The PA system blared as Lin Mo jogged onto Staples Center's court, and for a split second, the noise dissolved: a kid in the front row waved a sign—"We Miss Your Passes"—and somewhere behind the hoop, a fan screamed, "Take your time, Lin!" He touched the tape wrapped around his right palm, the fabric still faintly scented with the minty balm the camp trainer had sent ("Good for sore hands," the teen had texted).
Reggie Jackson sized him up, legs coiled like a spring. Lin Mo didn't tense. He'd rewatched a dozen clips of Reggie's crossovers last night, noting how his left shoulder dipped half a second before he switched directions—just like the teen's first opponent, the one who'd kept faking left to go right.
"Here we go," Reggie muttered, and made his move.
Lin Mo waited. Waited for that shoulder dip. Then shifted his weight, knees bending, and cut off the lane. The ball squirted loose—steal!
The fast break blurred: James sprinting down the left sideline, yelling, "Up!" Lin Mo didn't glance at the play clock or the refs. He just lobbed the ball, arcing it over the defender's outstretched hand, and LeBron slammed it home, roaring so loud the arena shook.
Later, with 47 seconds left, the score tied, Lin Mo felt his palm throb as he caught the inbound pass. Anthony Davis was hovering at the three-point line, waving a hand. Lin Mo faked right, drew two defenders, then threaded the ball through a gap (sliver) of space. "Swish."
In the locker room, the coach stared at his tatic board, which now had Lin Mo's messy scrawl: "Stop drawing. Start seeing." "Streetball magic," he said, but there was a smile in his voice.