The Arco Arena in Sacramento was packed, the roar of the crowd echoing as countless fans brought their families to witness a matchup destined to become legendary.
The Kings, who had burst onto the scene this season, had taken six wins from their first nine games, breaking through the chaos of the Western Conference. Their challengers tonight were none other than the defending champions—the San Antonio Spurs.
Adding even more intrigue was the fact that the man who had revived the Kings, their miracle-working general manager Chen Yilun, was once an assistant coach for the Spurs—a student of Gregg Popovich himself. The Western Conference's rising stars were about to face the defending champions in a master-versus-apprentice showdown. All eyes were on this game.
The broadcasters, never ones to pass up drama, had pushed for the matchup to be aired live nationwide.
"Listen up. This year's Kings aren't to be underestimated. Be especially careful with their inside game. Tim, your main job tonight is to contain Cousins and limit his shots in the paint. Leonard, I need you to tear apart their forward line from the outside. Can you do it?"
In the locker room, Popovich's tone was uncharacteristically serious. Tim Duncan and Kawhi Leonard exchanged a glance, then gave expressionless nods.
The Spurs were in the midst of a critical transition from old to new. Tim Duncan, the long-time core, was gradually stepping back to make way for their future centerpiece, Leonard—just as "The Admiral" David Robinson had once done for him.
"Listen, this is the first time we've faced Chen since he left. That little brat's been doing well for himself lately. Let me be clear—if anyone embarrasses me out there and makes me lose face in front of my apprentice, you'll regret it."
Once the tactics were laid out, Popovich finally revealed his true edge.
Hearing that familiar sarcastic bite in their coach's voice, every player felt a chill. When it came to psychological warfare, Pop was in a league of his own. No one wanted to get on his bad side.
"Don't worry, Pop, we'll win this one for you."
Captain Tony Parker was the first to stand, raising his fist. "Victory!"
The rest followed, fists raised. "Victory!"
On the sideline, in the home team's front office seats, Chen Yilun sat unusually straight in a sharp suit instead of blending into the crowd. The team trainer next to him kept sneaking glances at the GM, whose palms were slick with sweat.
"Relax, Chen. With your track record right now, you can go toe-to-toe with any GM in the league. No need to be so tense."
Chen Yilun forced a smile that looked closer to a grimace. "You've never worked with that old man. If we play badly today, no matter what happens in the future, he'll make my life miserable."
Out on the court, the players had no idea about the conversation.
"Tonight's game is huge. We're up against last season's champs, and the veteran Spurs won't give us many openings. We've got to stick to our jobs and cut down on mistakes," said Rudy Gay, unusually serious as he huddled the team together.
"But it's not like we don't have a shot. This year's Spurs are older than last year, and they have no clue about our secret weapons. We've still got a chance to take this one."
Still, once the game started and rookies like CJ McCollum saw the stone-faced Spurs in their black jerseys, their legs felt just a bit shaky.
Tim Duncan stood silent in the paint. That infamous technical foul years ago had shaped his stoic game-face. Gray showing at his temples, and his imposing frame in the lane made him seem carved from stone—calm and unreadable.
Standing next to him, Cousins swallowed hard. Was this guy even human? There wasn't a flicker of emotion on his face.
Snap! Cousins won the jump ball over Tiago Splitter, passing to CJ to bring it up slowly.
At the top of the arc, CJ signaled for a set, but Ben McLemore and Omri Casspi, moving off the ball on the perimeter, failed to shake free for an open shot.
The Spurs' perimeter defense was anchored by Leonard and Danny Green. Leonard needed no introduction—even without a DPOY yet, everyone knew it was only a matter of time. And the 2014 version of Danny Green was one of the league's most coveted 3-and-D specialists—elite as a shooter and a defender.
With the play breaking down and the clock running out, CJ was forced to dump the ball inside to Cousins.
But Cousins was just as uncomfortable there. Splitter held his ground perfectly, leaving no room for an attack.
With the shot clock nearly gone, Cousins was forced into a tough shot. It clanged off the rim. On the weak side, Duncan had already sealed Gay and easily pulled in the rebound.
"This won't work…" Chen Yilun muttered, gripping his sleeve. Just one possession was enough to see the Spurs' plan—they were dragging the Kings into a half-court defensive grind.
The Spurs were airtight, giving them no chance to attack. And the Kings? They thrived on offense—their defense wasn't nearly enough.
Sure enough, on the next play, Duncan caught the ball on the weak side, pulling all of Gay's attention. Even if Duncan went iso without any plays, Gay couldn't be sure he'd stop him.
But the Spurs weren't about to waste possessions on something so simple.
After drawing the defense, Duncan spun toward the basket. Gay felt like he'd been hit by a truck, forced half a step back. That was all Duncan needed to have a clear path.
Casspi, near the baseline, saw Gay losing ground and darted over to help.
But in that split second, the ball whipped to Parker in the corner, as if it had grown wings.
A textbook inside-out play.
The Spurs had used it countless times over the past two years to free up their shooters—the most famous example being in the 2013 Finals when Danny Green and Gary Neal rained threes on Miami.
But as Popovich's former pupil, Chen Yilun knew this play inside and out.
Casspi delayed just a hair before lunging at Parker.
Parker pumped like he was going to shoot, then blew past Casspi into the paint.
"No…" Chen Yilun suddenly stood, eyes locked on the court.
"This isn't inside-out—it's a variation!"
Sure enough, instead of kicking the ball back out, Parker flashed a sly grin and bounced it straight into the lane.
A black jersey flashed into the lane—Leonard. He slipped in on the cut, caught the bounce pass, and exploded to the rim.
Duncan had already sealed the paint, shoving Gay half over the sideline.
Boom! Leonard hammered down a vicious tomahawk dunk, the rim groaning under the force.
"What… is this?"
Chen Yilun wracked his brain.
"This is… motion offense?"
Motion offense relied on interior positioning, quick ball movement from strong to weak side, and constant passing to create open looks—demanding top-tier vision from the big men and quick reads from every player.
But Chen clearly remembered—the Spurs had only been experimenting with it since 2011. It wasn't until Aldridge arrived and they moved on from the "GDP" era—the Duncan-Parker-Ginobili core—to the Duncan–Aldridge frontcourt that it truly became their system.
Why was it appearing now? Had his arrival caused a butterfly effect?
His earlier confidence evaporated. This was the Spurs at the peak of team basketball—even in his own timeline, this was a ceiling-level system.
As he feared, the Kings began to unravel under the Spurs' seamless offense. The ball zipped from player to player, finding open looks again and again. The Spurs didn't rush—they chipped away at the Kings' stamina and composure.
Swish! Danny Green drilled another three. The scoreboard read 20–8.
It was a complete beatdown.
"This won't do. We can't wait until the rotation," Chen Yilun hissed, slipping down to the bench and pulling Mike Malone aside.
"If we hit the rotation like this, we're finished!"
He knew why: beyond their near-perfect starters, the Spurs still had Boris Diaw and Manu Ginobili—two of the league's best second-unit playmakers—waiting on the bench.
If those two checked in, the game would be over.
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