The final game of the summer ended with a buzzer-beater—Old Man Joe, of all people, sinking a three that swished through the bent rim. The court erupted. "Soda run!" someone shouted, but Joe just laughed, shaking his head.
"Kid's buying," he said, pointing at Lin Mo. "He learned the most."
Lin Mo rolled his eyes, but he was smiling as he headed to the vending machine. When he returned, arms loaded, Old Man Joe clapped him on the back. "You play like a robot at first," he said. "But robots don't win here. Humans do—messy, loud, alive humans."
Lin Mo thought of his team: Booker, with his messy playbook doodles; the backup center, obsessing over socks; the rookies, fumbling through drills. Messy. Loud. Alive.
That night, he packed his "Marty's Auto Repair" jersey into his bag, next to his NBA gear. Two worlds, two ways of playing—but maybe not so different, after all.
Booker texted: Coach says we're scrapping 20% of the playbook. Gonna practice "vibes."
Lin Mo laughed, then texted the boy: "Next season's gonna be messy. Good messy."
The boy replied with a video: himself, standing—standing—with the help of a walker, taking a shaky step. Behind him, Nurse Ravi and Mrs. Chen cheered, no words needed.
"Messy's how you grow," he wrote.
Lin Mo stared at the screen, then at his phone's lock screen: a photo of the bent rim, the cracked floor, the team's messy tatical board.
Yeah. Messy was good.
He tossed his bag over his shoulder and headed for the gym. The new season was coming—and this time, he was ready to play like a human.