10 seconds left. The Warriors had the ball, inbounding from the sideline. Curry caught it, immediately spinning away from the defender, and dribbled to the top of the key. The clock ticked: 8… 7… 6…
He didn't look at his teammates. Just stared at the rim, his eyes narrowing, like he was measuring the distance with his gaze. Lin Mo stood up, his knee throbbing, and thought of the first time he'd watched Curry play—Lin Mo was 18, sitting in the back of Old Man Joe's shop, the TV muted, Joe's sewing machine clacking in rhythm with the game. "That kid's got thread in his veins," Joe had said, not looking up from the jersey he was mending. "Tight, steady. Never frays when it counts."
Curry dribbled once. Twice. Then he launched.
It was a shot only he'd take—32 feet out, no screen, just pure confidence. The ball hung in the air, spinning, and for a second, time slowed. Wembanyama watched it rise, and in his head, he heard Joe's machine again: clack-clack-clack—the rhythm of a thread holding.
Swish.
The Warriors' bench exploded. Curry pumped his fist, and his daughter, sitting courtside in a tiny Santa hat, jumped up and down, yelling, "Daddy! Daddy!" The clock read 5 seconds.
Spurs inbound. The ball went to Wembanyama, who sprinted upcourt, two Warriors defenders chasing him. He dribbled hard, the court blurring, and Lin Mo's voice cut through the noise: "Use the stitch!"
Wembanyama's muscle memory kicked in. At the free-throw line, he planted his left foot, shifted his weight—comma stitch—and the defender lunged, expecting a pass. But Wembanyama didn't pass. He pivoted, his right foot landing on a patch of tinsel dust, the glitter sliding under his sneaker, and launched a fadeaway.
It was ugly. The ball wobbled, like it was drunk on the moment, and for a second, Wembanyama was sure it was going to miss—hit the rim, bounce out, and the story would end with a loss.
But then he thought of the shoelace Lin Mo had given him—worn, frayed, but held together by that tiny comma stitch. Of Old Man Joe's sewing machine, humming when the thread was tight but alive. Of the cracked ornament, still shining.
The ball dipped.