Doug's solemn air was abruptly shattered by the driver's sudden slam on the brakes. Standing in the aisle, his chin hadn't yet reached its proudest height before his body lurched forward—
Thud!
He crashed straight into Coach Kerr, knocking him flat to the floor.
Crunch!
A muffled sound rang out—no one could tell whose back had just gone out.
The players scrambled, first hauling the Snoop back up, then helping Coach Kerr to his feet.
As Kerr stood, he realized his toupee had fallen off. In a fluster, he snatched it up and jammed it back on, though far less neatly than before.
Red-faced and embarrassed, he wanted to blow up, but didn't even know who to blame.
The Snoop stretched, that tumble actually making his waist feel looser, more limber.
Seeing the two of them in such a state, the whole bus burst out laughing again.
With laughter, the talk about O.J. Mayo naturally faded away.
Yet Coach Ben Holland kept turning over the Snoop's words in his mind. He asked an assistant for the game footage, carefully reviewing USC's recent matches. Sure enough, as Snoop had pointed out, the so-called nation's number one high schooler couldn't always carry the team. Stuck between the one and two positions, Mayo's limitations were starting to show. Subtle, but real. His height had plateaued, and that was becoming his fatal flaw.
Closing the laptop, Holland furrowed his brows. How did I miss this before? Snoopy only watched a few clips and already drew such a conclusion? How did he manage that? And… could it be true, what he said—that Russell is stronger than O.J. Mayo?
Puzzled, Holland glanced at Doug in the aisle.
Doug was working hard to steady his balance, while Leon Powe patiently explained some techniques on body control.
Is he really a basketball genius?
The thought startled Holland. A six-foot-four undersized big man with a bruiser's build—he didn't look the part of a prodigy at all.
And yet, in that instant, Holland didn't find the idea absurd.
…
"Tonight, a lot of NBA scouts are coming to watch O.J. Mayo. Russell, don't you want to make it to the league? This is your chance to show them."
In the locker room before the game, Holland addressed his players before laying out the tactics.
"Love, Mbah a Moute, Holiday, Collison—you should know, none of you will attract as much attention as Mayo. But tonight… you can steal his spotlight. Don't say I didn't warn you: second-round contracts aren't guaranteed. Lottery picks, on the other hand, make three or four million more than your average first-rounder."
"Whether you make a name for yourselves in one night—this game will decide it."
After encouraging his NBA-hopefuls, Holland turned to Doug.
"Snoop, your matchup is Lenny Kuhn. Two meters seven, 125 kilos—a massive center. You must hold him down in the paint. And if USC's forwards crash inside, you've got to show them what UCLA's shot-blocking is all about!"
"Got it."
Doug answered without hesitation.
Just last Sunday, Leon Powe had gone over Kuhn's combine numbers with him. From a technical perspective, Kuhn wasn't actually that strong. His bulk was mostly flab, his athleticism mediocre at best, and his stamina weak.
Otherwise, with today's NBA starving for centers, why would no one be interested in him?
After watching Kuhn's tape, Doug shifted his focus to USC's forwards—DeRozan and Taj Gibson. Their relentless drives and assaults on the rim posed the real danger. If UCLA could neutralize them inside, and leave Mayo isolated on the perimeter, USC's winning odds wouldn't even reach thirty percent.
With his tactics set, Holland finally announced the starting lineup.
Doug and Westbrook—both promoted to starters.
The locker room froze in shock.
Westbrook starting made sense—he'd impressed in camp and had a couple breakout games. But the Snoop? He'd barely been on the team!
Even Doug himself was surprised.
But Westbrook and Kevin Love were overjoyed.
"Hey, Snoop," Westbrook grinned, walking up. "We're taking you to a brand new map tonight!"
"Didn't think we'd team up again this soon. Trust me, basketball's way more fun than World of Warcraft."
Kevin Love chimed in too. "Don't forget your promise. You said, given enough time, you'd help me get revenge. I'm waiting to see you block Taj Gibson twice tonight!"
He laughed, almost moved. "Didn't think the Three Musketeers would be joining forces so soon. I figured you'd only play garbage minutes this game."
But then, Mbah a Moute's sour voice cut in: "Him? Block Taj Gibson? Even if he put on ballet shoes and stood on tiptoe, he still wouldn't reach Gibson's height."
It was deliberate provocation.
Doug's cold gaze swept over, then he strode straight toward Collison's trio, locking eyes on Mbah a Moute.
"You're taller than me, and I still smacked you to the floor, didn't I?"
Doug cracked his knuckles, loud and sharp.
With these guys, he never believed in reasoning. Only fists taught lessons—what not to do, and who not to mess with.
Force was the real form of tailored education.
Clearly, Collison had learned that lesson well. When Mbah a Moute puffed his chest to challenge Doug, Collison pulled him back, muttering, "You can't beat him."
But Collison still shot Doug a venomous glare. "I'll be waiting for your embarrassment. I'll record Taj Gibson posterizing you, Snoop."
Doug smirked at his hollow bravado.
"You're only capable of this much."