Eight minutes into the scrimmage, the starters were already up by 11 points.
Darren Collison wasn't at his best, but the inside duo of Kevin Love and Luc Mbah a Moute had completely dominated Anderson and Leonard on the substitute squad. If not for Russell Westbrook's relentless drives, the game would have turned into a slaughter.
"Snoop, you ready?"
Coach Ben Holland suddenly turned to Doug.
Doug froze for a moment, then nodded. "Yeah, I can play."
Holland blew the whistle, subbing Doug in for Anderson.
"Next possession, dunk right on his head."
Collison pulled Mbah a Moute and Wright aside and whispered, "He's too short. When I get the ball, I'll lob it up. You cut in and finish over him."
"No problem."
Mbah a Moute whistled confidently. He was already eager to crush the rookie under a poster dunk.
When play resumed, Doug didn't show any rookie panic. Without knowing any of UCLA's systems, he instinctively claimed deep position in the paint.
Holland and assistant Nolan exchanged surprised looks. Good sense of positioning.
Westbrook, meanwhile, killed Collison with a vicious crossover—like a Hummer drifting out of control, blowing right past him.
Collison had no answer. Westbrook's progress in the past weeks was frightening—quicker, stronger, sharper.
Mbah a Moute rotated to stop him, but Westbrook flicked his wrist and found Doug, wide open under the basket.
Doug caught the ball and froze.
Then, too late, he remembered to shoot. He tossed it up… clang!
Brick.
Kevin Love secured the rebound and kicked it back to Collison.
"He just wasted a perfect chance," offensive assistant Cole muttered sourly. "We can't force a guy with zero real basketball background onto the floor. Bench-pressing 130, 150 kilos—doesn't matter. If he can't put the ball in the hoop, that's a problem."
He wasn't wrong, though the words stung.
Holland stayed silent, eyes fixed on Doug. Maybe he'll make up for it on defense.
Collison pushed the ball up, but even at full speed he couldn't shake Westbrook anymore. He called for a Love screen, drove the lane, and when he saw Doug crouched at the rim, he lobbed it high.
Mbah a Moute came flying in for the kill.
Nolan covered his eyes. He could already see it: Doug getting dunked on brutally, another highlight for Mbah a Moute's reel.
Holland sighed too. What was I thinking? Adding a kid to the roster just because he bench-pressed well? Should've held open tryouts instead.
But before the regret could settle—
Doug exploded upward.
Like a rocket igniting, he shot straight up, arm extended.
Mbah a Moute had just gotten his hands on the ball when—smack!
Doug's palm swallowed it whole. With a violent force, he ripped it down.
Boom! The ball slammed against the hardwood.
Thud! Mbah a Moute hit the ground awkwardly, landing on his backside.
And Doug—at 195 cm—stood towering above him, unshaken.
"No way…"
Holland rubbed his eyes. Doug had blocked a point-blank dunk, his arm well above the rim. His vertical had to be nearly a meter.
Cole gaped. "If he can jump like that… why didn't he just dunk earlier?"
Good question.
Holland thought the same: With that bounce, even a standing two-hand dunk should be easy. So why not?
Westbrook jogged over, high-fived Doug, then asked the same thing.
Doug had kept a cool face after the block. But at the question, his expression collapsed into a grimace.
"Don't laugh. It's weird—if I'm holding the ball, I can't jump. My legs just won't fire."
"My vertical only works on pure standing jumps. Once I'm moving, or dribbling, it's gone."
Westbrook stared at him, stunned. If he didn't know Doug never lied, he'd think it was the dumbest excuse in the world.
The truth was simple: Doug's coordination was terrible. His body control so poor that his flashy dribbles only worked standing still, and his explosive jump only worked off two feet without motion. The moment he had to balance on the move, his power vanished.
It was, indeed… a sad story.