Opening night: Lakers vs. Nuggets. Lin Mo was active but rooted to the bench—until the fourth quarter. Watching, he stopped tracking stats, focusing instead on Denver's guard: every crossover, his right foot dragged half a turn.l
Five minutes left, 88-88. Coach yelled, "Lin! Check in, guard their backup."
He shed his warm-ups, sprinting on—then heard familiar voices. Zhuoguang kids in the stands, the one-armed teen holding a sign: "Trick 'em, Bro Lin!"
Defense: he breathed short, sharp breaths, just like he'd taught—"Don't hold it when you're hit." Ten seconds left, he stole the ball, racing upcourt as a defender chased. Lin Mo didn't speed up—he paused.
Final whistle: 90-88. Teammates mobbed him; LeBron ruffled his hair. "Kid, this is just the first one."
Lin Mo stared at his hands, sweat dripping to the floor, a small dark spot spreading. No fanfare, just quiet certainty—like after practice, watching kids chase the ball.
His NBA had just blown its first whistle.