The first quarter opened like a storm. Celtics pressed hard, trapping Lin Mo at half-court, their center yapping: "Too slow, old man! Should've retired with your street ball dreams!"
Lin Mo's left knee twinged—a ghost of the 2019 injury—as he pivoted, but he didn't flinch. He'd spent hours studying tape of Boston's press: their point guard, when he's about to overcommit, licks his lower lip. There, Lin Mo thought, as the guard's tongue flicked out. He fired a pinpoint pass between two defenders, hitting Miles in stride. The rookie laid it in, ring twisting once—calmer now—and pumped a fist.
"Fluke," the Celtics coach muttered, but his pen tapped faster on his clipboard.
By the end of the first, Lin Mo had 12 points and 5 assists, but the Celtics adjusted, clamping down on Miles, doubling Lin Mo every time he touched the ball. The lead shrank to 8, and the crowd chanted, "Over-rated!"
Lin Mo bent to tie his laces, his old sneakers squeaking against the floor, and spotted the rehab kid in the stands. The kid was bouncing in his wheelchair, holding a sign: "Old rims teach you to aim left. Old knees teach you to want it more."
Something loosened in Lin Mo's chest. He remembered Joe, leaning on that crooked rim, wheezing: "Pain's just your body saying, 'This matters.'"
He called a play no one had practiced—"Street 3," he yelled, a code from the warehouse court: swing the ball until someone's defender blinks. Boston's power forward,盯防 Booker, glanced at his phone in the timeout huddle (his kid's bedtime, Lin Mo had read in a profile). Blink.
Lin Mo hit Booker in the corner. Three swish. The crowd went quiet.
In the huddle, the coach stared, half-impressed, half-confused. "Where'd that play come from?"
Lin Mo grinned, rubbing his knee. "Joe's playbook. Page 1: 'Watch the ones who look away.'"