The flight to Chicago hit turbulence over Lake Michigan, and Lin Mo's knee screamed. He fumbled for his bag, pulling out a small tin—Old Man Joe's doing, filled with arnica salve that smelled like menthol and memories.
"Rub that on, or I'll tell the trainer," Booker said, not looking up from his tablet. He was watching film of the Bulls' guard, a rookie phenom with a 40-inch vertical and a penchant for trash talk. "Says he's gonna 'break your streak' tonight. Whatever that means."
Lin Mo grunted, working the salve into his knee. The scar heated up, a familiar burn. "Streak? I'm not on a streak. I'm just… playing."
"Playing?" Booker scoffed. "You're averaging 42 over three games. Rookies are making highlight reels of your passes. Kids in China are sewing patches on their sneakers. That's more than playing."
Lin Mo stared out the window, where clouds churned like a street court crowd. "Old Man Joe used to say 'stats are just numbers. The game's the story.'" He thought of the rehab kid's drawing, of Wembanyama's red ears when he'd given him the wristband. "Numbers fade. Stories stick."
But he couldn't help flipping open his playbook. The margins were chaos: Bulls guard blinks twice before going left; Center's left knee locks when he's tired—look for the limp at 8 minutes; Coach taps his watch when he's gonna call a timeout—3 seconds later. Notes he'd jotted down at 3 a.m., when sleep wouldn't come.
The rookie leaned over, pointing at a scrawl: "Beware the fan with the 'I Hate LA' sign—he's the water boy's dad. Yells fake signals." "How do you even notice this stuff?"
Lin Mo smiled. "Old Man Joe's other rule: 'Watch the ones no one else watches. They'll tell you the truth.'" Like the way the Bulls' trainer always adjusted the guard's shoulder tape before free throws—nervous habit. Like the way their star forward chewed gum only when he was scared of the defender.
The plane touched down, and Lin Mo's phone pinged. It was Old Man Joe, sending a video: the hoop, now with a new net—red, like the one in TD Garden. "Local kids fixed it," he said, voice crackling. "Said it's the 'Lin Mo Memorial Hoop.' Told 'em you're not dead yet. They said 'close enough—legend status.'"
Lin Mo laughed, tucking the phone away. "Legend status, huh?" He clapped the rookie on the back. "Let's go make sure it sticks."