The night before playoffs, a brown paper bag sat in Lin Mo's locker. Inside was a wristband, the kid's marker writing "Left hand can thread needles too," the ink smudged like a pale blue cloud. Anthony Davis peeked over from the next locker: "This kid gets you better than reporters." The metal lockers reflected their shadows, a lopsided portrait.
Laughter from the team dinner drifted down the hall, but Lin stared at the playbook. A message popped up: "Tore my knee stealing. Watching from a wheelchair tomorrow." A photo: his bruised knee, a band-aid with a faded smiley from the camp. Lin grabbed his jersey and ran to the gym. At 3 a.m., the dribble echoed, startling night birds from the windowsill.
The trainer sighed, holding an ice pack: "Push your right hand more, and you'll miss the playoffs." Lin dribbled left-handed, grinning: "People told Kobe left-handed free throws would mess his touch." The ball bounced, and he paused. "He said winning touch isn't in your hands." The AC swept the ball's shadow across the playbook, blowing "conservative treatment" far away.