By mid-camp, Wembanyama had turned Lin Mo into a science project. His notebook had grown to 12 pages: Knee brace slips when he's tired (adjust pressure at 38 minutes); Hums off-key when he's about to shoot (C# note); Taps left foot twice before a crossover.
In their third scrimmage, he put it all to use. With 2 minutes left in the first half, Lin Mo hummed that C# note, lifting for a three—and Wembanyama swatted it into the third row. "Tapped your foot twice," he said, jogging back, voice cool. "Predictable."
The bench erupted, but Lin Mo just grinned, massaging his knee. He'd seen this before—young players who confused data with understanding, like thinking a cookbook could teach you to taste.
He adjusted. No more humming. No foot taps. On the next possession, he stood motionless at the top of the key, letting the shot clock bleed down to 5 seconds. Wembanyama tensed, waiting for a move—until Lin Mo suddenly fired a chest pass to the rookie in the corner, who'd been picking at his jersey (Lin Mo's old "cold" signal). Three-pointer.
"Lucky," Wembanyama muttered, but his pen paused over his notebook. There was no stat for picking at a jersey.
After practice, Booker cornered Wembanyama in the weight room. "You ever watch Lin play street ball? He don't track stats. He tracks people. That kid in the corner? His mom's in the hospital. Lin knew he needed that shot more than anyone." He nodded at Wembanyama's notebook. "Numbers don't tell you that."
Wembanyama flipped to a blank page, then hesitated, pen hovering. For the first time, he didn't write a stat—just drew a tiny jersey with a loose thread.