The tunnel was a carnival of noise: fans screaming, music blaring, the PA announcer yelling, "Introducing your Los Angeles Lakers!" Lin Mo stood at the back of the line, behind LeBron, Davis, Russell, breathing slow—in for four, out for six, like Joe had taught him when he was nervous before a school game.
His hands were clammy, but his grip on the ball was tight. He'd snuck it in, bouncing it once, twice, feeling the leather soften under his palms. This ball had been with him all season: summer mornings, winter losses, the night he'd sewn his shoe by the hotel lamp. It was a thread, too.
"Nervous?" LeBron said, glancing back.
"Ready," Lin Mo said.
LeBron grinned. "Good. 'Cause I'm tired of losing."
The line inched forward, and each step brought the noise closer—louder, hungrier, a wave that threatened to pull him under. But Lin Mo held on, grounding himself in the little things:
• The thimble, pressing into his finger, a reminder of Joe's hands.
• The gold stitch on his shoe, visible when he glanced down.
• Davis' laugh, rough but warm, ahead of him.
• Russell's mutter, "Let's burn this place down."
He thought of the first play, mapped out in his head a hundred times:
1. Davis sets a high screen at the elbow.
2. Towns hedges, aggressive, trying to trap.
3. Lin Mo loops around, drawing Edwards with him.
4. LeBron cuts to the rim, wide open.
5. Pass—soft, quick—and LeBron dunks.
Simple. Like a basic stitch.
The PA announcer called Davis' name, and the crowd erupted as he limped out, fist raised. Then Russell, grinning, waving to a group of kids in the front row. Then LeBron—"King James!"—and the arena shook, fans standing, screaming, as he jogged out, high-fiving a security guard.
Then: "From Shanghai, China—number 24, Lin Mo!"
The noise hit him like a wall. He took a step, then another, and suddenly he was in the tunnel's mouth, the court spread out in front of him: purple lights, a sea of fans, the Timberwolves huddling at midcourt, Edwards staring him down, grinning.
Lin Mo stopped, just for a second, and looked up. His parents were courtside, mom crying, dad waving the foam finger like a weapon. Joe's thimble pressed into his finger, and for a moment, he swore he felt Joe's hand on his shoulder, steady as always.
Slow. Steady. Let the thread find its rhythm.
He jogged onto the court, and the crowd roared—"LIN MO! LIN MO! LIN MO!" Edwards sauntered over, grinning. "Last chance, rook. Gonna make it count?"
Lin Mo bounced the ball, once, and met Edwards' eyes. "Already did."
The ref tossed the ball, and Davis jumped—high, higher than he had in weeks—and tapped it to Lin Mo.
The game started.
Lin Mo dribbled upcourt, slow, calm, and when Davis set the screen, when Towns hedged, when Edwards closed in, he didn't panic. He looped around, saw LeBron cutting, and passed.
The ball sailed through the air, a gold thread, and LeBron caught it, slamming it home.
The crowd exploded. Davis roared. LeBron pointed at Lin Mo, grinning.
Lin Mo smiled, touching the thimble.
The first stitch held.
Now, he thought, let's sew the rest.