The Summer League opener in Las Vegas was a furnace. The air hung thick with the smell of popcorn and sunscreen, and the stands, packed with scouts and casual fans, buzzed like a beehive. Lin Mo stood at half-court during pregame introductions, his sneakers sticking to the slightly sticky floor of the Thomas & Mack Center, and thought for a second of the cracked concrete at Zhuoguang. This felt bigger—too big, maybe.
Phoenix's first unit trotted out, and their point guard, a wiry kid named Jax with a tattoo of a lightning bolt down his arm, stared Lin Mo down during the tip. "Heard you're the 'China wonder'," Jax said, grinning. "Let's see if the hype's real."
It took all of 90 seconds for Lin Mo to hit a wall. Jax's first move was a crossover so fast it blurred—left to right, the ball snapping between his legs like a whip—and by the time Lin Mo planted his feet, Jax was already past, floating a layup over the rim. The crowd ooohed. On the next possession, Jax did it again, this time using a behind-the-back dribble that left Lin Mo spinning, then slamming a dunk that made the backboard rattle.
"Nice D, rookie!" someone jeered from the front row. Lin Mo's jaw tightened. He'd spent weeks lifting weights, drilling footwork, but none of it felt like enough. Jax's speed wasn't just physical—it was mean, like he was trying to embarrass him.
Timeout. The Summer League coach, a grizzled ex-NBA forward, didn't bother with X's and O's. He just leaned in, sweat dripping off his nose. "You're playing his game," he said. "He wants you to chase. Stop chasing. Remember why you're here—you're not fast, but you're smart."
Lin Mo thought of the one-armed teen, tripping over his own feet during their first crossover drill. "It's not about how quick your hands are," he'd told the kid. "It's about when you move your hips." He'd demonstrated, shifting his weight slow, so the teen could see: the second your hips tilt, the defender commits.
Back on court, Jax went for the crossover again. This time, Lin Mo didn't flinch. He watched Jax's hips—they started to tilt left, just like the teen's did when he faked. Lin Mo stayed grounded, and sure enough, Jax pulled the ball back, trying to go right. But Lin Mo was already there, sliding laterally, his shoulder squared. Jax stumbled, and Lin Mo swiped the ball loose.
Fast break. He didn't rush. Half-court, he slowed, waited for the defense to collapse, then hit a cutting teammate for the layup. The bench erupted.
From there, it clicked. Defensively, Lin Mo stopped trying to block or steal—he just stayed in front, watching Jax's hips, his feet, the tiny tells. When Jax planted his left foot to drive, Lin Mo knew to shade right. When Jax's fingers tapped the ball twice before shooting, Lin Mo knew to jump.
Offensively, he used the same tricks. A slow first step to make Jax lean, then a quick burst past him. A fake pass to freeze the defense, then a layup. By the third quarter, Jax was yelling at his coach to sub him out.
Final stats: 10 points, 5 assists, 3 steals. Not the kind of numbers that made highlights, but when Lin Mo walked off, the Phoenix coach find him. "You play like you've been doing this 10 years," he said. "Most rookies try to prove they're the best. You just… play."
In the locker room, Lin Mo texted the Zhuoguang group chat: "Learned something today. Rhythm beats speed. Every time."
The one-armed teen replied almost instantly: "Told you! Can't wait to see you do it in the big games."
Lin Mo smiled, deleting the draft rumors he'd been about to google. Let them talk. He had a better way to measure progress—one hip shift, one well-timed pass, at a time.