The playoffs hit like a storm. The Lakers battled through the first round, scraping past the Suns in six games, then faced the Warriors—Curry, Klay, Draymond—hungry for revenge.
Game 4, Oracle Arena: the crowd roared so loud, Lin Mo could feel it in his teeth. Curry was on fire, draining threes from half-court, his celebration dances making the Warriors' bench erupt. By the fourth quarter, the Lakers trailed by 12, and the air smelled like defeat.
"Timeout!" LeBron yelled, yanking Lin Mo aside. "We need something. Anything."
Lin Mo's jersey stuck to his back, sweat dripping into his eyes. He thought of Joe, hunched over a torn wedding dress, the clock ticking toward the ceremony. "Rushin' ruins the seam," Joe had muttered, his fingers steady as he re-stitched. "Slow down. Feel the fabric."
Lin Mo called the team huddle, his voice calm over the noise. "Remember Joe's dress? He didn't panic. He stitched slow, stitch by stitch. That's us. No hero plays. Just… passes. Cuts. Trust."
He drew a play on his palm: a simple pick-and-roll, but with a twist—Lin Mo would fake left, then dart right, a "comma stitch" Joe had taught him, looping back to create space.
"Got it," LeBron said, nodding.
The play worked. LeBron set the screen, Lin Mo faked, then sliced through the defense, catching the pass and laying it in. Then Davis blocked a shot, feeding Reaves for a three. Then Lin Mo stole the ball, hit LeBron on the break, and the dunk brought the Lakers within 5.
With two minutes left, Curry drilled a 35-footer—swish—cutting the lead to 1. The crowd screamed, "Warriors! Warriors!"
Lin Mo's heart hammered, but he grinned. "Comma stitch again. Let's go."
This time, he didn't fake. He drove hard, drawing two defenders, then whipped a pass to Davis, who'd slipped free. Davis rose, the ball in his hands, and slammed it home.
Buzzer. Lakers win.
Davis tackled Lin Mo, the two of them crashing into the bench. "Stitch by stitch!" Davis yelled, over the crowd.
Lin Mo laughed, wiping sweat from his face. "Stitch by stitch."
In the locker room, he high-fived the sewing machine. "See, old girl? Still got it."