Chapter 54: Just Want to See How Far I Can Run (Seeking Follow-up Reads!)

When the score was completely blown open, and Lynch personally set a record right over the Shark's head, the Miami Heat had effectively been subjected to a public lynching.

Under the spotlight of Madison Square Garden, the Shark hunched his back and walked dejectedly toward the bench, while Lynch held his head high to accept the adoration of twenty thousand fans on-site.

Spike Lee sat dazed on the sideline. Forty points, eight rebounds, three assists, three blocks—Lynch's debut stat line flashed dazzlingly on the giant screen.

Ever since watching Lynch's games in person at the Olympics, Spike Lee had anticipated Lynch's NBA debut with the eager excitement of a child waiting for a birthday present. In New York, there were countless people just like Spike Lee.

And Lynch lived up to the expectations of the entire city.

Lynch did not return to the court for the remainder of the game, and New York fans transitioned smoothly into customary garbage time.

Mike Breen made a joke: "It seems that even a superstar who drops forty points in his debut cannot escape the traditional fate of New York games always entering garbage time."

Indeed, through many past seasons, games at MSG had been notoriously prone to entering garbage time early.

That era was always filled with the curses of disgruntled fans and Spike Lee's recurring vow: "If I ever come back to watch another game, I'm a dog."

Yet tonight, New Yorkers reveled joyfully in garbage time.

When Nazr Mohammed converted an awkward hook shot, the roaring, mountain-shaking cheers made one momentarily feel as though a player had just hit a half-court buzzer-beater to win the game. The victory had long since ceased to be in doubt, but New Yorkers still greedily savored the nectar of glory, rejoicing over every single basket.

The final buzzer sounded, 107 to 92, and the Knicks opened an entirely brand-new chapter in franchise history.

Spike Lee eagerly hurried forward to shake hands with Lynch, his eyes gleaming with fanaticism behind his glasses: "Man, it looks like I might have to drop Jordan Brand for you. Tomorrow I'm going to apply to Reebok as an ad director, and I'm dead serious!"

Spike Lee had deep ties with Nike; he wore Air Jordans to courtside, sported Nike caps, and had directed countless commercials for Nike as well as films centered around Nike athletes.

His signature Nike head-to-toe attire every single night had even become a cultural symbol on the sidelines of MSG.

Therefore, when he said he was willing to abandon Air Jordans for Lynch—even if only as a joke—it proved that he had become one of Lynch's most loyal supporters.

"The intern salary is quite low, you know," Lynch replied with a smile to the famous black director.

At that moment, Lynch saw countless reporters rushing wildly toward the player tunnel.

Just as he felt a hint of confusion, Spike Lee offered an explanation as if reading his mind.

"Those guys are going to charge into the locker room like maddened bulls, hoping to be the first to surround the empty chair in front of your locker and wait for your arrival."

Lynch nodded, not finding it particularly exaggerated; an NBA debut with forty points was indeed an achievement worthy of immense hype.

Before Lynch, the youngest player in NBA history to score forty points was the great Chosen One.

On March 28, 2004, rookie LeBron scored forty-one points, six rebounds, and thirteen assists against the New Jersey Nets, becoming the youngest forty-point scorer in NBA history at nineteen years and eighty-eight days old.

Cavaliers head coach Paul Silas was immensely emotional after the game: "We needed him to put on a great performance to save the entire team, and he did it. He did everything we needed!"

Of course, as history proved, Paul Silas had rejoiced far too early.

Because LeBron failed to accomplish the one thing the team needed most: leading them to the playoffs.

Regardless, that forty-point night was a magnificent night belonging to LeBron, the most flawless ammunition for Nike-affiliated media to hype up LBJ's raw talent, and premier material for the media to proclaim the arrival of the "LBJ Era."

Yet tonight, LeBron's greatness was overshadowed.

The spotlight of history had already begun to shift.

Having finished his post-game courtside interviews, Lynch returned to the locker room, only to find that his seat was indeed surrounded to the point of impenetrability.

Lynch squeezed through the crowd and finally sat down at his locker, where a barrage of questions was immediately hurled his way.

"What are your thoughts on Shaq saying that the officiating in the closing moments was proof of the NBA's star-making agenda tarnishing basketball?"

"Whether there was a foul or not, the Heat wouldn't have won. I don't know what Shaq is barking about. Whatever, I suppose losers are entitled to vent their frustrations in such an impotent manner."

Lynch adapted to the NBA at a rapid pace, and he adapted to the NBA's trash-talking culture even faster.

"Dwyane scored thirty-five points tonight as well. How would you evaluate his performance?"

"A great opponent, but not a winner."

"Grant Hill dropped nineteen points, seven assists, five rebounds, and two steals today. It seems he has completely emerged from the shadow of injuries. Do you think he will be the team's vital piece this season?"

"Man, Grant has made five All-NBA teams—more than anyone else in this locker room—and you're asking me if he's a vital piece? If I had made five All-NBA teams, you guys would already be booking interview slots with me for next March."

The reporters all burst into laughter, and Lynch effortlessly cultivated a relatively relaxed interview atmosphere.

Maintaining a good relationship with the media was something Lynch had to do.

Especially the New York media.

Soon enough, the person who had a notoriously poor relationship with the New York media was brought out to be whipped.

"Lynch, Stephon only recorded nine points and three assists today. Do you think he is hurting the Knicks?"

Had the reporter not reminded him, Lynch almost would have forgotten that there was a two-time All-Star guard on the team.

Stephon Marbury must have earned a degree from Hogwarts because he managed to successfully render himself invisible in plain sight.

During the first half of the game, Marbury still possessed a trace of presence.

But in the second half, when the playmaking duties were entirely assumed by Grant Hill, Marbury simply vanished.

He was standing right there on the court, yet even Lynch could not sense his presence.

When a man leaves others completely oblivious to his existence, it is nothing short of a disgrace.

In sharp contrast to his friendly, glowing praise for Hill just moments prior, Lynch did not mince words about Marbury: "I don't have much to say about Stephon. Aren't you guys used to it by now? If the atmosphere of victory itself cannot awaken a person, then his existence doesn't matter at all."

Lynch knew better than anyone that in the journalistic gladiatorial arena of New York, criticizing a teammate was often far more dangerous than criticizing an opponent, and criticizing a teammate who was playing poorly was the pinnacle of danger.

One misstep, and you could ruin the locker room.

Yet Lynch still uttered harsh truths because, within the locker room ecosystem of the Knicks, Marbury had long since become inconsequential. Not a single person in the locker room trusted him, and he held zero influence whatsoever.

When half-crippled veterans like Allan Houston and Penny Hardaway were diligently following the team's defensive schemes, Stephon Marbury's persistently lazy attitude proved beyond a doubt that he was beyond saving, having long since declared his own self-exile.

The young Lynch had no intention of making excuses for such a self-abandoned piece of garbage.

In fact, Lynch eagerly hoped that Isiah Thomas would pick up on his dissatisfaction and dispose of the Lone Wolf at the earliest opportunity.

The team did not need Stephon Marbury; Grant Hill had proven today that he could shoulder the ball-handling load.

At that very inopportune moment, Stephon Marbury walked into the locker room, looking vacant-eyed as he slumped down in front of his locker.

He stared at the dense sea of reporters, resembling a cockroach caught in a sudden beam of light, before grabbing his phone and retreating into the physical therapy room.

Following his perfect debut, the Knicks secured another victory against the Celtics before falling to the Timberwolves.

At the Target Center, Lynch encountered the first true, heavyweight rival of his professional career—Kevin Garnett in his absolute prime.

The peak Wolf King suppressed Lynch's scoring output to a mere sixteen points; of course, under Lynch's defense, Garnett was likewise limited to just fourteen points.

KG could match Lynch's speed, engage in physical combat with him, and inject the same level of passion into the defensive end as Lynch did.

"Playing against Lynch feels like facing your own shadow," Kevin Garnett said post-game. "Of course, the key to our victory was Sam, and right now I just want to kiss the handsomest man in the world!"

Whether Sam Cassell deserved to be called "handsome" remained a subject of debate, but Stephon Marbury's performance that night cemented his title as a "clown."

He allowed Cassell to rack up twenty-seven points, which served as the primary reason the Knicks lost the game.

In the first half, Stephon Marbury's performance was relatively normal, showing genuine effort on both ends of the floor.

Yet when he gave his all only to still watch Cassell score at will, he abruptly checked out mentally in the second half, giving up entirely.

As usual, Lynch expressed his dissatisfaction with Marbury during media interviews, and he certainly had the right to do so.

He had done everything within his power, setting screens for Marbury by letting bygones be bygones and covering for his defensive lapses. Back at Real Madrid, he had used this exact approach to unite everyone and capture the European Championship—this was Lynch's way of leading.

However, this tactic failed entirely on Marbury. The New York number three was like a stone impervious to entreaties, completely devoid of fighting spirit no matter what Lynch tried.

Lynch just wanted him gone as soon as possible.

Grant Hill, sitting at the locker adjacent to Lynch, witnessed all of this and silently wiped the sweat from his brow.

Lynch was phenomenal—unbelievably so. Prior to this, Grant Hill had never imagined that anyone could score forty points in an NBA debut, nor had he imagined that a rookie could hold his own in a direct duel against KG.

Hill was certain that playing alongside him meant they would win a great deal of games. Facing the Timberwolves today, the Knicks had only lost by five points.

Hill liked the current team culture, which was why he wanted to see this team improve further.

Stephon Marbury was the crucial pivot to making the team even better.

If Stephon Marbury could rediscover himself, this team would become truly formidable.

To take a step back, from the cold logic of reality, even if Lynch could no longer tolerate cooperating with Stephon Marbury, Marbury had to produce performances simply to elevate his trade value.

Having debuted at the pinnacle of success, Lynch found it difficult to understand someone like Stephon Marbury who had plunged into the abyss, and the young Caesar had no time to rescue such a stray lamb.

Grant Hill, however, could, because he intimately understood the feeling of plummeting from the mountain peak into the abyss.

The consummate good guy decided to have a talk with the lost New York number three—for Lynch's sake, and for the Knicks.

Outside the glare of the reporters' camera flashes, Grant Hill gazed at the partially ajar door of the physical therapy room and stood up.

Hill stepped inside. Marbury glanced up briefly before lowering his head once more to tap at his phone screen.

"Stephon, tough game out there," Grant Hill said, wearing his trademark good-guy smile, his gentle tone capable of putting anyone at ease.

"Yeah," Marbury's response was ice-cold.

"Hey, don't always be so negative. We're a strong team this season, and you deserve to be a part of this glory. You're a son of New York, aren't you?"

The screen of the phone Marbury clutched flickered erratically, casting the swaying glimmers of light reflected in his pupils.

"Lynch's brilliance is bright enough to illuminate ten New Yorks. As for me... forget it."

"You will always be a son of New York, unless you choose not to be."

"I don't want to be. I want to retire."

Stephon Marbury tossed his phone aside. The device landed on a soft cushion with a muffled thud, and he buried his face in his hands, screaming in a desperate, frayed voice.

"I don't want to play basketball anymore! Not ever again! I'm sick of going out there and making a fool of myself. You know how it is at the Garden! They hold up cameras not to record glory, but to wait and capture my misery! Tomorrow's newspapers... damn it! I don't even want to imagine what they'll say about me this time! I gave it everything I had in the first half, but the moment I thought about tomorrow's newspapers, I didn't even want to tie my shoelaces for the second half!"

Amidst the flying tears, Hill caught glimpses of countless fragmented images: the spirited Coney Island prodigy, the defiant rookie draped in a Timberwolves jersey, and finally, this broken fugitive curled up in the shadows, tearing himself apart piece by piece.

Falling from a genius down to mediocrity made the climb back up from hell unimaginably arduous.

From outside the therapy room, the clear sound of Lynch answering reporters' questions drifted in faintly, making the interior feel all the more like a dark, squalid dumpster.

"Stephon, when I first arrived in New York, the media gave me nothing but cold mockery and sarcasm. Yes, New York was hell for me back then, too.

"But what about now? The New York media is very polite to me. They praise me, and we get along swimmingly. Because we win, and because victory never fails those who give their all.

"My years of professional career have taught me only one thing: when you pour your heart and soul into winning, victory will naturally reward you.

"You always turn every single game into a pickup game on the asphalt of Coney Island, trying to scream at the world with every crossover dribble: 'Look, motherfucker, I'm worth twenty million!' When you hit a setback, you get crushed by the pressure of public opinion, and then you lose your focus.

"But we are long past the age where we need to prove our talent to scouts. Those cynical columnists from last season—what pissed them off wasn't you personally, but the Knicks' glaring number of losses.

"You could argue that the team didn't support you last season, making victory a luxury. But what about this season? What excuse do you have left?

"You will never get another chance to win this easily because you are running alongside Lynch now.

"You might get torched for thirteen points by Sam Cassell in the first half. But as long as we beat the Timberwolves, you will still be beloved."

"You don't understand at all. Even if we start winning streak after streak, even if they're smiling at you right now, it takes only one mistake, one single failure, for them to turn around and curse you out. Playing for them is completely meaningless!"

"You're right, there are some cynical media members and fans. But we don't play for any specific individual. Before I ever met them, and before they ever knew my name, I was already playing the game. I'm still running not for the applause of the media, but to see just how far I can run."

Grant Hill was the ultimate secondary star, not just because of his playing style, but because he could accomplish things in the locker room that Lynch could not.

Lynch was the general leading the charge at the forefront, but a team always needed someone to comfort the wounded soldiers.

The therapy room fell into a dead silence, until Marbury's raspy, derisive chuckle cut through the air: "Hell, you should go host a philosophy show on ESPN. You sound like a damn philosopher."

"Not really. I just read more than just the front cover of books," Grant Hill shrugged.

Over the next few games, Stephon Marbury's performances saw a rebound.

Facing the Philadelphia 76ers, he rediscovered his presence with eighteen points of offensive firepower; matching up against the Los Angeles Clippers, he posted twenty-one points and ten assists for his first double-double of the season.

The Knicks secured two consecutive wins, bringing their record to four wins and one loss.

As the tide of victory washed over Madison Square Garden, Marbury seemed to temporarily slip out of the media's shackles of judgment, his movements on the court regaining a long-lost fluidity.

Yet the furnace of public opinion did not completely spare him.

On November 16th, the New York Knicks were set to host the Phoenix Suns.

Stephon Marbury was once again thrust back onto the roasting spit, because after the Suns traded him away last season and signed Steve Nash this summer, they had stormed out to a five-win, one-loss start, boasting the league's number-one offense.

The tragedy of history seemed to loop: back when he was traded to swap places with Jason Kidd, Kidd immediately led the Nets to the Finals, which dealt the first major blow to public perception of Marbury. Now, Nash stepping into Marbury's shoes to orchestrate a seven-seconds-or-less offensive storm in Phoenix made Marbury's career look like a cursed tragedy.

He had to confront not only the brilliance of his replacement but also bear the original sin of being a "locker room cancer"—if every team became better the moment you left, then if you aren't the cancer, who is?

Yet this time, the overwhelming media reports failed to affect the New York number three.

He simply focused on training, prepared diligently for the matchup, and worked hard to tune out the external noise.

November 16th arrived, and Stephon Marbury matched up against Nash.

Lynch, meanwhile, squared off against Amar'e Stoudemire, who was averaging twenty-six points per game and had just torn a thirty-five-point fissure through the iron-clad defense guarded by Tim Duncan.

Therefore, Stoudemire confidently told the media before the game: "I don't think anyone can guard me, and Lynch probably won't be able to either."

There were always players in this world who mistook the platform for their own individual capability, much like Michael Jordan.

Scottie Pippen joined the NBA in 1987, putting up an outstanding regular-season stat line of 7.9 points, 3.8 rebounds, and 2.1 assists as a rookie, carrying an MJ—who played at a CBA-level averaging only 35 points, 6.5 rebounds, and 5.9 assists—straight into the playoffs.

In '97 and '98, as the Bulls' roster aged and repeatedly fell into perilous situations, Big Pip's miraculous exploits became even more pronounced.

In Game 5 of the '97 Finals, because Jordan had unwisely consumed tainted food before the game, he suffered from food poisoning and turned into a soft-legged shrimp. It was Pippen who stepped up to the plate, mustering an epic performance of seventeen points on 27.9% shooting to carry the team to victory. Post-game, the soft-legged shrimp Jordan, who had put up thirty-eight points on 48.1% shooting, tearfully flung himself into Pippen's arms, knowing full well that Pippen had saved him once again.

Particularly worthy of praise was Game 6 of the '98 Finals, inside the hostile territory of the Utah Jazz's Delta Center, where Jordan was so terrified his face turned pale and his performance utterly collapsed as he managed a paltry forty-five points. Yet Big Pip exploded for an epic eight points, three rebounds, and four assists, leading those CBA-bench-tier players to defeat the mighty Jazz, a feat forever celebrated by mankind!

Thus, MJ's status as the GOAT was never secure, destined to be threatened years later.

Stoudemire was clearly another player who mistook the platform for his own capability.

Lynch originally thought that before the game began, he would be the first to hear some trash talk from Stoudemire.

Instead, the very first person to speak to him was Marbury—their first actual communication before a tip-off.

Marbury walked over to Lynch's side, placing his hands on his hips: "I'll lock down Steve completely, I promise. So don't split your focus tonight to cover my back; you just concentrate on handling Amar'e. Not that I'm taking his side, but he's got some real tricks. Be careful."

Hearing words like "lock down completely" come out of Marbury's mouth was like hearing Magic Johnson claim he lived a pristine, celibate lifestyle.

Sensing the hint of skepticism in Lynch's eyes, Marbury shrugged: "Believe it or not, I'm going into battle right alongside you. Don't let me lose this game, please, Lynch."

The hunger burning in the Lone Wolf's eyes caused Lynch's attitude to shift slightly.

"Yeah."

The young Caesar reached out and patted the head bearing the star-logo branding.