053: Records Are Merely Footnotes, Only One Thing Truly Matters

After the first quarter concluded, the Garden was boiling.

Everyone in the arena was shouting at the top of their lungs.

People were waving their fists, jumping up and down, and hugging one another.

There was no trace of the previous lifelessness here; it was even more frantic than Detroit had been upon just capturing the championship ring.

Stephen A. Smith took off his glasses, staring blankly at the frenzied spectacle, his fingertips tingling.

The MSG in his memory had not been like this for a long, long time.

The MSG in his memory was the sparse applause from the stands during Patrick Ewing's twilight years as he dragged his injured leg to guard the paint alone, the chorus of boos raining down whenever Stephon Marbury clanked a jump shot...

He had witnessed the legendary night when Michael Jordan poured in 55 points here, and had watched Reggie Miller flash his infamous choke sign in utter contempt of all New York.

These images had become the memories of a generation of New York fans, and had branded themselves as an unshakeable gloom in Stephen A. Smith's heart.

Yet look at it now—after merely a single quarter, MSG had taken on an entirely new look!

The fans on-site were cheering for their winning specialist, New Yorkers unreservedly pouring their love onto Lynch.

Stephon Marbury looked around, some dusty memories being awakened.

He too had once set the pride of New Yorkers ablaze like a sky full of stars right here at Madison Square Garden, back during his days playing for Abraham Lincoln High School.

Ever since then, only Lynch had been able to make MSG this lively.

Mike Breen was likewise astonished by the reaction of the New York fans: "Lynch has crafted a brilliant opening act inside a hell-difficulty dungeon."

Of course, today's match was far from over, and New York had not yet firmly secured victory.

The Knicks began the second quarter holding a 7-point advantage, with most of the starters from both sides returning to the floor.

Shaquille O'Neal, whose scoring column remained at zero after the first quarter, sank into the low post and immediately displayed fierce aggressiveness.

Kurt Thomas wrestled closely with the giant beast like a bullfighter, using a perpetual-motion style of physical contact to disrupt the Shark's attempts to establish position.

This gritty defensive stalwart did not need to worry about fatigue, because the moment his sweat soaked through his jersey, Nazr Mohammed on the bench would immediately take over the relay baton, continuing the Shark's nightmare with an equally frantic entanglement.

In other words, there was not a single possession, not a single second, where the Shark could have an easy time in the low post.

Yet if it were solely Kurt Thomas and Nazr Mohammed, they naturally would not have been able to contain the Shark; what truly kept O'Neal on tenterhooks was that omnipresent number 20 ghost.

Given that Udonis Haslem posed very little offensive threat, Lynch was always roaming the perimeter of the paint with his long arms outstretched, making the passing lanes toward the Shark fraught with danger.

And the moment the basketball laboriously reached the Shark's hands, Lynch's help-defense and double-team would form at millisecond-speed.

Although the Knicks' interior defense still fell short of the iron fortress constructed by Detroit's twin Wallaces, the seamless coordination between Lynch and the other two blue-collar centers had successfully suppressed O'Neal's destructive power to a manageable range, making it difficult for the former paint overlord to stir up monstrous waves again.

The Shark's score wouldn't stay at zero forever today, but he certainly wasn't going to single-handedly kill the game.

O'Neal once again plunged into a bitter struggle, fighting desperately in the twilight era of low-post titans.

Seeing the Shark facing a hard road in the interior, Wade decisively signaled his teammates to clear the floor, resolving to take over the game himself.

Compared to the shackled Shark, the Knicks had no truly optimal way to deal with Wade on this night.

Lenny Wilkens tried numerous players to guard Wade one-on-one, but Stephon Marbury had zero inclination to lock horns and fight him tooth and nail, while Allan Houston and Penny Hardaway's aging legs looked like withered wood nailed to the floorboards when faced with Wade.

Grant Hill was the best perimeter defender against Wade in the Knicks' lineup; he possessed a wealth of experience, exceptional defensive footwork, and unwavering defensive focus.

Yet against a prime Wade, flawless positioning and anticipation still fell short.

Against a player like Wade, sometimes even if you gave him a couple of steps of cushion, he could still explode all the way to the rim in an instant without needing any runway.

This possession was a prime example: Grant Hill had controlled his defensive distance to the absolute limit, his eyes locked firmly on that number 3 jersey.

Yet the moment Wade accelerated, Grant Hill closed out with maximum speed, only to still be half a beat too slow.

Lynch rotated quickly for help-defense, but Wade used his freakish upper-body strength in mid-air to shrug off Lynch, threading the needle to deliver the ball to the temporarily un-double-teamed Shark.

O'Neal powered up in the the restricted area; without Lynch's double-team, Kurt Thomas facing a live-ball Shark was simply a piece of meat on a cutting board.

The Shark finally scored, but everyone knew the Knicks' true trouble was the black lightning wearing the number 3.

"Dammit..." Lynch began to longing for that tomato-loving clumsy giant from Shanghai.

It was an undeniable fact that the Knicks couldn't stop Wade. In Europe, at the Olympics, Lynch had never encountered any "unleaded" or "unstoppable" figure. Yet in his very first official NBA game, he had run straight into one.

This was precisely why the NBA was the highest cathedral in the basketball world.

Yet this was nothing to be ashamed of; a healthy Wade's penetration was inherently an unsolvable proposition in the league.

There was only one thing Lynch needed to do right now, and that was to render himself equally unguardable.

---

Grant Hill's nightmare ended, which simultaneously meant that Udonis Haslem's defensive purgatory was about to begin.

Haslem's primary defensive trait was extreme toughness, but when your speed, size, and strength held no advantage, so-called iron-willed grit was nothing more than a candle flickering in the wind.

Lynch raced to the frontcourt, weaving through the forest of muscles like an early-version KD, hunting for catch-and-shoot opportunities.

Haslem struggled terribly amidst the layered screens, and by the time Lynch received the timely pass from Hill in his right-wing midrange sweet spot, Haslem had already been left far behind.

Eddie Jones leaped desperately in a hurried closeout, only to despairingly discover that Lynch's release point had long since surpassed the skyline reachable by his fingertips.

"Swish!"

The tactical intuition rooted in the European youth training system made Lynch's off-ball movement nearly impossible to track; although his jump-shooting lethality had not yet reached KD's terrifying realm, it was already more than enough to nail Haslem to the pillar of shame.

"Damn it! This fucking soft-ass punk only knows how to run around screens for cheap buckets!" Haslem raged.

Wade patted him on the back, amusement mixed with helplessness: "Give it a rest; Lynch has already dunked right over your head plenty of times today."

Haslem: ......

Gee, thanks a lot for kindly reminding me, pal!

Wade's soul-crushing critique left Haslem speechless, forcing him to glare in frustration at Lynch's steadily climbing scoring tally on the scoreboard.

People began to realize that today was not a duel between Lynch and the Shark after all, but rather a duel between Lynch and Wade.

Just as many commentators had predicted prior to the start of the season, the Eastern Conference was a gladiatorial arena where young, elite talents tore each other apart.

There was no room for face-saving detours; you simply had to carve a bloody path through other equally gifted opponents.

Lynch had practically ruined Haslem; he could carve out catch-and-shoot spaces through off-ball motion, manufacture points via unreasonable drives, and test the Heat's defense using 3-4 pick-and-rolls.

Wade's brick-wall defense and Marbury's passive, listless resistance rendered the highly anticipated 1-4 pick-and-roll a dud, yet it unexpectedly birthed the lethal synergy of Lynch and Hill as a golden duo.

Grant Hill was inherently a pick-and-roll maestro, always capable of precisely locating driving lanes the moment a screen was set.

He could use screens to attack the rim, or dish out timely passes amidst collapsing defenses. His mind remained ever-clear, controlling turnovers even better than some traditional point guards.

Initially, the Shark could still guard the rim with great enthusiasm, thwarting a few drives by Lynch and Grant Hill.

However, as the Shark's passive consumption on the offensive end grew heavier, the behemoth's defensive footwork became increasingly sluggish, while Lynch and Hill's efficiency in attacking the basket climbed steadily.

As Hill transformed into the Knicks' second battering ram, Haslem was forced into making a desperate choice during pick-and-rolls: temporarily abandoning Lynch to hedge against Hill.

Yet coincidentally, Lynch's midrange shooting touch was exceptional today, and his pick-and-pop jumpers off screens with Hill kept falling.

He might not have fully unlocked Korver's shooting prowess, but even if he had only unlocked half of it, the consistency of his catch-and-shoot jumpers was incomparable to his past self.

The score gap widened bit by bit. By the fourth quarter, Wade had already started panting.

His penetration was invincible, but tonight the offensive burden the Heat placed squarely on his shoulders was simply too heavy; the entire team's offense relied on him.

Time and again he tore through the defense, only to despairingly find that he was completely unable to lead the Heat to a comeback.

Every time he managed a grueling finish, Hill only needed a single pick-and-roll to assist Lynch in effortlessly sinking a jump shot.

With nine minutes left in the fourth quarter, when Hill once again drove and kicked out to assist Lynch on a mid-to-long-range jumper, Lynch's score had reached 37 points—making him only the sixth player in NBA history to score 30 points in his debut.

The sweat shed during the summer now transformed into individual bullets, leaving the Miami Heat riddled with holes.

The Heat had fallen behind by 11 points, and Wade was beginning to run out of steam.

He called for a screen once again, shedding Hill, only to have his shot at the rim blocked by Lynch.

"What took you so long, man? Is your gas pedal stuck?" Lynch mocked into Wade's ear after completing the block.

Wade was undoubtedly still fast, but indeed a fraction slower than before. Yet that minuscule difference was the exact margin between a made basket and a blocked shot.

The Knicks attacked amidst the roar of the entire arena, and the camera panned to the sidelines, where Knicks head coach Lenny Wilkens was drawing circles at his temple with his index finger. The people of Miami did not yet know that he had issued the order to finish off the Heat.

Following that signal, the Knicks abandoned the 3-4 pick-and-roll. Lynch directly handled the ball on the perimeter, holding his right index finger high into the air.

Kurt Thomas stepped out to set a screen for Lynch.

True to habit, the Shark retreated defensively without stepping up. Lynch used the single screen to shift half a step of space and immediately pulled up for a midrange jumper—Lynch's pull-up shooting wasn't his most stable weapon, but that didn't mean you could simply leave him that wide open on a night when his hands were scorching hot.

"Swish!"

"Damn it, where is Shaq?!" Lynch spread his hands.

Shaq was suffering, because one possession later he committed a turnover under the double-team of Lynch and Kurt Thomas.

Holding a 12-point lead, Lynch repeated his trick, personally handling the ball before calling for a screen.

"Damn it! Damn it!" The Shark was reminded of the damn Sacramento Kings, the team best at utilizing pick-and-rolls to punish the Shark.

He had no choice but to step out, switching onto Lynch the moment the screen was set.

Yet against Lynch's speed, the Shark's perimeter contest was entirely window dressing.

"Boom!"

He watched helplessly as Lynch blew past him for a one-handed dunk, his dignity being ripped to shreds.

That's right, Lenny Wilkens' strategy to close out the game was to let Lynch attack a physically depleted Shark.

For the Shark, this was a cruel strategy, for he was beaten front and center by Lynch without a single excuse.

Spike Lee's eyes widened; Lynch already had 37 points, and there was still time left on the clock.

What the fuck...

Wade hit a midrange jumper on this possession, but they were still down by 13 points, his effort akin to pouring a cup of lukewarm water over a burning forest.

Haslem decided to pressure Lynch directly, denying him clean dribbles.

Seeing this, Lynch handed the ball to Hill and then cut into the paint off an off-ball screen from Kurt Thomas.

Faced with the Shark's obstruction, Lynch posted up, his raised right arm resembling the Goddess of Victory lifting a torch.

He was actually going to back down the Shark!

"I'm gonna kill you!" The Shark used every ounce of his strength to shove Lynch outward. Lynch was pushed half a step away from the paint, but quickly regained his footing and caught Hill's feed.

The instant he received the ball, Lynch executed a drop-step spin drive!

He had to be quick, because Haslem was rotating over to double-team. Once the double-team arrived, Lynch's post spin would be neutralized.

O'Neal was beaten off the dribble once again, and the prideful interior giant despairingly reached out a massive paw to grab the fluttering number 20 jersey, but Lynch still broke free and laid the ball in.

Simultaneously, the referee's whistle blew.

Having already notched 39 points, Lynch was heading to the line for an and-one!

The fans at Madison Square Garden were not merely excited now; they were tense.

The entirety of New York was waiting for a milestone destined to be recorded in history.

Before this opening night tip-off, Knicks fans had already raised their expectations for Lynch infinitely, yet Lynch told them: "You guys are still fucking too conservative."

Lynch stepped up to the free-throw line, flanked by the Shark arguing with the referee and a dazed, blank-staring Wade.

Number 20 looked coldly upon it all, utterly calm. It was as though the world had been muted, leaving only the silence between the rim and Lynch.

Normally, a rookie encountering such a scenario would undoubtedly feel joy, excitement, unable to hide a grin, perhaps even sacrificing the team victory just to chase a record.

Yet Lynch was no ordinary rookie.

He was the Caesar who had swept Europe at age 18.

He was the Olympic champion who had conquered the global basketball world.

He wasn't here to merely play in the NBA; he was here to conquer the NBA.

On the brightest, most watched stage in the entire world, Lynch lofted his free throw.

The moment the basketball swished through the net, the Heat were definitively extinguished.

Amidst the roaring fans and the opponents' despairing timeout, Lynch walked off the court, head coach Lenny Wilkens' palm landing heavily on Lynch's back.

"Congratulations, Lynch, a new record—never in NBA history has a player scored 40 points in his debut. Oh, make that two records: also the youngest 40-point scorer in history."

Lynch tilted his head back to finish his Gatorade, knowing full well that all of this was merely a footnote, and only one thing truly mattered.

"Glad we won," the young Caesar replied calmly.

-----------------

(I must offer a brief defense here. Seeing some fathers worry that the match would be dragged into a forced clutch finish, followed by the protagonist hitting a forced game-winner... Please, I already avoided this trope in my previous book. In fact, from Europe to the Olympics in this book, aside from the European final against Barcelona which required depicting Lynch's transformation, every single match has been decisive and clean-cut: win when you should win, lose when you should lose. Although the match against Argentina went down to the final moments, I resolved it in just a single chapter; there is no so-called first act, second act, or third act structure here. So fathers, don't worry too much, don't over-speculate, just sit back and enjoy the read.)

(Of course, this doesn't mean every game will be either a blowout or a loss. I can only say that even if a game gets tight, or features a game-winner, I won't write the matches to be bloated or lengthy.)

(As for worrying that the protagonist is the type of spineless nice guy... has Milicic been forgotten just like that?)

(Lastly, thank you for your support, fathers. I'm begging for tips and votes, kowtowing to you all!)