The next morning, Lin Mo drove to Venice Beach, where a chain-link fence enclosed a cracked blacktop court. He'd seen the guys here during past offseasons—old timers with gnarled hands, streetball legends with more swagger than skill. Today, they paused when he stepped onto the court.
"Champ's slumming it?" a guy in a faded Kobe jersey said.
Lin Mo grabbed a ball. "Need to get schooled."
They didn't go easy. A 40-year-old named Ray, with a tattoo of a needle on his forearm, crossed him over so hard, Lin Mo stumbled. "NBA soft," Ray said, draining a three. "You lead with your ego, not your eyes."
Lin Mo stayed till dusk. He learned to read the tilt of a shoulder (a drive was coming), the flick of a wrist (pass, not shot). Ray, between sips of Gatorade, said, "LeBron didn't lead by scoring. He led by knowing—who's tired, who's hot, who needs a pat."
Lin Mo's phone buzzed: a photo from LeBron. It showed his kid's Little League game, with a text: "Lead like you're passing to the open kid. They'll follow."