The film room reeked of burnt coffee and regret. Lin Mo sat alone, the screen casting a blue glow over his face, Game 3's third quarter frozen: Towns setting a screen, Davis' ankle twisting as he fought through it, Lin Mo panicking, lobbing a pass that sailed into the third row. The crowd's boos still echoed in his ears, sharp as a needle pricking skin.
He hit play. Edwards caught the turnover, sprinted the length of the court, and slammed the ball home, screaming into the camera. "Rook move!" he'd yelled, and Lin Mo had felt it—hot, shameful, like he'd let everyone down.
But now, staring at the screen, he saw it differently: not a mistake, but a thread pulled loose. The whole play had unraveled because he'd ignored the grain.
He rewound to the start of the possession. The Lakers had set up a pick-and-roll: Davis at the elbow, Lin Mo with the ball, Towns lurking. "Davis'll screen, you'll split," Coach had drawn up. But Davis had hesitated, his ankle throbbing, and Towns had read it, stepping up to trap. Lin Mo had clutched the ball, eyes only on Davis, and the pass had died.
"See the whole board," Joe's voice floated up. He'd been teaching Lin Mo to sew a quilt, and Lin Mo had sewn three squares crooked, fixated on making one perfect. "You're looking at the thread, not the quilt. Let your eye follow the grain."
Lin Mo clicked to Game 2's tape, where Towns had scored 12 points in the fourth quarter. He paused on a hook shot over Davis: Towns had backed him down, left shoulder first, then spun right—always right. A habit, like how Joe always hummed when he sewed, a rhythm he couldn't break.
He jotted in his notebook: Towns' spin: right shoulder leads. Davis can't block right, but LeBron's in help. Trap on the spin.
Next, Edwards' highlights: 28 points in Game 4, most on drives. Lin Mo slowed the footage, frame by frame. Edwards' left foot: when he planted it, heel first, he was going left. Toes first? He was crossing over to the right. A tell as clear as a loose thread. Stay low. Wait for the heel or toes. Then strip.
He flipped to the stats sheet: Lakers' turnovers, 18 in Game 4, 15 in Game 3—most from traps. Why? Because he'd been greedy, trying to make the "big play" instead of the smart one. Joe's diary, which he'd memorized: "A tailor doesn't force the needle through thick fabric. He finds the thin spot."
The thin spot, Lin Mo realized, was the corner. Russell, lurking there, ignored by defenses focused on LeBron and Davis. In Game 1, Russell had hit 3-of-4 from deep when Lin Mo fed him early. In Games 2-4? He'd only gotten 6 attempts, all rushed. Feed the corner. Let Russell be the spark.
He thought of summer mornings, LeBron leaning against the wall, watching him pass. "You're too nice," LeBron had said, after Lin Mo missed an open pass to a rookie. "Nice gets you losses. Smart gets you rings." Lin Mo had thought he meant being aggressive, but now he knew: smart was seeing the whole court, not just the star.
The film room door creaked. Lin Mo looked up—LeBron stood in the doorway, holding two coffees, steam curling from the cups. "Been here since 5?" he said, setting a coffee down.
Lin Mo nodded, sliding the notebook over. LeBron flipped through it, grinning when he saw "Edwards' left foot: heel = left, toes = right." "You been studying my scouting reports?"
"Just… following the grain," Lin Mo said.
LeBron laughed, clapping him on the back. "Joe would've said that. C'mon—Davis is in the gym, bitching about his ankle. Let's show him the thin spots."
Lin Mo stood, tucking the notebook under his arm. The screen still glowed with Game 3's mistake, but it didn't burn anymore. It was just a thread, waiting to be woven back in.
The grain, he thought, was clear. Now he just needed to follow it.