Lately, Snoopy's days had been full to the brim.
Classes. Training. Late-night calls with his girlfriend that stretched endlessly.
And then came Friday afternoon, at UCLA's home court.
Before nearly eight thousand roaring fans, Snoopy blocked Washington's seven-foot center Jim Willp twice in just five minutes.
Each block sent shockwaves through the arena.
Russell Westbrook seized the moment, igniting a merciless fast break. Poor Washington never even figured out what hit them before they were down nineteen points by halftime.
They played the whole game as dazed as their team's name suggested, the Huskies looked downright… husky-headed.
From the bench, Snoopy asked more than once, "Why would anyone name their team the Huskies?"
Coach Ben Holland chuckled, riding high on victory. "Why is your name Snoopy? Some things just don't need an answer."
That night, Holland granted Snoopy fifteen minutes of playing time. He filled the stat sheet neatly: three blocks, three rebounds, three assists.
The numbers looked so symmetrical they could've been designed by a perfectionist baker, square, even, flawless.
But Snoopy didn't care about stats.
What thrilled him was the feeling. The joy of toppling Jim Willp flat onto the hardwood. The rush of grabbing a rebound, then launching a one-handed full-court pass, just like Coach Tony had drilled into him, straight to Westbrook, who caught it at the free-throw line and thundered home a dunk.
He loved guiding his teammates forward.
Holland loved it even more.
He had expected Snoopy to block shots. But that passing vision? That was the real surprise.
The pinpoint feed to Love under the rim. The quick drop-off in traffic. The full-court bomb.
"If Russell had even half of Snoopy's passing instincts, he'd be a top-five pick in the draft," Holland muttered to assistant coach Nolan.
That night Westbrook notched seven assists. But his passes felt mechanical, manufactured, not natural. He didn't yet have the subtle orchestration of a true floor general.
Nolan shook his head. "You underestimate Russell. If his reads improve, he could be the number one pick. Can't you see? His body is already beyond belief. He's no worse than Derrick Rose. Right now he looks like a… steel warrior."
Steel warrior, huh?
Holland rolled the phrase on his tongue. But somehow, it felt like Snoopy fit the title even more.
Meanwhile, journalist Kevin Ding slipped Snoopy's Friday performance into his feature piece.
Editor Edward clipped together a highlight reel and sent it to the Spurs and Rockets.
The Rockets' reply: keep observing. Pay attention to his lateral defense. He never leaves the paint. NCAA has no defensive three-second rule—but NBA does.
The Spurs' reply: Coach Gregg says: watch his passing.
The contrast was clear. The Rockets weren't sold. The Spurs, however, had already placed him under the watchful eye of Gregg Popovich.
And in San Antonio, there was only one Gregg that mattered.
Saturday morning, Snoopy opened the Orange County Chronicle weekend edition.
There it was, his feature. Bottom-right corner, yes, but with a decent chunk of text and a photo of his block that sent Jim Willp sprawling.
Snoopy thought they should've used the one of him stuffing Lanny Kuhn, the big fat center. The fat-vs-skinny contrast would've made a more striking image.
Still, Kevin Ding's prose was fun. Snoopy actually chuckled as he read. Even if he pretended it wasn't about him, the "basketball boy" in the article seemed worth following.
Readers agreed.
Though sales didn't explode, only two hundred more copies sold than last week—the piece had carved out Snoopy's name. At least ten thousand readers across California now knew who he was.
That afternoon, Kevin treated him to dinner. On the way, girls stopped them for photos and autographs. Friday's game had made Snoopy a minor campus celebrity, helped, of course, by the YouTube clips circulating.
One video in particular had crossed seven thousand views: "UCLA Handsome Basketball Player Sings Love Song to Blonde Beauty."
Snoopy found it both flattering and deeply embarrassing.
The comments praised the girl's boldness. Thanks to the bright lights, no one had clearly seen Jennifer Lawrence's face. Jennifer herself complained endlessly: "If that lighting hadn't overexposed me, this video would've cracked ten million views. I'm telling you, I'm an actress."
The fresh Hollywood starlet was nothing if not confident.
Meanwhile, some comments had started gushing over Snoopy, his sharp side profile under the stage lights, his looks, his voice, his songwriting talent. People were realizing it was an original composition.
Kevin Ding grinned. "Enjoying the feeling of being a celebrity, Snoopy?"
"Eh, it's alright."
Snoopy shrugged. "At least my academic advisor now calls me Anderson's pride. He thinks I've changed the image of economics students. He even promised that when I graduate, he'll personally write me a recommendation letter to Goldman Sachs or Morgan Stanley."
"With his reputation in economics, that's basically a guaranteed $200k starting salary."
Even for a rich kid like Snoopy, the number brought a smile.
But Kevin leaned in, suddenly serious.
"Or maybe… you should aim higher in basketball. I'm telling you, you could make the NBA. Even as an undrafted rookie, the current CBA guarantees a minimum contract of $470k."
"Whoa!"
Snoopy blinked. That was more than double the salary he'd just bragged about.
Kevin pressed further. "So? What's your plan for the next game?"
"I don't know. I'll just follow Coach Holland's arrangement."
Snoopy's easygoing answer nearly made Kevin pull his hair out.
But before Kevin could lecture him, Snoopy added quietly:
"But… the game after that, the tournament opener, I'm going to tell Coach Holland I want to play more minutes."
"Why?" Kevin asked.
Snoopy's smile widened.
"Because my girlfriend said she's coming to watch."