035: The One Who Can Stop Him (Please Follow for Updates!)

Sonny Vaccaro held a beer in his hand, the chill of Nokia Arena biting at his nostrils. This titan of the North American basketball world, who had dominated the industry for decades, still felt as though he were in a dream—here he was, in the land of ice and snow by the Baltic Sea, witnessing a historic moment that would reshape the basketball map.

Sonny Vaccaro never imagined in his wildest dreams that he would one day find himself in Finland to watch a basketball game. In the annals of the game’s cathedral, Finland was a place that shouldn't even be mentioned. Yet, the magical reality unfolding before him was tearing apart all established perceptions: Wizards head coach Eddie Jordan was watching the court with intense focus, and the "Smiling Assassin" Isiah Thomas was flashing his gentle grin at the cameras. Bulls GM John Paxson wore a grave expression, and even Elgin Baylor, the man who once famously distrusted non-collegiate players, had made an appearance.

Beyond them, Sonny could walk over to buy a hot dog and bump into dozens of scouts he knew. It was as if the entire NBA talent-hunting field had been uprooted and airdropped into this frozen wasteland. They had all come for one person.

Of course, Sonny also caught sight of the face that disgusted him. Phil Knight was sitting in the front row, arm around his witch-like wife, stroking her twig-thin fingers. Sonny didn't know if that man would meet with Lynch tonight, but his own appointment with the boy was set for tomorrow. Regardless, he would not let Lynch fall into the Nike camp; he would never let the Nike Swoosh tarnish that uncut gem.

On the court, the referee’s whistle cut through the air. The game began.

At the tip-off, the arena erupted with the roars of Barcelona and Real Madrid fans, the waves of crimson-blue and pure white clashing in the stands. These two teams had missed the King’s Cup final and the ACB final, only to meet here at the pinnacle of European basketball. Thirty-six thousand throats unleashed the magma that had been suppressed for an entire season.

Under the dome of Nokia Arena, Varejão tipped the ball to his half during the jump ball, winning the first possession for Barcelona. The arena announcer quipped, "Has the Greek managed to win a single opening tip for Madrid this season?"

That didn't matter. What mattered was that Carlos Navarro had already penetrated Madrid's half. Amidst the cheers of the blue-and-red tide, Navarro, nicknamed "The Bomb," used a rock-solid screen from Varejão to break through, only to find the iron-gate figure of the Real Madrid No. 10 standing in his path.

Carlos Navarro was not surprised. If you had watched the tapes of the last game, you would know how terrifying Lynch was when he played full-effort defense. He had prepared for this moment; the Catalan commander made a gentle pass, and the basketball drilled precisely into the palms of the Italian, Jorge Garbajosa. Facing the rim protection of the Greek giant Fotsis, a flash of disdain crossed Garbajosa’s eyes as he attacked the rim directly. In his view, the Greek's rim protection held no deterrent at all.

But as Jorge Garbajosa rose and braced against Fotsis to shoot, a shadow surged from behind the Greek's shoulder, swallowing the rim. Facing Lynch’s help defense, the Italian had no choice but to alter his arc. The ball sailed over Lynch’s fingertips, but it also sailed over the rim. Under Lynch’s defense, Garbajosa shot an airball.

This was the first time most of the NBA GMs and head coaches were witnessing Lynch’s terrifying defensive mobility and coverage area with their own eyes. Based on this single possession, Isiah Thomas was certain that if the Knicks landed the first overall pick, he would undoubtedly choose Lynch.

But to European fans, such defense was entirely routine. It was the script Lynch performed every single night.

Dejan Bodiroga looked at Jorge Garbajosa with a smile, shrugging. "Seriously, Jorge? You’re much better than that at the card table."

"Shut up, Dejan. When you encounter this kind of moment, you won't be laughing either." Garbajosa wasn't angry; Dejan was just prone to teasing, never truly mocking.

At the Italian’s reply, the smile vanished from Dejan Bodiroga’s face. "No. Lynch will never be able to make me experience such a humiliating moment."

Bodiroga acknowledged that Lynch’s defensive mobility was unparalleled. But he couldn't stop him. And, since he was putting so much effort into defense today, it meant he couldn't possibly contribute much on the offensive end.

The offense of the rest of the Madrid team might have been enough to handle Maccabi, but that didn't mean it could handle Barcelona. Bodiroga’s confidence and pride were not baseless, for the European basketball scene of the 21st century had essentially belonged to him. In 2000, 2002, and 2003, he had won European championships, and in 2002 and 2003, he was the EuroLeague Final Four MVP. His dominance over European basketball was ironclad, and thus he did not believe a mere child could overturn it all.

On this Madrid possession, Bodiroga displayed his prowess as the King of Europe. As Lynch drew the defense and Louis Bullock passed as usual to an cutting Antonios Fotsis, Bodiroga suddenly appeared and intercepted the ball. He raced down the court, and facing the interception of Louis Bullock, the "European Magician" suddenly lowered his center of gravity mid-sprint, weaving past him with a fluid Sam Gold dribble.

Bullock, his balance shattered by the trickery, felt a massive strain on his ankles and crashed to the floor, looking up as the white lightning streaked past. Bodiroga didn't slow down, driving straight into the paint for a one-handed dunk.

"The counterattack is the art of turning an opponent’s offense into their downfall, and Dejan is undoubtedly an artist in this regard!" the announcer praised.

2-0. Dejan Bodiroga became the source of the Barcelona fans' cheers.

A possession later, Lynch received the ball in the paint, preparing to isolate Varejão, but Bodiroga rotated over in time, forcing Lynch to pass to Louis Bullock. The latter forced a drive against Navarro’s hound-like defense. Carlos Navarro used his iron-cast chest to hold his ground, interfering just as Bullock pulled up for a jumper, turning the rushed shot into a sigh beside the rim.

Navarro’s "Bomb" nickname originated during this period. Many years later, people mistakenly thought it referred to his floaters. In fact, the nickname came from his highly aggressive playing style. Because the young Navarro wasn't the primary scoring option, he was willing to put his full effort into defense; Louis Bullock had no advantage against this Spanish supernova.

A battle for the rebound erupted in the paint. Anderson Varejão cunningly pulled at Lynch, shoving him away, while Garbajosa plucked the rebound in the chaos. Varejão wasn't obsessed with grabbing the board himself; his task was to ensure Lynch couldn't get near the landing spot.

Bodiroga called for the ball and brought it up the court himself. Herreros’s defensive stance was like a taut bowstring, yet he was still completely dismantled by a fluid Sam Gold maneuver—the moment Bodiroga accelerated to the right, he dropped his center of gravity and pulled the ball to the left with his left hand, the leather seemingly guided by magnets as it passed through the defender’s stumbling frame.

The Sam Gold dribble seemed etched into Bodiroga’s DNA. Considering he was a forward standing between 204 and 206 centimeters, his ball-handling ability was simply incredible. This was why the North American media was convinced that if Bodiroga went to the NBA, he would undoubtedly be an All-Star.

After shaking off Herreros, Bodiroga’s mid-range jumper found the mark, even with Lynch’s help defense. 4-0. The 31-year-old King of Europe didn't even glance at Lynch, instead shaking his finger at Herreros, his deep Balkan voice laced with regal arrogance: "Nobody tells me when I should retire. Nobody tells me when I should lay down the scepter."

"No one can stop him, absolutely no one! Dejan Bodiroga is unstoppable!" the announcer shouted, unable to imagine anyone curbing this man’s offense.

Real Madrid’s jumpers continued to clang off the iron. This time it was Herreros who missed; the White Army’s perimeter shooting was nowhere to be found tonight. In the previous game, Real Madrid’s three-point touch had been scorching hot—the very reason they destroyed Maccabi after changing tactics. Regardless of the era, a wave of three-pointers always ends a game. But tonight, it was as if the Madrid players’ fingertips had been frozen by the Nordic chill.

Barcelona sensed the blood in the water. Bodiroga used a screen to penetrate, Varejão’s pick carving out a path. Upon meeting Lynch’s help defense, Bodiroga didn't force the issue; he suddenly decelerated and stepped back behind the three-point line.

Lynch switched out directly to defend Bodiroga one-on-one!

Thirty thousand spectators rose like a tide, dozens of cameras frantically adjusting their focus. Under a galaxy of flashbulbs, the old and new kings stood half a meter apart in silent confrontation, their sharp gazes sparking in the air. This was the duel for the handover of the scepter!

No one could stop Bodiroga from scoring, but what if that person was Lynch?

Dejan Bodiroga dribbled between his hands, a smile on his face: "Kid, you want the crown? Reach out and take it yourself, if you can reach it!"

Bodiroga accelerated, his crossover linked into a fluid behind-the-back change of direction. Amidst the sharp squeak of sneakers on hardwood, this supposedly lumbering forward showcased a more lethal aesthetic of penetration than any point guard. But Lynch’s speed was even greater; he waved his arms, blocking Bodiroga’s path.

"Hmph." Bodiroga sneered, stopping short, his muscles coiled like springs. The moment he gathered the ball, he deliberately cast his gaze toward the rim. Lynch reacted reflexively, raising his center of gravity and reaching to contest. In that instant, the Serbian magician’s left hand had already shifted.

Dejan Bodiroga caught Lynch’s shift in gravity, put the ball back on the floor, and used his height to spin, leaving his defender behind forever. He hadn't actually gathered the ball; it was a "Hesitation" fake.

The rim magnified in the Serbian’s vision. Bodiroga could even hear the sighs of the NBA scouts on the sideline. So what of Lynch? Is he really that impressive? The Madrid No. 10 was indeed a bit harder to deal with than others, but that only added a few steps to his offensive repertoire. As he had said, even Lynch could never make him experience a humiliating moment like the one Jorge Garbajosa had.

Bodiroga elegantly lifted the ball. That graceful arc was about to kiss the net, and the Barcelona fans in Nokia Arena were ready to cheer for their King. This possession was over.

But suddenly, the smile on Bodiroga’s face vanished.

*Bang!*

The sound of the ball slamming against the backboard exploded through Nokia Arena. The hair on the back of Bodiroga’s neck stood on end. How? He had clearly left him completely behind!

"Lynch! He blocked Bodiroga’s sure-fire layup! Even the King of Europe cannot gain an advantage in a one-on-one against Lynch!" the announcer screamed.

On the sidelines, the NBA scouts witnessed once again how top-tier talent crushes top-tier technique. The massive force of the collision sent Bodiroga crashing to the floor; his fate was even more wretched than Jorge Garbajosa’s had been. And as Garbajosa had said, Bodiroga couldn't laugh now.

He saw the opponent he had viewed as a child sweeping across the court like a hurricane, pushing the ball up himself. Upon reaching the three-point line, Lynch gathered the ball and took two long strides. Everyone thought he would go for a layup, but he took off from a step inside the free-throw line, soaring through the air like a fire-breathing dragon before slamming the ball home!

Bodiroga’s absolute reign over European basketball had been dealt its first crack by this boy, who had followed up his block with a coast-to-coast slam. Lynch descended from the rim, staring straight at Bodiroga, who lay on the floor in the opposite half.

The feel of Rolls-Royce leather seats, the alluring red lips of a saleswoman, the staggering figures of a hundred-million-dollar contract, the spotlight of the NBA Draft night—these burning desires now crystallized into one concrete goal: Destroy Dejan Bodiroga!

Lynch’s chest heaved violently, as if trying to suck the entire arena into a vacuum—along with the dying breath of Bodiroga’s twilight, along with the cheers of the Catalan fans, along with the arrogance seeping from the old bones of a thirty-one-year-old—all burning into ash in his alveoli.

For several possessions thereafter, the invincible Bodiroga missed shot after shot under Lynch’s defense. Those magician’s tricks that had once made Europe tremble lost their magic in front of Lynch.

At the end of the first quarter, Barcelona trailed by 5 points. Bodiroga had shot 2-for-7 in the first, his team’s offense relying entirely on Carlos Navarro’s floaters.

As the buzzer sounded, Bodiroga sat on the bench, gritting his teeth. The entire arena stared at the court, fixated on the only person capable of stopping Dejan Bodiroga. Perhaps, he would be the next to wear the crown.

At this moment, a shout suddenly erupted from the Real Madrid fans in the stands.

"Hey Dejan, you useless old bone, it’s time to retire!"

In his thirty-one years, Bodiroga had heard insults like "tyrant," "dictator," and even "devil," but no one had ever used the word "retire" to humiliate him. Yet, as Herreros had said, the younger generation would always provide answers you never thought possible.