Game 3 in LA: Celtics coach changed the script. No more Tatum's brute force—they fouled Lin Mo on purpose, sending him to the line (his ribs made shooting agony).
First quarter: 6 fouls, 4-of-8 from the line. The jumbotron showed his wincing face, fans holding "THIMBLE BOY" signs. Tatum laughed on the bench.
"Fold," he mouthed, when Lin Mo passed by.
Lin Mo grabbed a towel, dabbing his forehead. He thought of Joe's quilt—the patch with the iron burn, stitched over so tight you could barely see the flaw. He adjusted his grip, bending his knees, letting his wrist do the work instead of his ribs.
Next two free throws: swish, swish.
Third quarter: 82-78, Celtics. Lin Mo caught the ball, two defenders closing in. He didn't force a shot—faked a pass, drew the double team, then hit Russell in the corner. Three-pointer: swish.
82-81.
Tatum's smirk faded.
Fourth quarter: 108-106, Celtics, 45 seconds left. Lin Mo iso'd Brown, dribbling slow, like he was savoring the moment. Brown lunged for the steal, and Lin Mo pivoted, his ribs screaming, and hit Davis with a no-look pass. Dunk: 108-108.
Celtics timeout. Tatum stared at Lin Mo, something like respect flickering in his eyes.
Final 10 seconds: Lin Mo cut hard, Tatum chasing, but Davis screened him into the scorer's table. LeBron hit Lin Mo with a chest pass, and he laid it in—left hand, soft, like dropping a needle into fabric.
110-108.
Buzzer.
Lin Mo fell into the crowd, fans grabbing at his jersey, screaming his name. A kid held up a sign: MY DAD SAYS YOU'RE BRAVE.
In the locker room, Davis tossed him a Gatorade. "You're a pain in the ass, you know that?"
Lin Mo grinned, pressing the thimble to his chest. "Yeah. But I'm your pain in the ass."