The training facility smelled like rubber and coffee when Lin Mo arrived at 6 a.m., hours before the team. He paused at the entrance, staring at the display case by the doors—usually filled with championship trophies, now featuring a pair of size 11 sneakers. His sneakers.
A note was taped to the glass: "Proof that greatness wears many soles." Signed by the equipment manager, who'd probably snuck them out of his bag overnight.
Lin Mo rolled his eyes, but his hand lingered on the glass. The sneakers looked smaller under the lights, the patch dimmer without the sweat of a game. Like they were sleeping.
"Planning to worship 'em all day?" A voice boomed. He turned to find the rookie, backpack slung over one shoulder, holding two paper cups. "Brought you a quad-shot. Heard heroes run on caffeine."
Lin Mo grunted, but took the coffee. "Heroes run on not getting caught by the trainer. She thinks I'm in bed."
The rookie snickered, glancing at the display case. "Saw the new shoes sponsors sent. All black, with your number in gold. Why're you still lacing up… these?" He nodded at the beat-up pair in Lin Mo's hand.
Lin Mo sat on a bench, pressing his thumb into the worn sole. It gave way, as it always did, like memory foam. "Old Man Joe fixed these for me when I couldn't afford new ones. Said 'shoes don't make the player—they carry the player's story.'" He tapped the patch. "This? That's the night I hit the game-winner in the rain, when the court flooded and we played anyway. Sole wore thin that night. He stitched it up with thread from his wife's sewing kit."
The rookie nodded, quiet. Then: "My dad used to say the same thing. About his work boots. 'Scuffs mean you showed up.'" He kicked at the floor, sudden shy. "He died last year. Never saw me make the team."
Lin Mo handed him the sneakers. "Try 'em on."
The rookie's eyes went wide. "No way—these are—"
"Just shoes," Lin Mo said. "Till you walk in 'em."
The kid slipped them on, laces hanging loose. They were too big, but when he stood, he grinned. "They feel… heavy. In a good way."
"Story weight," Lin Mo said. "Now let's work on your pick-and-roll. Celtics' center leans left when he sets a screen. You'll exploit that."
By 10 a.m., the gym filled with teammates. Wembanyama facetimed from France, holding up a pair of beat-up sneakers he'd dug out of his closet—"Found these! Worn 'em since I was 12. Gonna wear 'em in practice today. For luck."
Lin Mo laughed, but when the trainer stormed in, arms crossed, he didn't even flinch. "You're supposed to be resting!"
He nodded at the rookie, who was now draining threes in his shoes. "Rest's overrated. Besides—these old shoes? They're teaching."