The night before Game 1, Lin Mo lay in his hotel bed, unable to sleep. He pulled out his phone, scrolling through photos: Joe's sewing table, cluttered with spools of thread; his 12-year-old self, grinning with a lopsided stitch on his jacket; the gold thread he'd sewn into his shoe, now frayed but unbroken.
A text popped up: Dad: Hotel lobby. Brought something.
Lin Mo padded down, finding his dad holding a worn cardboard box. "Joe's old thimbles," his dad said, opening it. Inside were five thimbles—brass, dented, each with tiny scratches. "Said this one's for 'when the needle feels heavy.'" He handed Lin Mo a small brass thimble, its surface smoothed by years of use.
Lin Mo slipped it on. It fit perfectly, like it had been waiting for him.
"Joe used to watch Mavs games with me, back when Nowitzki played," his dad said. "He'd say, 'Great players don't just play—they mend the game. Fix what's broken.'"
Lin Mo thought of Doncic, mending the Mavs' offense with his passes, his shots, his presence. "I can mend too."
Back in his room, he lay awake, thimble on his finger, replaying Doncic's highlights in his head. Each move, each tell, now felt like a thread he could grasp.
At 3 a.m., he texted LeBron: Ready.
LeBron replied 30 seconds later: Good. 'Cause he is too.