1 minute left. 68 points. The Celtics had no answers—they'd doubled, tripled, fouled, but Lin Mo kept moving, a ghost in old sneakers. His knee felt detached, a distant ache, but his hands were steady, his eyes locked on the rim.
The rehab kid's sign flashed in his mind: "Old rims teach you to aim left."
He thought of Joe, laughing as he missed 12 shots in a row, then nailing the 13th: "Persistence ain't pretty. It's just there."
With 12 seconds left, Lin Mo caught the ball at the top of the key, five defenders closing in. He didn't see them. He saw the street court, the crooked rim, Joe's grin, the kid in the wheelchair, Wembanyama's text, LeBron's note.
He faked left, drawing the pack, then stepped back, lifting for the three. His knee gave out mid-air, but he released anyway, the ball spinning off his fingertips, a perfect arc.
The arena went silent.
Swish.
Buzzer.
The court flooded with teammates, coaches, even the ball boy, who'd grown up watching Lin Mo play street ball. Lin Mo collapsed into the pile, laughing, crying, his old sneakers finally giving out—sole tearing clean through, revealing the patch Joe had stitched.
Later, in the locker room, LeBron facetimed him, holding up a bottle of champagne. "Told you they didn't know what you carry."
Lin Mo held up the tattered sneaker, grinning. "Carry? Nah. This thing remembers."
Outside, Boston's skyline glowed, and somewhere, a kid in a wheelchair was telling Nurse Linda about the man who'd turned 70 points into a story—one about old shoes, crooked rims, and the kind of fire that never burns out.