037: He Left (Please Keep Reading!)

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The Lakers’ overseas scout, Antonio Marcelas, had drunk too much beer.

The excess beer churned in his stomach, forcing him, at the most crucial moment of the game, to stagger over, shove his notebook into his assistant’s hands, and sprint for the restroom.

To his astonishment, even the men’s room had a long line.

He tried several other restrooms, but every one of them was packed with people waiting.

More than twenty flushed men crowded before each entrance, their leather shoes tapping impatiently against the tiles in a ceaseless clamor.

Marcelas was speechless. How could every men’s room be full? Had someone been filming one of those provocative videos inside, with people gathering around to watch?

Only after asking around did he learn that two toilets in Nokia Arena had suffered blocked drains that evening, forcing everyone toward the few remaining facilities.

“Damn it! Is this the standard of infrastructure in a major European stadium? Fuck, did they outsource the work to Indians?” Marcelas grumbled inwardly, his bladder under enormous pressure.

As the NBA’s top overseas scout battled desperately against his bodily needs, the game resumed.

Carlos Navarro had already scored twenty-three points that night. With Dejan Bodiroga collapsing, he had saved the Barcelona team he loved.

Now he and his teammates needed only to do one more thing to deal with that astonishingly gifted No. 10 beast: suffocate him with their collapsing defense.

Barcelona had already won the fourth quarter of their first meeting with precisely that tactic.

Lynch had gotten a few shooting opportunities in that game, but he had been unable to finish it.

Today, Barcelona had decided to solve the Lynch problem in exactly the same way.

Barcelona attacked first.

Carlos Navarro was clearly less at ease facing the taller Teodosic.

Teo’s height had settled at six feet five, making him outstanding for a point guard. He was not a gifted defender, but his attitude was aggressive enough. Using his size and physicality, he kept pressuring the Spanish Bomb.

Navarro was about to come around a screen when Teodosic lowered his center of gravity and flashed a quick hand, knocking the ball loose!

His momentum carried him too far forward, sending him crashing heavily to the floor, but Teo still clamped the ball beneath him, securing a crucial possession for Real Madrid.

The game settled into half-court action. Lynch wove through Barcelona’s ironclad defense, cut into the paint, then raised a hand to signal Vrzic.

Barcelona assumed Lynch was once again setting an off-ball screen for Vrzic. But when Lynch lifted his hand, Vrzic instead stepped across and blocked Anderson Varejao.

Lynch abruptly cut back out to the three-point line and received a behind-the-back pass from Teodosic after the point guard’s drive.

Bodiroga hurried to switch onto him, but Barcelona’s collapsing scheme kept him from pressing Lynch closely, leaving a small cushion between them.

Lynch did not hesitate. He rose and fired from beyond the arc.

The instant the ball left his fingertips, Lynch knew it was going in. He pulled his hand back in advance and made a shooting gesture.

“Get closer, baby. Shy now!?”

Swish!

“Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Bodiroga could no longer endure the humiliation.

Then George Facka appeared once more.

“You calling me, brother?”

“I wasn’t fucking calling you! I wasn’t! How many times do I have to say it!?”

For a moment, Bodiroga’s cerebral blood vessels nearly burst.

Lynch had buried a three, narrowing the gap.

But Barcelona was not rattled. Lynch certainly possessed an arsenal of mid- and long-range weapons, but when the clock entered its final seconds, his shooting would never be as terrifying as his attacks on the rim.

At that moment, the Catalan certainty still floated through the air of Nokia Arena in the form of confident smiles.

Barcelona attacked. Carlos Navarro was knocked off balance by Teo during the collision, yet his wrist remained as steady as though equipped with a precision gyroscope. His soft floater kissed the backboard and dropped through the net.

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That classic move, later adopted into Stephen Curry’s arsenal, was now keeping Barcelona four points ahead.

The red-and-blue scarves of the Catalan supporters still waved confidently in the stands, but that composure was pierced soon afterward, when Lynch knocked down another shot from the elbow.

The scouting report in John Paxson’s hands was clenched into wrinkles. If they could land this No. 10, a player possessing both an enormous heart and a killer instinct, they would fight for the top pick even if it meant dismantling half the roster!

The NBA was not short on freakish physical talents. Dwight Howard, from Southwest Atlanta Christian Academy in the 2004 draft class, possessed a body of historic proportions as well.

But players who had the determination and courage to change a game in its decisive moments were rare.

There was not the slightest trace of fear or hesitation in Lynch’s release. One had to understand that it represented more than his desire to win. It also meant that he was prepared to shoulder the responsibility of losing the championship.

He was a young man who had already revealed the qualities of a leader. Greatness was his destiny!

Barcelona failed to widen the lead in the minutes that followed.

Because Lynch had hit jump shot after jump shot on four consecutive possessions!

This berserker, who had always cleaved defenses apart with a battle-axe, was now silencing the Catalan stands with assassin-like elegance. Their smiles froze with every ripple of the net.

Teodosic always found the perfect moment and angle to pass to Lynch. Lynch did not even need to adjust his feet; he could rise and score immediately.

After Lynch poured in nine straight points, Real Madrid moved three points ahead of Barcelona.

The red-and-blue army called timeout. Coach Svetislav Pesic’s latest instruction was simple:

“Step up slightly when Lynch shoots, but keep the defense collapsed overall.”

After the timeout, Carlos Navarro cut through the defense and finished a beautiful layup, reducing the deficit to one.

The next defensive possession was of vital importance to Barcelona. If they could stop Lynch, the balance of victory would unquestionably tilt back toward them—and perhaps even the destination of the championship would be decided by it.

Lynch first established position in the paint, leaning into Varejao. What he was carrying on his shoulders was not merely Varejao, but the entire backbone of Madrid.

After the physical battle, Lynch suddenly shoved the Brazilian away and ran toward the perimeter.

He was going to shoot another jumper!

Dejan Bodiroga chased after him, deftly slipping around the screen Vrzic had set. He had known the Greek would be waiting there.

But after getting around Vrzic, Bodiroga suddenly found himself face-to-face with Real Madrid’s bald-headed captain.

Boom!

The muffled impact of the two giants colliding made the courtside reporters’ hands tremble. Yet the referee allowed the pair to roll across the floor, the silence of his whistle suffocating.

George Facka immediately rotated over to help, but Lynch’s height and wingspan left the Italian with no chance of reaching the ball.

“Damn it!”

As his desperate fingertips barely brushed Lynch’s elbow, the orange-and-black EuroLeague ball traced a fatal arc through the air, accompanied by the Italian’s despairing curse.

The ball flew—and, just like Lynch’s previous four attempts, dropped straight through the net.

“Eleven straight points! Lynch has forty-one tonight! My God, who can stop him? No one can stop him from taking the championship now!”

As the announcer roared, Marcelas’s assistant sprang nervously to his feet.

Meanwhile, after waiting in line for what felt like an eternity, Marcelas had finally reached the restroom entrance.

His bladder was like a balloon on the verge of exploding. He had reached his limit.

Just then, a man walked out of the restroom, meaning that Marcelas had finally secured an open stall.

He was about to step inside and enjoy the most wonderful moment of his life when his assistant suddenly appeared and grabbed him.

“Antonio! You have to witness this with your own eyes, or you’ll regret it for the rest of your life!”

“What the fuck? Hey, wait—hey!”

The assistant ignored Marcelas’s shouts and dragged him bodily back into the arena.

At that moment, Barcelona had only five seconds left on the shot clock.

Real Madrid had just used perfect team defense to smother every one of Barcelona’s options. With the final seconds ticking away, they had put the ball in the hands of Carlos Navarro, the young man about to save Barcelona.

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After catching the ball, Navarro accelerated immediately. Even with time running dangerously short, he calmly executed a behind-the-back change of direction.

The move shook off Teodosic, and Navarro instantly rose for the shot after creating space.

But this time, because Barcelona had so little time remaining on the clock, Lynch had no reason to worry about Navarro passing. He rotated over early and leapt with every ounce of strength in his body.

Navarro stared in astonishment at the tower that had suddenly risen before him. No shot could get over that wall—not even his floater.

“Fuck off! You think you’re getting past my fingertips!?”

Bang!

“Juan Carlos Navarro’s floater is blocked by Lynch! Good heavens, he has completely dominated the final three minutes of this game!”

Possession changed hands. Only twenty-six seconds remained.

If Real Madrid could convert this possession, the fierce battle would finally have its answer.

Antonio Marcelas endured the agony in his bladder, his eyes fixed on the court.

Lynch was only one step away from the most perfect ending imaginable. Could he do it?

This time, Lynch drifted beyond the three-point line early in the possession. Anderson Varejao no longer dared to leave him open, sticking to him like a shadow.

After receiving the ball, Lynch glanced at the Brazilian who was always using theatrics to disgust him. Contempt filled his eyes.

The trembling of Varejao’s knees had already betrayed the Brazilian’s fear.

“Hey,” Lynch whispered. “Playtime’s over, Fro.”

Lynch dribbled. He blew past Varejao in practically a single step and drove straight into the paint.

Dejan Bodiroga instinctively rotated to protect the rim. This was his final chance to preserve the crown.

But once Lynch rose into the air, all that remained for Bodiroga was despair.

Lynch spread his legs and, with a leap from an entirely different level, straddled Bodiroga beneath him.

Time froze.

A body stretched taut like a bow. A dunk that tore through the sky. The contorted face of the opponent beneath him.

Together, they formed the most iconic image of regicide in the new century of European basketball.

The succession from the old king to the new was completed in that instant.

Boom!

Riding the arrogant Dejan Bodiroga, Lynch slammed the ball through the hoop one-handed!

Only moments earlier, the young Barcelona player who had tried to save the game had been ended by Lynch.

Now the once-proud king had fallen as well.

Lynch landed. The scoreboard made its final change.

With a miraculous thirteen straight points, he completely killed the game and ended the struggle for the European throne!

At the same time, he had fulfilled everything he had said before.

Navarro, blocked. Varejao, beaten off the dribble. Bodiroga, sent flying.

Every Barcelona player and fan now stared in terror.

He had made them afraid of him.

Those words of warning echoed in the ears of every Catalan supporter:

I don’t care whether my enemies curse me. I only need to make sure they fear me.

In the stands, with his emotions reaching their peak, Marcelas felt warmth spread through his trousers.

He had gone.

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