"Wait, you can actually play like this?"
Durant strolled leisurely across half court.
"This isn't even a game—I'm just out here taking a walk."
Mr. Kevin had gone from shock to confusion, and now to pure amusement.
"This is way too fun!"
Watching CJ once again run a pick-and-roll with Jokić at the top of the key, slipping into mid-range to isolate against Faried, Durant couldn't hold back a laugh.
Maybe Durant's laughter was contagious, because Gallinari, who was guarding him, glanced over and realized something—half the game had gone by, and neither of them had even started sweating.
The two exchanged a knowing grin before continuing their effortless coast.
"Swish!"
CJ pulled up smoothly at the free-throw line's sweet spot and nailed the jumper.
Faried, gasping for air, could only watch as the ball arced cleanly over his head.
"How are we supposed to defend this?" he yelled in frustration.
The Jokić-and-CJ combo was absolutely lethal.
Jokić's rock-solid screens paired with CJ's near-flawless jumper from the top of the key made them unstoppable.
As Faried tried to catch his breath for the next possession, he caught sight of Durant and Gallinari walking up the court, chatting and laughing.
At that moment, The Manimal felt like the world was collapsing.
I'm out here dying, and those two are over there making friends?
"Switch! Switch!"
An exasperated Faried stormed over to Gallinari.
"You're guarding Jokić next!"
"Huh?"
Gallinari blinked, his big eyes wide and innocent.
"That doesn't seem right. The coach never said to switch."
"Cut the crap!"
Before Gallinari could finish, Faried snapped at him.
"I'm busting my ass in the paint while you and Durant are chatting it up in the corner!"
"You can't put it that way," Gallinari protested, shaking his head.
"The coach told me to guard Durant one-on-one, to stop him from breaking down our defense. I've been doing pretty well, haven't I?"
"Pretty well, my ass!"
Faried felt the blood rushing to his head.
"Did you even stop him? He hasn't even been trying!"
Since the opening minutes, Durant had taken just a couple of shots before completely easing off. Now he was only handling transition passes or the occasional catch-and-finish.
As halftime approached, his stat line was a meager 9 points, 2 rebounds, and 1 assist.
So the next defensive play, Faried didn't even hesitate—he dropped straight into the corner.
Seeing Faried so determined to take a breather, Gallinari didn't argue. After all, he'd been resting long enough; maybe it was someone else's turn to chill.
Durant noticed the switch beside him and gave a friendly smile.
"You're here?"
Caught off guard by such friendliness mid-game, Faried froze for a second, then gave a stiff nod.
"Yeah… I'm here."
And just like that, the two started chatting in the corner.
On the sideline, Coach Karl stood there, dumbfounded.
"You've got a monster like Durant and you're not even using him? Just letting him stand there as a mascot?"
Old Karl couldn't grasp the subtle logic behind Malone's approach—the idea that having a weapon and choosing not to use it is completely different from not having one at all.
I can let Durant coast, but I can't let him sit.
Even if he's just parked in the corner, he's still one of the league's deadliest scorers. Who in their right mind would dare leave him open?
With Durant on the floor, guys like CJ and Booker suddenly had all the space they needed to operate.
When players like CJ ran pick-and-rolls with Jokić, their biggest fear was help defense collapsing from other positions.
The essence of the two-man game was to force the play into a pure 2-on-2 situation.
The moment a third defender joined in, the entire tactic broke down.
That's why the championship Nuggets, while keeping the Jokić-Murray duo, loaded up on versatile wings like Gordon, Porter Jr., and Pope—to spread the floor and give those two room to work their magic.
But that setup only works when your two-man duo is the clear focal point of the team.
Everyone else exists to support them, not to carry big offensive loads.
So who taught you, Mike Malone, to run this playbook?
Other teams go two-man because they only have two stars. Is that really your situation? You've got Kevin Durant, and you're making him play off-ball? Isn't that a bit… extravagant?
"This is ridiculous!"
Old Karl finally lost it, his roar making his assistants flinch.
"What the hell is Mike Malone doing—trying to humiliate us?"
The old lion raged helplessly in his cage.
Across the court, the Kings were dominating with just Jokić and CJ. Butler and Durant hadn't even gotten started yet.
When the final buzzer sounded, Karl led his team back to the locker room, shoulders heavy with defeat.
"I knew we'd lose," he muttered, "but I didn't think it'd be this bad."
One assistant whispered under his breath, "Yikes."
Another immediately hushed him, covering his mouth.
"You trying to get yourself killed?"
Then he glanced at George Karl's slightly hunched back and sighed softly.
"Coach has been feeling worn down these past couple of years. I think this series might be his last."
And as expected, George Karl's mind was a mess.
Looking back on his decades-long career, everything felt distant, like a lifetime ago.
If their roles were reversed, he thought, he'd never have set a lineup like Malone's. The idea of sidelining Durant would've been unthinkable.
Karl slowly walked into the restroom.
"Have I really gotten that old?"
He stared at his reflection—the deep wrinkles and age spots impossible to ignore.
He let out a long, weary sigh.
"It's time."
Those simple words seemed to drain all the strength from his body.
"A new era's arrived. There's no place left for me in this league."
George Karl—the iron-blooded coach who'd fought through the NBA's darkest days, a thousand-win veteran who'd weathered it all—
had finally reached the end of his journey.