By the end of the third quarter, the Warriors' center—their All-Star, a seven-footer with a reputation for blocking shots like he was swatting flies—had four fouls. He'd picked up the last one on a stupid play: reaching in on Wembanyama as he drove, his hand clamping down on Wembanyama's wrist like a vice. The ref blew the whistle, and the center stalked to the bench, muttering, "This is garbage," and kicking a Gatorade cooler so hard its lid popped off, spilling neon green liquid across the floor.
Lin Mo watched the Warriors' coach signal for their backup center—a rookie, just 22, with a baby face and knees that looked too thin for his frame. The kid jogged in, his sneakers scuffing the floor, and Lin Mo snorted. "That's the seam," he said to no one in particular, but loud enough for Wembanyama to hear.
Wembanyama glanced over. "Seam?"
"Joe used to fix coats," Lin Mo said. "The ones with big rips? Easy. You sew 'em straight, strong. But the seams? The tiny ones, where the fabric's worn thin? Those are the ones that split if you pull 'em right. This kid's their seam. He's nervous. Rushing. Watch his feet—he's standing too close to the paint, like he's scared to step out. Pull him. Make him stretch."
Wembanyama nodded. On the first play of the fourth quarter, he didn't post up. He stepped to the three-point line, hands up, and called for the ball. The backup center hesitated—his coach had yelled "No three!" at him during warm-ups—and by the time he lurched out to contest, Wembanyama had already released.
Swish.
The kid's ears turned red. He trotted back down the court, head down, and Wembanyama caught Lin Mo's eye, raising an eyebrow. Lin Mo winked.
The Warriors' coach screamed from the sidelines: "Stay home! Don't chase!" But the damage was done. The kid was flustered. On the next possession, Wembanyama faked a three, then drove past him, his long legs eating up the court, and laid it in. Score. Two minutes later, he did it again—fake three, drive, dish to a cutting teammate for a dunk. The backup center's shoulders slumped.
"See?" Lin Mo said, when Wembanyama passed by. "Seams split when they're pulled tight. But you gotta know where to pull."
The Warriors' coach had seen enough. He subbed the kid out, growling, "Sit. Just sit." In came their power forward—the one with the green-tipped beard—who set a screen so hard Wembanyama stumbled. "Welcome to the party, rookie," the forward grunted.
Wembanyama didn't flinch. He grabbed the rebound, pivoted, and fired a pass to the wing. Three-pointer. Swish. He turned to the forward, who was still scowling, and said, "Merry Christmas," before jogging back on defense.
Lin Mo laughed. Old Man Joe used to say, "Kindness is a needle too. Sharp enough to split a seam if you aim right."