Practice was a grind, but not the kind Lin Mo was used to. Instead of sprinting drills or scrimmages, they ran "Doncic simulations": slow, deliberate, with Vincent mimicking Doncic's plodding gait, his habit of pausing mid-dribble to survey the court, his lazy crossover that suddenly turned explosive.
"Quit moving like you're stuck in mud," Gabe groaned, but Lin Mo shook his head.
"He does move like this," Lin Mo said. "Slow to make you impatient. Then he hits you with speed when you least expect it." He demonstrated, letting Gabe (as Doncic) dribble slowly, then exploding when Gabe planted his right foot heel-first—shot fake—and swatted the ball away.
LeBron, leaning against the wall, nodded. "That's it. He wants you to rush. Don't rush."
Later, in 5-on-5, the team ran Mavs sets: Doncic (Gabe) at the top, screen from Gobert (Bryant), then a roll to the rim. Lin Mo practiced hedging just enough to force Doncic left—where LeBron waited in the paint—then sprinting back to cut off the pass to Gobert.
"Like sewing a seam," Lin Mo muttered, after nabbing his third interception. "Tight enough to hold, loose enough to move."
By noon, his legs burned. He'd chased Gabe through 23 screens, his shoulder bruised from Bryant's picks, but when he checked his notebook, the pages were full: Doncic's left hand weaker on drives—force him right; Hates when you crowd his space in the paint—body him up; After 3 minutes of play, he wipes his left cheek with his jersey—tells he's tired.
LeBron tossed him a water bottle. "You're studying him like he's a math test."
Lin Mo smiled, unscrewing the cap. "He is. And I'm gonna ace it."