Halftime: The arena dimmed. A giant Christmas tree descended from the rafters, lights flashing. The PA played "Jingle Bells," but in the locker room, it was quiet.
Wembanyama stared at a gift bag on his stool—from Lin Mo, he guessed. It was wrapped in newspaper, tied with twine, like Old Man Joe used to do.
"Open it," Lin Mo said, popping a candy cane into his mouth.
Inside was a shoelace. Not new—worn, frayed at the ends, with a tiny stitch near the tip: the comma stitch.
"Joe gave me this when I was your age," Lin Mo said. "Said, 'Gifts aren't about shiny. They're about what you do with 'em.'"
Wembanyama tucked the lace into his sock. "What'd you do with yours?"
Lin Mo grinned. "Won a Christmas game. With a shot so ugly, Joe said it looked like I sewed the ball into the net."