The Spurs' bench looked like a row of frost-bitten eggplants—slumped, listless, heads down, not one daring to meet Popovich's eyes.
"So they caught up—big deal. It's not like we just lost the Finals. What are you all afraid of?"
Unusually for him, Popovich didn't tear into his players. Instead, he worked to lift their spirits.
Even a battle-hardened veteran like him had been caught off guard in the third quarter. But the crafty old coach knew this wasn't the moment for criticism. His players—especially the big men—had just taken a serious hit to their confidence. Right now, the priority was to reignite their fighting spirit.
"When the fourth quarter starts, Diaw, Tim, you're going in. Oden's not going to last out there. Your main job is to keep Cousins in check.
"Kawhi, you and Green need to slow down the Kings' ball swings from strong side to weak side. I'm not asking for steals—just make every pass a struggle. Make them think twice before moving the ball. Got it?"
One clear instruction after another, and the silver-and-black machine that had sputtered in the third quarter began humming again.
...
Mike Malone exhaled slowly as he watched his players take the floor.
Even Oden's godlike run in the third had only given the Kings the faintest lifeline. Now it was down to a pure clash of each team's core strength.
Barely a minute into the fourth, both coaches—without a word—sent out their full-strength lineups.
Spurs: Parker, Green, Leonard, Diaw, Duncan.
Kings: CJ, Ben, Casspi, Gay, Cousins.
The two rookies, LaVine and Jokić, sat obediently on the bench.
Malone stole a discreet glance at the lineups and shook his head. The Kings might look energized, but they lacked the deep foundation of the Spurs. As a ball handler, CJ—now in just his second year—had been great this season, but across from him was Tony Parker: 2005 Finals MVP, "The French Flash." Outside of youth and fresher legs, CJ had no edge.
Everywhere else, the Kings were being outmatched—except for Cousins, who still had a fighting chance. But against a monster like Tim Duncan, even that slim advantage was hardly worth mentioning.
Truth be told, for a deadlocked situation, this was about as good as it could get.
"Do what we can, and leave the rest to fate," Malone muttered, casting a glance at Popovich on the opposite sideline.
Everyone knew Chen Yilun was Popovich's protégé. What most didn't know was that Malone himself had a history with the Spurs coach. Back in 2005, when Malone was on the verge of being jobless, Popovich had recommended him for an assistant coach spot with the Cavaliers—then led by another Popovich disciple, Mike Brown.
It was that break that allowed Malone to secure his place in the league.
"This game isn't just Yilun's graduation project," Malone thought. "It's my answer to Popovich."
...
The Kings came out swinging to start the fourth. CJ handled the ball up top, scanning for options, when he saw Cousins battling Duncan for position inside.
Without hesitation, CJ fed him the ball. In this situation, there was only one answer—get it to the team's go-to guy and let him go to work.
Cousins caught it and went straight into a backdown. From the weak side, Diaw glanced at Gay lounging in the corner, then instantly rotated to help Duncan.
As the saying goes, youth fears no one. Even as the greatest power forward in history, Duncan's declining body struggled against Cousins in his prime.
Just as Duncan and Diaw closed in, Cousins whipped out a sudden spin—like a dragon whipping its tail—squaring up as if to attack the basket. Both defenders bit instantly.
"He's pulling up—trap him!" Duncan barked.
Diaw moved in sync, boxing Cousins in from both sides.
But instead of forcing the shot, Cousins made a sharp pivot and zipped the ball to the weak-side corner—left wide open for months.
Gay caught it, gave the rim a lazy glance, then rose and fired.
Swish.
Straight through. Gay barely looked back before jogging upcourt at a snail's pace, still wearing the look of someone who'd just rolled out of bed.
Watching the stark contrast between Cousins' fire and Gay's nonchalance, Chen Yilun thought they looked like a mismatched cartoon duo.
"Down to two! The Kings have clawed their way back into it!" Sir Charles Barkley's voice cracked in the broadcast booth. "This is unbelievable—no, beyond that! How many more shocks are they going to give us tonight?"
On the bench, Chen Yilun's eyes sharpened. Team Three-Point Boost—activate!
The buff he'd been saving all night was finally in play.
He'd held back earlier because the Kings had been trailing too much; a boost then would've been wasted. But now, with just one possession between them, it was the perfect moment to bring the bayonet to the throat.
Chen took a cup from a staffer, about to sip—then noticed his palms were slick with sweat.
And it wasn't just the Kings feeling the nerves. Popovich sat stone-faced, but the constant bounce of his leg gave him away.
Their eyes met—Popovich and Buford. The two shared a complicated smile, equal parts pride and regret.
"If we'd known it would turn out like this," Buford murmured, scratching his head, "we wouldn't have sent that kid to Sacramento. We've created a real headache for ourselves."
But the game left no time for old friends to reminisce.
The Spurs ran a crisp set that freed Duncan under the basket for an easy layup.
Then, in an instant, CJ took a Cousins screen, stepped up, and drilled a three.
"One point game!" The home DJ was so hyped he nearly leapt onto the booth, voice rasping as he whipped the fans into a frenzy.
The loyal Sacramento crowd roared back with such force it felt like the roof might blow off.
The clock ticked down. Everyone knew—this was it. The final showdown had begun.