034: How Do You Know When It’s Time to Retire? The Younger Generation Will Tell You. (Please Keep Reading!)

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Dejan Bodiroga’s fingertips restlessly rubbed the playing cards, while the chips on his table had already dwindled by more than half after a string of losses.

The Serb was having a terrible run of luck today.

When yet another dreadful hand—who knew how many he had been dealt that evening—landed in his grasp, he flung the cards onto the table.

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!”

Across from him, George Fvcka stared blankly at the scattered cards.

“What?”

Dejan’s face instantly flushed crimson.

“No... I wasn’t calling you!”

“But you clearly were!”

“I... fuck!”

“You’re calling me again!”

At that moment, Dejan Bodiroga swore that he would never curse in English again.

After ending the disastrous game and the blood-pressure-raising conversation, Dejan Bodiroga, George Fvcka, and Carlos Navarro went to the hotel restaurant for a late-night meal.

As the venue for this year’s EuroLeague Final Four, the restaurant’s television was naturally showing EuroLeague news.

The blue light from the broadcast flickered across the silver cutlery. Dejan Bodiroga glanced at Lynch’s statistics on the screen: seventeen points, eighteen rebounds, and ten blocks.

Bodiroga’s fork hovered over the cream-baked shrimp.

“Gentlemen, have you seen these numbers? This kid’s talent is like a storm over the Aegean—”

Before he could finish, the corners of his mouth curled into a mocking smile.

“Too bad the storm didn’t reach here. Madrid lost.”

The squeak of a serving cart being pushed past happened to drown out George Fvcka’s snort. Carlos Navarro made no comment and simply continued eating.

Dejan stared at the glaring seventeen in the statistics column. Before his eyes rose the wall of Maccabi players.

It was a classic cage for strangling a prodigy, one he knew all too well.

Anyone who saw Lynch had scored only seventeen points would know that Maccabi’s collapsing defense had certainly worked. Otherwise, Lynch could have scored more than twenty with ease.

Lynch was the kind of young man with an intense hunger for points. So far this season, he had scored fewer than twenty only twice.

And because he was Real Madrid’s offensive centerpiece, his scoring numbers were naturally sky-high.

If Real Madrid’s offensive centerpiece scored only seventeen points in a game, that proved his attack had run into serious trouble.

“See? What did I tell you? There’s no such thing as a national derby. A seventeen-year-old kid thinks he can snatch the crown from our heads? At least bring a few adults!”

But the moment the final score appeared on the screen, Dejan Bodiroga fell silent.

The host’s excited shout tore through the restaurant’s whispers and derisive laughter.

“The fourth national derby! We are about to witness the fourth national derby in the history of the EuroLeague! Here in Tampere! Lynch—can he sweep across Europe at just seventeen years of age?”

None of the three men spoke. The atmosphere became suffocatingly awkward.

The silver cutlery cast a cold gleam across their rigid faces.

Dejan Bodiroga suddenly wanted to watch a recording of the game.

What had happened?

Lynch had scored only seventeen points, yet Real Madrid had won?

How could the young star trapped in Maccabi’s iron cage have exchanged a mere seventeen points for victory?

Had he shut down Sarunas Jasikevicius and Anthony Parker?

Anthony Parker might lose his way, but Sarunas? Never!

No one in Europe—no, no one in the entire world—could lock down that mad Lithuanian.

When his shooting touch was hot, he could stand at half court and still send the damn ball through the hoop.

The only reason he could not play in the NBA was that his defense was far too poor. Otherwise, if given a tactical role, he could have become an excellent scorer there as well.

Before long, the television news gave a rough account of the game.

And then Dejan Bodiroga found himself even more unable to speak.

Because he saw that the kid had become a leader.

He was the anchor on defense, the axis around which everything revolved. He roared to inspire his teammates and intimidate his opponents. He set a screen for the very person he hated most, giving up his own opportunities to his teammates.

But had the statistics betrayed him?

Not at all. No one could call seventeen points, eighteen rebounds, and ten blocks a poor performance.

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The childish shell had fallen away, and Dejan Bodiroga saw a cornerstone standing before him. He still had plenty of flaws, of course, but he already possessed the potential to become a leader.

At the end, the news broadcast Lynch’s words as he stared into the camera during an interview.

“Render unto Caesar what belongs to Caesar, and unto God what belongs to God. Quite clearly, this game belongs to me. Oh, and the crown on Dejan’s head belongs to me too.”

The boy who had shed his youthful shell looked through the screen at Bodiroga with a determination far beyond his years.

Dejan suddenly tasted blood. Only then did he realize that he had clenched his teeth so tightly he had bitten through his tongue.

The little brat he had thought so little of was now truly standing before him—

with an air even prouder than the one Dejan himself had possessed at that age.

“Damn it. We actually have to deal with a child ourselves. Maybe I overestimated Sarunas.”

Dejan Bodiroga set down his knife and fork. He had not touched his cream-baked shrimp, but he had completely lost his appetite.

“Let’s do it. Let’s kill that self-proclaimed Caesar a second time. Enjoy your meal, gentlemen. I’m going back.”

With that, Bodiroga rose furiously and left alone.

George Fvcka and Carlos Navarro exchanged a glance and shrugged.

“We have to help him,” Fvcka said.

Carlos Navarro nodded.

“Of course. Not just help him—we have to help Barcelona defend its title.”

“No, no, no. I mean we have to help him finish that cream-baked shrimp. What a waste. Wasting good food brings divine punishment.”

Carlos Navarro fell silent.

Suddenly, he understood how Germans and Italians must feel when forced to work together.

At that moment, Bodiroga clenched his fists and prepared to return to his room for a good night’s sleep, having completely forgotten about the food he had just ordered.

But if Bodiroga had seen the film PTU, he would certainly have taken a bite of his cream-baked shrimp.

Because the ponytailed man in that movie never managed to eat even a bite of beef before he died.

* * *

Five in the morning after the semifinal. Faint dawn light filtered through the curtains.

Lynch lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. The burning soreness left in his throat by his cries of victory had yet to fade, nor had the muscular pain from battling for eighteen rebounds.

Although he was exhausted, sleep had completely abandoned him.

He had dreamed many dreams, and all of them involved Dejan Bodiroga.

He dreamed that he pinned the Serb’s signature fadeaway jumper against the backboard, that Barcelona’s red-and-blue jerseys were swallowed by a white tide inside the Nokia Arena, and that the championship trophy reflected his own youthful yet savage face.

He dreamed that he had crushed the king of Europe, claimed the continental title, and watched the arrogant Serb leave in disgrace.

When a person desperately longs for something, there was a high chance it would happen in his dreams.

Powerful excitement swept away his fatigue, making every minute feel unbearable.

He wanted the final to begin immediately.

At long last, dawn arrived, and Lynch no longer had to lie in bed staring blankly at the ceiling.

There was no practice or media session that day, so Lynch, Theo, and Luis Bullock decided to go out for a walk.

On the street, Lynch spotted a Rolls-Royce dealership.

Morning light flowed along the waistline of a Phantom, casting a honey-colored halo across its body. His pupils were drawn to the scattered golden radiance reflected from the Spirit of Ecstasy on the hood.

Lynch, who had always been fascinated by cars, stopped in front of the window.

Luis Bullock smiled.

“Come on, Lynch. There’s nothing to see. We can’t afford it.”

Bullock, usually accustomed to swaggering about, suddenly became very modest. Faced with something beyond his means, he displayed an instinctive timidity.

As the three hesitated, a female sales representative approached in red-soled heels. Her black stockings vanished beneath a tailored pencil skirt.

“Are you players from Real Madrid? I’ve seen you on television!”

After the three nodded, she turned sideways and made an inviting gesture.

“Interested? Come in and have a look, gentlemen. Please admire your Rolls-Royce Phantom.”

“Gentlemen,” she said, pressing a platinum nameplate against her chest and giving a slight bow. Her perfume drifted softly through her hair. “When the spotlights of the Nokia Arena chase you into battle, this Phantom should be waiting in the private passage to welcome you home in triumph.”

Her slender manicured nails tapped the eternal double-R emblem at the center of the floating wheel cover. The aluminum rims, polished by hand thirty thousand times, reflected the breathless faces of the three young men.

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“Come along, gentlemen. Get in and take a look at the interior.”

The saleswoman’s fair hand glided over the roof and along the silver streak extending toward the rear of the car. Her fingertip suddenly stopped at a concealed compartment.

“This is a temperature-controlled cigar humidor designed especially for gentlemen of your stature. When you light a Cohiba Siglo VI to celebrate victory...”

She bent down and pressed a switch. The contours of her cleavage appeared and disappeared as the rear seats automatically unfolded to a golden thirty-eight-degree angle.

“...the entire Greek night sky will come crashing down above your heads.”

With her light laugh, the largest starlight headliner in Rolls-Royce history flowed into view above Lynch.

Yes, this so-called starry sky had no practical value whatsoever.

But impracticality was the threshold a top-tier luxury car was expected to meet.

Lynch placed his palm against the hand-stitched Arctic White calfskin seat. The leather, taken from the softest part of a Scandinavian bull’s belly, was impossibly delicate and supple.

The saleswoman’s red lips drew close to Lynch’s ear, her gentle voice lingering beside him.

“When you sit here with the championship trophy, the Spirit of Ecstasy on the hood will cleave open the night and charge straight into the light for you. Every inch of asphalt in Europe will make way for your magic carpet.”

As she spoke, she pressed the ignition button. The V12 engine released a low growl, like a beast awakening, and the hood ornament slowly rose.

“The umbrellas are stored inside the door panels. Of course, gentlemen needn’t remember that, because someone will certainly hold one over your heads before you step out. You won’t need to retrieve it yourselves.”

Watching all this, Lynch suddenly understood the meaning of that saying:

Where true affection cannot take you, a Rolls-Royce will.

Once inside, the ambiguous atmosphere suddenly made a person feel unbearably hot, as if he might take off his clothes.

The saleswoman placed the car key in Lynch’s palm. Her red lips drew close, and she revealed a polite yet lethally seductive smile.

“Would you like to take it for a spin, young gentleman?”

In the end, they did not go for a drive, because Lynch—the genius who ruled the European basketball world—did not yet have a driver’s license.

After leaving the dealership, the three young men were left with minds gone completely blank.

“Damn,” Luis Bullock said, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “What kind of garbage have I been driving all this time?”

The experience had awakened a desire in Lynch. It was not merely about owning a car. In less than half an hour, that formidable professional saleswoman had given him a taste of the immense satisfaction created by women, luxury cars, power, and success together.

There was no man who did not yearn for such things.

Lynch gazed at the sky and said calmly, “I’ll own one.”

The ticket to the EuroLeague final was burning in his pocket, and Lynch now longed for the next game even more intensely.

Once he dealt with Bodiroga, Lynch would enter the NBA draft and sign a massive endorsement contract.

Herreros had been right. These things had long been destined to belong to Lynch. He only needed to remain focused for one final night, and everything he could currently imagine would be his.

He turned back and took another look at the car, as well as the saleswoman standing beside it, waving goodbye lightly—so beautiful that he wanted to possess her at once.

“I’ll own one,” Lynch muttered again before turning away from the dealership.

Two days later, at the Nokia Arena, the century-defining clash between Real Madrid and Barcelona was finally about to begin.

Lynch’s mind was clear of every distraction. All his desires had transformed into motivation.

He knew this was a night on which he could not afford to fail.

Dejan Bodiroga emerged, and Lynch could almost see a crown resting on his head.

The Serb walked into the Real Madrid camp without the slightest attempt at concealment. Real Madrid captain Alberto Herreros stepped forward to greet him and saw that familiar, infuriating arrogance in Bodiroga’s eyes.

“My dear Alberto, tell that youngster of yours who doesn’t know his place that if he wants us to fear him—well, he’ll lead you to the podium, but only to collect the runners-up trophy. That’s why I love the EuroLeague: they even prepare consolation trophies for the losers. The NBA is far too heartless.

“And congratulations on deciding to retire. How did you know it was time? Was it because you realized you would never be able to get past us?”

Alberto Herreros was not angry. He merely maintained his smile.

“How do you know when it is time to retire? Your junior will tell you. Tonight, someone will.”

(Thanks to the patron known as The Bear Child’s Underhook Kick for the generous support. Kneeling in gratitude!)

(Thanks as well to Linling, Tian Cangren, Young Man, Please Stay Your Step, Galaxy Demon King One, and all the other generous supporters. Thank you, everyone!)

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