For casual fans, judging if someone's good often comes down to whether their play looks flashy. For insiders, that's still a pretty important standard.
You can bully your way into the paint with eight big strides and muscle through for a layup — that's a basket. You can also spin 360 degrees midair, hang in the air, switch hands, and finish on the reverse — also a basket.
But obviously, the latter is flashier. The latter looks better.
Because if you don't have the skills or the physical gifts, you can't pull off that kind of style no matter how hard you try.
Like the move Hardaway just pulled — sure, lots of players can do it, but how many can make it look as good as he does?
And Dawson just pulled it off.
So in the eyes of Conners and the other three basketball insiders watching courtside, they couldn't help but be impressed.
Conners even turned to glance at Donovan, his look saying, "What the hell? Is the University of Florida really this stacked? Even your role players can do this?"
Donovan caught the change in their expressions and couldn't hide a bit of pride, then said, "I told you, Tom is really good. If you've seen any news from '91 or '92, you'd know that in Florida, Tang was one of the most hyped high school prodigies of the time."
Conners and Moore exchanged a glance — When did you ever tell us that?
"Shame, though," Donovan sighed.
He knew Dawson's story inside out. He knew exactly how Dawson had fallen from that pedestal.
It really was his physical gifts that had limited his ceiling.
On the court, Brown was buzzing with excitement, waving his arms and shouting that he wanted to learn that move too.
Dawson, calm as ever, motioned for Brown to keep going.
This time, Brown had learned his lesson — he gave Dawson a little more space.
But Dawson, wanting to prove his point, had already set a trap before they even started playing.
From the very first possession, he'd taken on the "veteran mentor" tone and misled Brown, telling him that when a big guards a small, you should give him a step, not crowd him.
Sounds right, but it's complete nonsense.
With their differences in height, weight, and wingspan, if Brown got right up on him and bodied him, Dawson might have trouble even keeping his dribble alive.
Defending the way Brown was now was basically letting Dawson attack exactly where he was strongest.
Sure, Brown had great athleticism — but he was still a seven-footer trying to match agility and rhythm with a 5'11" guard. That was asking for trouble.
Dawson dribbled in, dropped his shoulder, hit a hesitation dribble, then exploded with a Tim Hardaway–style crossover right past Brown's side.
The move was so sharp that when Brown tried to recover, he almost tripped over himself.
"Cool!"
Instead of being mad at getting shaken, Brown actually shouted his approval.
The four on the sideline exchanged looks, and Dan Moore even sucked in a breath.
They could see it now — in pure skill, Dawson was the real deal.
And let's not forget — he was wearing dress shoes and slacks.
To be able to pull off such smooth, deceptive moves in that outfit? That's not something just anyone can do.
Donovan kept hyping him up: "You know, back in college, Tom had a nickname — the 'Rhythm Master.' If it was just a pure skill battle, he could beat anyone on the team, from the guards to the bigs, in more than ten different ways."
"His feel for rhythm is incredible — watch."
On court, Dawson faked a drive with a jab step, pulled the ball back through his legs, slid sideways, then re-accelerated. Another hard crossover, smooth and believable, got him right past Brown on the right. He spun back in midair and hit the jumper.
Brown was now fully hyped. Every move Dawson pulled off was the kind of bucket he used to dream about as a kid.
Dawson paused, held the ball, and asked, "You know the Dream Shake?"
Brown froze, then nodded furiously.
Hakeem Olajuwon's signature move — what big man didn't know it?
Dawson said, "Brown, that last matchup wasn't fair to you. Your advantage is in the low post — and in a real game, it's rare for a big to get stuck guarding a small out on the perimeter."
His tone was sincere, as if making excuses for Brown's loss and downplaying his own skill — but in truth, he was setting up what came next.
"Come on, down to the block. Let's see your post game."
He beckoned Brown over.
Beating you where you're strongest — that's the real flex.
In the post, Dawson's head barely reached Brown's chest. Backing him down was out of the question — and trying to go up strong would just get him swatted into the third row.
But Dawson had footwork.
Olajuwon's Dream Shake had guard-like qualities to begin with.
And the essence of that footwork was rhythm.
Polished footwork was one thing, but if you and your defender aren't moving on the same rhythm, everything becomes easier.
Donovan wasn't exaggerating when he called Dawson the Rhythm Master.
If your body can't match your opponents, you have to rely on your brain, on technique, on changes in pace to beat people.
That was Dawson's specialty.
A light shoulder bump — a signal for a move. Pivot to face up. Lower the hips, give Brown a little nudge with the head. Fake the spin and rise. As soon as Brown left his feet, Dawson ducked low, took a quick step through, sold a floater, then slipped behind him and banked it in.
"Man, you're amazing! How do you do that?" Brown's eyes were shining, his excitement off the charts.
He hadn't held back — Dawson had straight-up played him like a fiddle.
"It's all about the rhythm."
Dawson grinned and stepped up to demonstrate.
Back when he ran training camps, Dawson had figured something out: compared to shrewd, penny-pinching parents, the kids themselves were easier to win over.
A few flashy moves to hook their interest, then a live demonstration and some personal tips — almost no kid could resist.
And sometimes, winning the kid was even better than winning over the parents.
Right now, Dawson was pretty sure he'd almost sealed the deal with Brown.
The kid's fundamentals were terrible — all raw athleticism.
In middle and high school, Dawson had seen too many players like that. Blessed with natural gifts, they'd learn a few tricks and suddenly be dunking all over the place, leaving skill-based players like Dawson with no fun at all.
That's why his polished, stylish game was magnetic to Brown.
The more you lack something, the more you crave it.
Dawson gave him just a taste — a probing step in the post leading into a spin hook — then stopped.
The rest? That would cost extra.
But it was enough. Once Dawson pointed out a few key details that made the whole move smoother, Brown could pull it off with some fluidity — and at that point, he was completely sold.
"Sir, you're incredible! Will you teach me?" Brown asked urgently.
Dawson smiled and nodded. "I'd love to stick around and teach you. I've got plenty of moves I haven't even shown yet — but that's up to you guys."
He shot a glance toward Conners on the sideline.
Brown caught on instantly and rushed over. "Ryan, Dawson's the trainer I want. Don't hesitate — it's gotta be him."
He was completely convinced.
"Alright," Conners muttered under his breath. But seeing Brown's excitement, there was no way he could say no.
Refuse Brown?
Impossible. Absolutely impossible. He'd invested so much time, effort, and money into Brown — there was no way he'd risk souring the relationship before the payoff.
Besides, even putting that aside, Conners had to admit Dawson's skill was impressive.
The guy was good.
Twenty grand for a trainer like this? Honestly, it felt worth it.
He stepped forward, forced a sincere smile, and held out his hand. "Tom, looks like you're our guy. Let's lock this in."
Dawson held back his excitement, keeping his expression steady.
But he didn't shake hands. Instead, he smiled and said, "Of course. But about the fee… I think we need to renegotiate."
Bulking up was twenty grand. Teaching skills?
That's a different price.
Gotta raise the price.