Compared to Snoopy, Leon Bob was far more enthusiastic when dealing with scouts.
He gave Edward a detailed rundown of Snoopy's situation and even pitched him actively.
When Edward learned about Snoopy's vertical leap, bench press numbers, and wingspan, he was completely stunned—utterly shaken.
At the same time, Leon Bob didn't hide Snoopy's lack of coordination and body control. That part made Edward uneasy.
So, he asked two very critical questions:
"How long do you think it'll take Snoopy to adapt to his sudden growth spurt? And do you think his height will continue to increase?"
These two questions directly tied into Snoopy's NBA future.
If Snoopy could regain agility and coordination, then… at the very least, he could become a solid forward.
And if his height kept climbing past two meters, then… there was hope for him to become a Ben Wallace–type defensive center.
"I don't know."
Leon Bob was brutally honest: "All I can do is train him as hard as I can. The rest… I'll leave to God."
Edward pressed his lips together, then nodded. His gaze shifted to Snoopy, who looked utterly indifferent.
"I'll be keeping an eye on you. Don't let me down."
"I think you can go ahead and not keep an eye on me." Snoopy shrugged, speaking seriously. "The NBA doesn't hold much appeal for me."
Edward chuckled confidently. "That's only because you haven't had a real taste of it yet. I guarantee you—once you get even a glimpse, you won't be able to resist the fire burning in your chest. Professional sports are the ultimate battlefield for men. There, you can claim every prize you've ever wanted: money, fame, women—it's all yours."
His words dripped with temptation.
Snoopy filtered them in his head for a moment, then gave no response. His face showed no trace of the restless yearning Edward was expecting.
That reaction amused Edward. In just this brief encounter, he felt Snoopy's vibe matched perfectly with the San Antonio guys… that same wooden, deadpan kind of humor.
The game on the court went on.
Edward left his business card before returning to the scout's table to continue his work.
From what he saw, there were plenty of players with mid-to-late first-round potential: UCLA's forward Mbah a Moute, point guard Holiday, even Darren Collison. On USC's side, Taj Gibson and DeRozan.
And of course, he had to add UCLA's bench duo—Russell Westbrook and Snoopy.
He suddenly felt the night was a goldmine.
Meanwhile, USC had found their rhythm. Led by O.J. Mayo, with Taj Gibson and DeRozan as the wings, their trident attack far outshone UCLA's trio. Collison and Holiday struggled distributing the ball, especially compared to a shooting guard like Mayo.
Not that UCLA's bench guard Westbrook was necessarily better than Mayo—but at least he knew how to pass to Kevin Love.
The others, on the other hand, were treating Love like the enemy.
That turned UCLA's strongest inside weapon into nothing more than decoration.
By halftime, USC had stretched their lead to eight points.
Kevin Love stormed to the bench, towel in hand. Normally, he was an honest, good-natured guy.
But right now, everything felt like a disaster. He slammed the towel on the ground.
"I'm not a damn track runner! I don't want to keep doing pointless shuttle runs!"
He was furious.
So Coach Ben Howland benched him.
Instead, he let Darren Collison's little squad fight it out with Mayo.
Both Love and Westbrook were livid at that choice.
"Why?" Westbrook protested. "We were clearly playing better!"
Ben Howland just smiled. "That's why I'm saving you for the Round of 64."
Westbrook immediately lit up with a grin. At last, it clicked: we're the aces.
Still, a knot of dissatisfaction remained in his chest: For heaven's sake, I want to go head-to-head with O.J. Mayo!
Tweet!
A sharp whistle stopped the game.
Darren Collison was down in the paint. He'd just used Mbah a Moute's screen to break into the lane, but when he went up for a layup, Taj Gibson swatted him. On the way down, his left foot landed squarely on Lanny Koon's.
A nasty ankle twist.
He collapsed to the floor, clutching his ankle and screaming.
UCLA's medical team sprinted out, cutting away his shoe and wrap with scissors.
The swelling around his ankle was immediate. The trainer asked him to try twisting the joint, but Collison couldn't even manage that.
The senior trainer's face was grave.
He quickly called for a stretcher to carry him off.
"Collison's season is over," said Robert, the veteran team doctor, before leaving the arena.
Coach Howland's mood plummeted.
Collison was the team's star point guard. Sure, Westbrook was on a meteoric rise—but no one could deny Collison's superior game control and fit in UCLA's system.
Before the injury, Howland envisioned UCLA powered by Collison's steady leadership, boosted by Westbrook's explosive drives and Snoopy's beastly defense. Strong enough to reach the Final Four, maybe even win it all.
But now…
His eyes turned to Westbrook.
"Can he shoulder the responsibility of running the offense?"
Doubt gnawed at him. Westbrook was unstoppable charging into battle, but when it came to half-court sets, his bag of tricks was shallow. In UCLA's system, he only truly mastered one thing—pick-and-roll into a pass.
So… how was the team supposed to function now?
A headache spread through his skull.
In the blink of an eye, he felt he'd fallen from heaven straight into hell.
At that moment, Snoopy stood from the far end of the bench.
He stretched, rolled his shoulders, then sat back down in a new position, looking utterly idle.
Completely unconcerned about the game, his eyes were already glazed over.
In his head, he was busy pondering his academic paper: The Necessary and Contingent Links Between the Theory of Price Discrimination and the Paradox of Thrift.
Basketball couldn't be allowed to get in the way of his studies.
That was his simple logic.
After all, tomorrow was the party. If he didn't finish this paper by Thursday, Professor Nielsen might really make him trim that disgusting flowerbed in his backyard—the one that reeked of fertilized pollen.
"Snoopy."
Coach Howland walked over and called his name.
Snoopy instinctively looked up.
"Your body doesn't stop you from learning how to pass, does it?" the coach asked.