On the team bus back to the hotel, Lin Mo texted Old Man Joe a photo of Wembanyama's bandage. Caption: New plot line.
Old Man Joe replied with a picture: his workbench, holding two shoes—Lin Mo's just-mailed old pair, and a new small-sized pair, with a deliberately lopsided comma stitched into the heel.
"For the rehab kid," Old Man Joe's message read. "Said he wants to learn—make his story long."
Lin Mo opened his chat with the kid, who'd spammed dozens of messages. The latest was a video: leaning on crutches, practicing shots in the hospital hallway, the ball bouncing off the wall and landing perfectly in his hands. Caption: When I'm better, let's see whose comma's curvier!
Neon lights streaked past the bus window, like lines of flowing text. Lin Mo touched the scrap of paper in his pocket—the one Old Man Joe had slipped in five years ago, edges frayed but words clear: He's still here. He's just getting started.
His phone buzzed again. Wembanyama: Training gym tomorrow? Brought new tapes.
Lin Mo smiled, typing back: Bring your bandage. I'll teach you how to make the story sting.
He tucked the phone away, closing his eyes. His knee still throbbed, but the pain held something warm—like Old Man Joe's warmth while mending, like the kid's laughter, like the opponent's water bottle, like the endless words in those old sneakers.
The story was far from over. After the comma, there were plenty more blazing chapters to come....