050: I am not a performer who carves the Chosen One onto his skin (Please follow and read!)

The sunlight of Belgrade slanted across the FMP youth training facility. Amidst the rhythmic echoes of basketballs colliding with wooden floors, Lin Chi and Milos Teodosic were engaged in grueling jump-shooting drills.

Familiar surroundings, familiar faces. For a fleeting second, Lin Chi had the eerie sensation that everything was merely a dream, and that he was still just an obscure youngster in the FMP youth ranks.

Then Bosko Djokic’s booming voice shattered the thin membrane of space and time.

"Hey! Boss!"

The playful shout carried a distinct undertone of respect.

During the rainy season two years ago, Bosko’s gaze toward Lin Chi had been filled with pity and regret; he had believed that this gifted kid would likely never make it in professional basketball.

Two years later, that same kid had become a globally celebrated basketball superstar—and Bosko’s boss.

A month ago, Lin Chi bought FMP and funded the construction of a brand-new youth training complex for the club.

This could hardly be considered a serious investment, as Serbian clubs possessed very little commercial value. Lin Chi did it purely out of affection.

"Bosko, I told you to stop using that archaic title." Lin Chi sent the ball precisely through the hoop, the crisp swish of the net echoing once more.

He felt certain that the training-efficiency-boosting item obtained after winning the Olympic gold medal was definitely working. He could feel his jump shot becoming increasingly effortless, bringing him ever closer to the level of Kyle Korver.

"Alright, boss, no problem, boss. The NBA preseason training camps are about to start, aren't they? Why are you still here?" Bosko deliberately shouted "boss" twice more, much like Lin Chi used to intentionally call him "The Mediterranean Commander" back in the day.

"New York is too noisy." Lin Chi’s reply was shockingly simple.

Now he finally understood why Nikola Jokic always couldn't wait to flee the United States at the end of every season.

It was a clamorous place where every move you made was captured by the media, where television sets were perpetually flooded with the bickering of basketball pundits, and where you had endless commercial events to attend and an inexhaustible supply of "friends" to meet. You might want to gaze up at the blue sky, but if you stepped outside without sunglasses, you would be blinded within minutes by the flashbulbs.

Such an atmosphere bred restlessness and made it impossible to quiet one's mind.

He simply wanted the breeze of Serbia to linger a little longer, to blow away the superficiality and distractions clinging to his jersey.

Teodosic gave his wrist a slight flick, tossing the orange leather ball out toward the three-point line. Lin Chi caught it and bent his knees in one fluid motion. To this day, he still believed that Teo’s passes felt the most comfortable.

The morning light outlined Lin Chi’s increasingly chiseled muscle definitions. The instant the net flipped upward with a snap, he caught his close friend wearing a teasing smile.

"Too noisy? What? Are you woken up every morning by maids wearing only ripped stockings?"

"Heh, I should be asking you. Why did you sign a three-year contract with Olympiacos? Are you not coming to the NBA? Tell me, how many maids did they promise to assign to you?" Lin Chi deftly shifted the topic back to his good friend.

Because Teodosic had become teammates with Lin Chi, his fame was now far greater than it had been in the original timeline. Mainstream media generally projected that he could be drafted in the second round of 2005 or 2006.

However, signing a long-term contract with Olympiacos would curtail his path to the NBA due to the presence of a buyout clause.

Any NBA team wishing to acquire him would have to pay Olympiacos a buyout fee. This undoubtedly increased the cost of obtaining Teodosic.

Teodosic’s fingertips unconsciously rubbed the pebbled texture of the basketball as he offered a bitter smile, "I don't have your kind of talent. I want to hone my skills in Europe first."

"The right timing for your arrival can make your NBA career run several times smoother. Don't miss it. If you're worried about completely rotting on the bench in garbage time during your rookie years in the NBA, all I can say is, you need to summon the courage to take that step forward."

Teodosic’s fingers trembled slightly. He felt that Lin Chi understood him far beyond what he could have ever imagined.

"Of... of course not because of that."

"Well then, I wish you the best of luck in Greece."

"Dinner at your restaurant tonight?"

"You forgot, my restaurant is in New York now."

"So far away... It's going to be very difficult for us to play together again."

"I'll be waiting for you in the NBA. Sooner or later, we'll be together." Lin Chi caught a pass from Teo and drained another shot.

He loved this feeling too much; it was the most comfortable pass in the world.

The two continued shooting. The steel trusses of the training facility dome cast intricate grids overhead, resembling the latitude and longitude of fate.

On the other side of the planet, Grant Hill hoisted his luggage and arrived in the crucible known as New York.

***

He could understand the decision made by the people in Orlando; he hadn't played properly for four seasons, and nobody knew how many games he would actually be able to play next season.

The Magic no longer needed immediate contributors; they now just needed to patiently rebuild around Dwight Howard.

Grant Hill’s massive contract ran until 2007, whereas Tim Thomas’s deal expired in 2006. All of these factors made the decision of the Magic's front office entirely understandable.

Yet he truly hated the timing. He had just expressed his love for Orlando, and the words he spoke had undoubtedly been an outpouring of genuine emotion.

However, the loyalty promised during the Orlando summer ultimately dissolved into old, faded scar tissue on a Knicks medical report.

That feeling was akin to laying bare your sincere heart to a woman foolishly, only to be ruthlessly mocked and slapped across the face in return.

There were very few people waiting at the arrivals gate. The city’s spotlight had long since been monopolized by Lin Chi, and Hill’s fading superstar halo seemed to overlap with the scuff marks on his suitcase at that moment.

A reporter from The New York Times hoisted a digital recorder, "Grant, do you think our brilliant general manager inexplicably traded for you because he figures you’ll somehow miraculously and suddenly be healthy next season and manage to play at least 50 games?"

The piercing question tore away the very last shred of decorum, causing Hill’s knuckles to turn white as he gripped the luggage handle. True to form, the New York media showed no mercy.

He was far too familiar with this tone. Every time he made a comeback over the past four years, the press conference hall had been laden with the exact same skepticism.

In external evaluations, this was viewed as yet another brain-dead trade orchestrated by Isiah Thomas.

They felt the Assassin could easily have used Tim Thomas to trade for a few useful role players rather than necessarily chasing another max-salary star.

Without the benefit of hindsight, a guy who averaged a mere 11 games per season could offer absolutely no help whatsoever to New York.

This was fundamentally an irresponsible gamble. The New York media and fans were already furious, and Stephen A. Smith was likely pounding away at his keyboard, preparing to eloquently inquire after the Assassin’s maternal lineage on his radio show.

"I will have my trainers draw up a comprehensive rehabilitation program," Hill replied in a raspy voice. He suddenly lifted his gaze toward the distant silhouettes of the concrete jungle. "Excuse me, could you tell me the way to Stark Tower? Perhaps I should ask Tony Stark to custom-make a set of reinforced skeletal armor for me."

His self-deprecating humor was steeped in bitterness.

Hill drove away, climbing into a car. The sparse flashes of camera bulbs only made the scene look all the more desolate.

Two years ago, when Bosko shook his head over Lin Chi’s physical assessment report, he had similarly handed down a death sentence to him—yet now Lin Chi was the darling of New York.

At this moment, the car window reflected the face of another condemned man. Some sort of fated reincarnation was quietly taking shape in New York.

Time flew by, and September embraced the returning son of basketball with a deafening roar in New York.

Lin Chi returned to New York to participate in the Knicks' media day activities for the new season.

At the press conference venue, the number of reporters present was absurdly high. The dense array of camera lenses resembled a cavalry defensive formation bracing for a charge, and the rapid-fire succession of shutter clicks sliced the air into fine layers of sound.

Aside from Lin Chi, those attending the press conference included Isiah Thomas, head coach Lenny Wilkens, and Knicks owner James Dolan—a notorious playboy who rarely made appearances at media day press conferences.

Dolan shook hands warmly with Lin Chi, the Assassin patted Lin Chi’s shoulder, and the three of them jointly hoisted Lin Chi’s new number 20 jersey in New York. New York’s number 10 already hung from the rafters of Madison Square Garden, belonging to Walt Frazier.

Number 20 was the number chosen with the help of Reebok’s marketing department after countless meetings. For a superstar, a jersey number was also a part of their trademark, and Reebok had scripted a narrative for the new number 20: "The number 10 jersey at the Belgrade youth training camp was soaked in the morning dew of the Balkan Peninsula; the number 10 battle armor of Real Madrid bore the starlight of Iberia. When those two number 10s intersected on the coordinate axes of fate, they ultimately melted and forged into the number 20 pulsating across the New York skyline at this very moment."

A reporter from The New York Times raised a hand, "Lin Chi, carrying the mantle of a savior to a New York franchise that has missed the playoffs year after year, do you feel any pressure?"

Lin Chi adjusted the lapel of his Armani suit and pulled the microphone closer. The smile on his face vanished, as if he were about to announce a matter of grave importance.

"I am not a savior, nor am I a performer who carves 'The Chosen One' into his skin." Dead silence fell over the audience; reporters universally held their breath. "I am simply an expert at winning."

This remark wasn't aimed at a certain someone in Cleveland who had tattooed "The Chosen One" across his back. Lin Chi merely wanted to state his stance—he didn't care at all about those idiotic titles, and thus felt entirely devoid of pressure.

Lin Chi believed he could continue winning in New York, because mere weeks after training camp commenced, veteran coach Lenny Wilkens swung his blade to sever the backcourt clutter, confirming one vital matter for the team: Stephon Marbury and Jamal Crawford must never share the court at the same time.

Lenny Wilkens proved himself to be the most reassuring figure for Lin Chi in this chaotic Knicks franchise, and he was handling things well.

Although the general manager, the "Assassin," fantasized that this backcourt pairing could erupt with the firepower of heavyweight boxers—having traded for Crawford explicitly to start him at the two-guard position, especially since Penny Hardaway and Allan Houston were no longer reliable—he had repeatedly proclaimed this backcourt duo as: "The next me and Old Jordan."

But that was merely a pleasant fantasy. Whenever those two guards shared the floor, the execution efficiency of any tactical scheme plummeted into the mud, with every offensive possession bogged down by their dribbling, while defensive rotations dissolved into absolute chaos.

Wise choices are often accompanied by growing pains. Jamal Crawford swallowed the bitter pill of coming off the bench in silence, though he didn't really have the capital to object anyway.

Moreover, Lin Chi believed that Jamal Crawford would grow to love the sixth-man role; he most certainly would.

Of course, saving New York wasn't quite that simple.

On the practice court, Lin Chi was leading Kurt Thomas, Nazr Mohammed, Grant Hill, and this year's second-round draft pick Trevor Ariza in forging a culture of iron discipline.

When Vin Baker and Tim Thomas departed, carrying their casual genes with them, the Knicks finally acquired the baseline capability to play defense.

Lenny Wilkens, who had taken over the team midway through last season, was like a craftsman patching a leaking ship. He had wanted to change the team's ethos, only to realize the vessel couldn't be patched at all because the ones steering it were guys like Marbury, Vin Baker, and Tim Thomas.

No matter how you patched it, they would inevitably ram another, even larger hole into the hull.

Now, however, the person at the helm was Lin Chi, and the preseason training camp served as a melting pot forging a defensive bulwark.

The entire New York Knicks roster shared a consensus—now, at this very moment, the core of Madison Square Garden was Lin Chi, no longer Stephon Marbury.

And the demeanor of a team's core could profoundly influence the demeanor of the entire squad.

He was willing to sacrifice himself on the defensive end to protect his teammates.

He would shout and holler, injecting passion into their defense.

He always led by example, never letting up even a fraction on the defensive end.

These were all things conspicuously absent from Stephon Marbury the previous season.

These sweat-drenched details were subtly reshaping the team culture of the Knicks.

Lin Chi’s maturity surprised Lenny Wilkens; he found it hard to believe that this young man trying to carry the entire team was only 18 years old.

To reiterate, the experience at Real Madrid was the greatest asset in Lin Chi’s basketball career.

The team was improving. Kurt Thomas, functioning as the most unabashed "Anti-Stephon" voice inside the Knicks locker room, told reporters, "We’ve finally found the right navigator."

The feud between Kurt Thomas and Marbury was long an open secret in the locker room. Last season, he had publicly complained about Marbury’s lazy style of play more than once. The most severe altercation stemmed from a tactical meeting last season when Marbury, wearing diamond stud earrings, had dozed off in the dim conference room; it was Thomas who directly hurled a marker from his hand straight at the head of New York's favorite son.

All of this had rendered their personal relationship extremely tense.

He had once vowed to smear hot sauce inside Stephon Marbury’s underwear to punish that bastard who never bothered to play defense.

Yet now, the fiery Kurt Thomas had become as obedient as a loyal hound: "I am more than happy to pave the way for a true warrior."

What was Stephon Marbury’s reaction to all of this?

He had no reaction.

He silently observed the shifting tides of the locker room like a faded bronze statue.

The outcome of the Olympic Games had stripped him of all leverage. He did not engage in a locker room power struggle with Lin Chi because he knew better than anyone else that he had long since forfeited the right to do so. Nobody would listen to him; nobody would support him.

Yet the Lone Wolf hadn't integrated into the current Knicks squad either. He drifted through the days aimlessly, a solitary figure who spoke to no one, simply punching in and punching out of work every day.

People could always see him mechanically completing basic drills, his gaze unfocused during tactical walk-throughs. He was constantly seen wandering like a silent phantom between his locker and the shower room, even the squeaking of his sneakers against the floorboards carrying a numbed quality.

At the very least, however, he hadn't become a destabilizing factor.

Just when Lin Chi thought he could begin reaping the fruits of their labor through preseason victories, the day before the preseason opener, Lenny Wilkens and the Assassin erupted into an unannounced, fierce argument.

"Isiah! I am the commander of the on-court rotations!" Veteran coach Lenny Wilkens's roar exploded like a thunderclap, his wrinkled palm slamming the tactical board viciously onto the floor, startling the players in the middle of their drills and causing them to turn their heads in shock.

The Assassin’s response was wrapped in a biting chill. He closed in on the veteran coach step by step, his gaze razor-sharp.

"Do you need me to remind you who holds the termination clause? In my team..." He suddenly raised his voice, his index finger jabbing aggressively through the air toward Jamal Crawford, who was dribbling outside the three-point line, "That guy wearing the number 11 jersey has to be in the starting lineup! Don't mess up my team!"

Ah, it seemed the real destabilizing factor was never Stephon, that stray dog.

"Are you guys... talking about me?" A bewildered voice pierced the tense atmosphere.

Jamal Crawford froze in place, dropping the basketball in sheer fright.

***

"Lin Chi simply doesn't understand what LeBron means to Cleveland. A guy like him will never grasp the sense of responsibility of carrying an entire city. An expert at winning? Let's see who's in the playoffs next season." — The Cleveland Plain Dealer.

"We don't have sunshine, business deals, or Hollywood asses. What do we have? LeBron James, that's our only hope. Lin Chi will never understand what the Chosen One means to us. He's an asshole, and asshole players always end up on the Knicks." — A Cleveland fan named Jared Sullinger told the host during a radio call-in segment.

"Cleveland comes from Latin, meaning 'unrealistic hope'." — Stephen A. Smith firing back on Lin Chi's behalf.