"Swish!"
Chen Yilun, standing courtside and watching the game intently, froze for a moment before glancing at his companion in confusion.
"That move just now... was that Nowitzki's One-Legged Fadeaway? Did you teach him that?"
Seeing Chen Yilun's astonished expression, Divac awkwardly tugged at his suit sleeve. "Uh... no, I never taught him that."
After saying this, Divac nervously rubbed his nose.
When did this kid learn that move? Don't tell me that sly old hawk-nose thinks my apprentice has superstar potential and wants to steal him away?
Lost in his own thoughts, Divac suddenly felt a real sense of crisis.
No way! I'll have to keep a close eye on this kid during the offseason. There's no way I can let Nowitzki poach him. After all these years, Serbia finally has someone capable of carrying the torch. If I let him slip away, I'd never be able to face my ancestors!
Meanwhile, over in the training facility preparing for the next day's playoff game, Nowitzki suddenly let out a huge sneeze.
"What's wrong, Dirk? Feeling sick?"
Coach Carlisle quickly stepped over, concern on his face.
"I don't know, my nose just tickled all of a sudden," Nowitzki said, rubbing it with a puzzled look.
Back on the court, Jokić had no idea Divac had once again hijacked his dream of an offseason break. For now, he was happily showcasing his offensive arsenal.
With his massive frame and long wingspan, Jokić was dominating the paint with ease.
"Coach, maybe I should go in."
As Joerger sat on the sideline nearly tearing his hair out, Randolph's raspy voice reached his ear.
Joerger turned and saw Randolph's determined, stocky face.
"Forget it. Rest a little longer. If you go in now, we'll have nothing left for the second half."
As head coach, Joerger fully understood the team's predicament.
The Grizzlies had only reached the playoffs this year because of a strong start. Otherwise, their disastrous finish would've knocked them out of contention. Had the regular season been just a few games longer, they wouldn't even be here.
A team like the Grizzlies, built on half-court sets and bruising battles in the paint, fears injuries more than anything. And that very style of play is exactly what makes them most vulnerable to injuries.
Just look at now.
Their three core players: Conley, Gasol, and Randolph.
Two were already out, and the one remaining, Randolph, was playing hurt. Plagued by a knee injury, he was still on the active roster, but his minutes were being tightly controlled by the trainers.
The bulky knee brace he wore only further limited a body that wasn't exactly agile to begin with.
By halftime, the Kings had pushed the lead to 20 points.
In the locker room, Booker spoke up with barely concealed excitement.
"So this is the playoffs? It doesn't seem as tough as I thought."
His words drew no agreement. In fact, several teammates looked at him like he was an idiot.
"Hmph!"
Butler's trademark cold snort echoed through the room.
"What's there to be proud of beating a sick bear with no claws or teeth? Winning one game isn't winning. Winning sixteen games—that's winning. And we haven't even taken the first one yet."
Butler's icy words instantly doused Booker's enthusiasm.
Realizing he had spoken out of turn, Booker quickly shut his mouth and pretended to busy himself.
In sharp contrast to the Kings' relatively relaxed atmosphere, the Grizzlies' locker room felt like a tomb.
The players sat silently at their stalls, waiting for Joerger to outline the second-half strategy.
Joerger, pale and drained, kept flipping through his playbook, occasionally whispering to his assistant coach.
"Is there really nothing left?"
He kept his voice low, just loud enough for the two of them, but still glanced nervously at his players.
"Nothing left," the assistant coach said with a bitter smile. "We've only got a handful of guys, and several were just pulled up from the G-League. What plays can we run? Especially with the Kings dead set on playing defense and running the break."
He paused, swallowing hard.
"The team hasn't even fully built its defensive system yet. What are we supposed to do in the second half?"
The Grizzlies' most feared defensive scheme relied on Conley and Tony Allen locking down the perimeter, forcing opponents to grind it out inside. Now, with the perimeter exposed and only Randolph left in the paint, there was no way to create that pressure.
Joerger had expected as much, but hearing his assistant spell it out felt like the last nail in the coffin.
He let out a long sigh. "So there really is no solution?"
"If Carter suddenly turned back the clock, then maybe we'd still have a shot."
The assistant's sudden attempt at humor nearly earned him a slap.
"You're cracking jokes at a time like this?!"
The second half went exactly as expected—firmly under the Kings' control. The final score was 108–84.
The Kings cruised to their first home victory.
"When you shake hands after the game, no smiling, no laughing. Keep it cold. Shake hands and walk straight back to the locker room. Got it?"
During the last stretch of garbage time, Butler sat on the bench quietly instructing each teammate.
"Why?"
CJ leaned in curiously, tilting his head.
"Because the game isn't just about the four quarters on the court," Butler said, sipping slowly from a cup of Gatorade. "We need to project the feeling that we're not satisfied with just this. The Grizzlies' confidence is already on the verge of collapse. Let's finish the job and bury them."
So when the buzzer sounded, Malone and Joerger met at midcourt for the customary handshake, while the players, led by Butler, gave brief, expressionless handshakes to the Grizzlies before turning and heading straight to the locker room without a glance back.
"This Butler really is a born leader,"
Divac remarked from the stands, watching both teams. "Even now, he doesn't forget to crush them mentally and pile on the pressure."
Chen Yilun watched Butler's retreating figure with deep satisfaction.
"This is the kind of team that truly looks like a contender."