Three weeks later, Lin Mo herded the team to Venice Beach at 7 a.m., the sun just peeking over the palm trees. Ray's crew was already there—old guys in faded shorts, their sneakers scuffed, a cooler of Gatorade sitting on the cracked concrete. Ray, now 42 with a salt-and-pepper beard, grinned when he saw them.
"Took you long enough," he said, tossing Lin Mo a ball. "Thought the NBA stars were too good for blacktop now."
"Nah," Lin Mo said. "Just needed a reminder."
Dalton crossed his arms, eyeing Ray's crew. "These guys look like they've never seen a weight room. This gonna be a warm-up or what?"
Ray's buddy, a 6'8" center named Javi who'd once played in Europe, laughed. "Kid, I was blocking dunks when your dad was still dating your mom."
The game started rough. Ray, quick as a whip, crossed Lin Mo over twice in the first five minutes, his sneakers squeaking on the concrete. Javi swatted Dalton's first shot into the chain-link fence, and a group of kids watching on the sidelines oohhed.
"Ego's heavy, ain't it?" Ray said to Dalton, grinning. "You think the rim cares how many points you scored in college?"
Lin Mo called a timeout, huddling the team under the rickety scoreboard. "We're playing like strangers. Davis, set screens like you mean it—Javi's old, but he ain't slow. Maya, cut when I look at you—they're watching me, not you. Dalton, your left hand's better than you think—drive there, then kick it out."
He paused, grinning. "And for God's sake, stop staring at the crowd. These guys don't care about your draft stock. They care if you pass."
The second half shifted. Lin Mo stopped trying to be the hero—he set a screen for Maya, letting her blow past her defender for a layup. Davis, instead of forcing post-ups, kicked the ball out to Dalton, who hit a three and yelled, "THAT'S FOR THE FENCE!" Ray, trying to cross Lin Mo again, found himself met with a solid wall—Lin Mo had learned to read his shoulder tilt, planting his feet just in time to force a turnover.
With two minutes left, it was 98-98. Ray had the ball, guarded by Lin Mo, and the kids on the sidelines chanted "DE-FENSE!" Ray faked left, then right, but Lin Mo stayed low, hands up. When Ray tried to drive, Lin Mo stepped in—calm, not reckless—and stripped the ball.
He sprinted down the court, Dalton and Maya flanking him. At the last second, he passed to Maya, who laid it in as the buzzer (a rusty old horn someone had rigged up) blared.
100-98.
Dalton tackled Lin Mo, laughing so hard he snorted. "I take it back—blacktop's cool."
Ray clapped Lin Mo's back, hard enough to sting. "Needle's sharp now. You stop trying to be LeBron… and started being you."
They stayed till noon, shooting around with the kids, Javi teaching Maya how to hook shot, Ray showing Dalton how to protect the ball with his body. A little girl asked Lin Mo to sign her jersey, and when he did, she said, "My dad says you're not LeBron, but you're good too."
Lin Mo smiled. "Tell your dad… that's the best compliment I've ever gotten."