Dallas' arena reeked of beer and rage. "BROKEN!" fans chanted, waving signs: LIN MO = DONE. He jogged out, arm wrapped tight around his ribs, and Doncic smirked, tapping his own side—I see you.
Q1: Doncic attacked like a shark. Drove right, left, hit Hardy, hit Gobert, hit 3s from the logo. 10 points in 5 minutes, Mavs 28-18. Lin Mo's jersey was soaked, and his vision blurred—from sweat, or pain, he didn't know.
"Sub out," Coach Ham said, but Lin Mo shook his head.
He adjusted. No more chasing. He planted in passing lanes, hands quick as a snake, and when Doncic drove, he let Davis or LeBron rotate. Second quarter: he stole a pass from Doncic, fingers brushing the ball just enough to knock it loose, and fed Russell for a 3—splash. Then he took Doncic one-on-one, slow as molasses, and hit a jumper—no jump, just a flick of the wrist—and the crowd went silent.
Doncic's smirk vanished.
Halftime: Mavs 56, Lakers 52. Lin Mo had 8 points, 3 steals. His ribs felt like they were on fire, but he grinned. Smart, not fast. It was working.