade Arena.

Since halftime, he had scored zero points.

The Olympiacos scout, though there to watch Teodosić, paused a moment before writing in his notebook:

“Maybe our frontcourt is already solid, maybe we need guards. But I still suggest you watch Lynch’s game tape and consider bringing him in as well. I think he’s a player you can’t afford to miss.”

Teodosić and Lynch had done it.

They didn’t sacrifice anyone but played to their strengths, sharing the spotlight.

Lynch slapped the ball away; Teo caught it seamlessly and launched a fast break.

The screech of sneakers on the floor sounded like the approach of death.

Luka Bogdanović’s eyes were bloodshot, relentless, desperate to grasp any last chance to salvage his dignity.

The Red Star prodigy no longer looked like a basketball player but a dethroned tyrant.

His fingertips were always two or three centimeters shy of Teo’s drifting jersey—just like the eternal distance between him and victory all night.

Teo advanced beyond the arc, stopped abruptly, faked a pass to a teammate, then shot.

Luka ran to the basket, ready for the rebound.

But as the ball arced through the air, he realized its trajectory was unusual.

Had Teodosić missed completely?

Just as Luka prepared to jump for the rebound, his eyes caught a long shadow on the floor.

He almost instantly understood what had happened.

That damn shot wasn’t a shot at all!

“Damn.”

*Boom!*

Lynch’s five fingers plunged into the leather, snatching the ball mid-air, then power slammed it one-handed over Luka Bogdanović.

Lynch landed and high-fived Teodosić amid the roaring sound of the tomahawk dunk, while the genius collapsed in disgrace at their feet.

Luka Bogdanović had utterly fallen. The map of Serbian youth basketball was forever changed.

The remainder of the game was a foregone conclusion; Red Star became a routed army.

In the end, they suffered a crushing 35-point defeat—the worst tragedy since Red Star moved to the Belgrade Arena.

Teodosić posted 17 points and 13 assists; Lynch finished with 40 points, 16 rebounds, and 5 blocks.

Luka Bogdanović scored zero in the second half, ending with a bewildering total of 8 points.

As the game ended, Boško stared at the cameras pointed at him, dazed.

It was his first time facing so many lenses, soon to appear on televisions across Serbian homes.

A female reporter from the National Sports Network approached, handing Boško a microphone. Nervous, he remembered to breathe.

“Coach, hello.”

“Hello.”

“We can all see you’re very excited. This was a stunning game. I bet no one expected such an outcome before the match. Did you anticipate such a big win over Red Star, or were you surprised by the final score?”

Boško stared into the camera, shy. Shyness made him want to be modest.

“Actually, you know, this result was a bit unexpected…”

He stopped mid-sentence.

It wasn’t fair.

He wanted to humble himself before the media, but it wasn’t fair.

Lynch and Teodosić had utterly destroyed Luka; they deserved all praise—no modesty, only admiration and applause.

In the next few seconds, Boško wrestled with his inner thoughts.

Finally, he clenched his fists.

Two reckless young men had toppled so-called renowned prodigies.

Fine, then let me be reckless with you!

“Actually, I knew this would happen.

Before, other Belgrade teams challenging Red Star were like David facing Goliath.

But now, with Lynch and Teodosić, folks, we are Goliath!”

Boško couldn’t help but laugh; the feeling of being reckless was exhilarating.