The Summer League arena was a sweltering tin can, half the AC units busted, fans' shouts mingling with the cloying sweetness of popcorn, sticking to Lin Mo's jersey. He and Booker sat in rickety seats by the players' tunnel, the big screen showing Wembanyama warming up—his 7'4" frame a walking in the crowd, fingertips brushing the rim's edge with ease, but when he landed, his knees caved inward awkwardly, like a marionette with a frayed string.
"Look at his hands," Booker said, chewing gum, nodding toward the court. "He always tilts the ball half an inch left when he grabs it. Same in France's youth team tapes. Basically, it's a case of strong attachment. Coaches there probably measured it with a ruler."
Lin Mo's gaze locked on Wembanyama's left wrist: a plain black wristband, glistening with sweat, and before every catch, he'd rub its edge with his thumb, a quick, nervous circle—like pressing a nonexistent button, begging for a command. "He's waiting for instructions," Lin Mo murmured. "Like a robot waiting for code. In France, they fed him lines. Here? We're all ad-libbing."
The first quarter against the Hornets opened with a thud. Wembanyama caught a pass beyond the arc, paused, and scanned the court like he was reading a grocery list—where's the milk? the bread?—while the Hornets' defender closed in. He rushed a shot, the ball slamming into the backboard's metal frame with a clang that echoed.
"Tsk," Booker clicked his tongue. "In France, he ran plays so tight you could set a watch by 'em. Here? The playbook's written in sand. Tide comes in, it washes away."
Wembanyama stood frozen, thumb rubbing the wristband again, harder this time, like he might fray it into threads. Lin Mo suddenly thought of Old Man Joe's street court, that 15-year-old crooked rim—its metal warped from years of kids hanging off it, net frayed into a bird's nest. "Joe used to say, a crooked rim's the only thing that teaches you to really see the rim," he said, more to himself than Booker. "You can't just aim—you gotta feel where it bends."
By halftime, Wembanyama was 0-for-5, with a -12 plus-minus. He sat alone in the corner of the bench, legs splayed, yanking off the wristband and staring at it like it held a riddle. The Hornets' bench cackled; their center mimed rubbing a wristband, then missed a shot on purpose, howling.
When Lin Mo stood, Booker pulled him back: "Leave him be. Rookies gotta hit walls. Some walls are made of pride."
"But there are two kinds of walls," Lin Mo said, prying Booker's hand off his arm. "The kind you crash into, and the kind you go around." He dug out his phone, swiping past team stats and practice videos until he found it: the photo of Old Man Joe, leaning against the crooked rim, a kid in overalls hanging off the net behind him. He walked toward Wembanyama, the phone's screen glowing like a lantern.