"Seven-second counterattack?"
The Warriors' assistant coach looked up at Steve Kerr, clearly taken aback.
"They're running that?"
As he spoke, realization suddenly hit him, and his eyes widened.
The so-called seven-second counterattack relied on a coordinated defensive scheme to force turnovers or missed shots.
Jokić would secure the rebound under the rim, while Butler or Durant waited beyond the three-point line.
The moment Jokić grabbed the board, he'd launch a long outlet pass to the perimeter, where the two wings immediately sprinted into position—one left, one right.
The key was to cut down on dribbling and increase passing frequency to accelerate ball movement.
It exploited the gap between the opponent's finished offense and their defensive repositioning in transition.
Because the entire sequence—from rebound to scoring—took only about seven seconds, the tactic became known as the Seven-Second Counterattack.
"Aren't they afraid of burning out their energy by halftime?"
The assistant coach's voice carried disbelief.
After all, the essence of this system was relentless pressure—high-intensity defense that disrupted the opponent's rhythm, followed by a fast break every single possession.
Executed properly, it created an offense as smooth and unstoppable as flowing mercury, capable of blowing open the score in a matter of minutes.
But it had two major flaws.
First, it depended on the opponent missing shots. If the other team scored, the Kings had to inbound, giving their opponents enough time to reset their defense.
Second, the constant sprints demanded enormous stamina.
Handled poorly, the team could end up drained before even building a lead.
"They're not planning for a long fight at all!"
Kerr clenched his teeth as Thompson missed another shot—only for the Kings to punish them with yet another fast break.
"They're going for a quick lead, then using their depth to grind us down!"
Just then, Curry finally broke free and sank a jumper.
Durant and Butler watched the ball drop through the net, exchanging a brief glance.
"Slow it down!"
The assistant coach shouted toward the court.
"No need—you think I'm blind?"
Kerr crossed his arms, his brow tightly furrowed.
At this point, he was developing a kind of PTSD toward the Kings' ever-changing tactics—each shift catching him off guard.
On the floor, the Kings continued their fluid motion offense. After a clean handoff, the ball landed in Butler's hands.
And standing across from him—Curry.
Butler dribbled deliberately, then suddenly drove one-on-one.
The Warriors tried to rotate, but the Kings' five-out setup left no help defense to spare.
By the time Butler reached midrange, he already had space for a shot. Yet he didn't pull up—he waited for Curry to reestablish position, then chose to back him down.
"Bang!"
Near the paint, Butler spun, his elbow brushing Curry's torso with the momentum.
Curry exaggerated the contact and went flying backward.
"Beep!"
The referee's whistle cut through the air.
"Kings, number 22, offensive foul!"
Lying on the floor, Curry waited for his teammates to pull him up. Butler gave a faint, regretful smile, handed the ball back to the referee, and jogged back on defense.
Curry sat for a moment, breathing in short, shallow bursts.
He'd stopped the Kings' possession and drawn a foul—but he felt no satisfaction at all.
"They're copying what the Cavaliers did to us in last year's Finals," he murmured as Thompson helped him up.
Back then, the Cavs dismantled the Splash Brothers by isolating Curry again and again.
Kyrie Irving and J.R. Smith kept calling for switches, targeting Curry one-on-one—not for efficiency, but purely to wear him down.
"Don't panic. Stick to the plan," Thompson said calmly.
After that painful Finals loss, the Warriors had spent months studying how to counter those endless isolations.
Now, it was time to put those lessons to use.
On the next possession, Curry crossed half-court and zipped a quick pass to Thompson on the strong side.
Suddenly, Green popped up beside him, setting a solid on-ball screen.
Thompson took one quick side step and fired from deep.
Swish!
The shot sliced through the net.
"Huh?"
Malone, seated on the bench, stood up with a puzzled expression.
"What was that?"
"A simplified horns set," Brown explained, catching Malone's look.
"My junior's got some skills—he came up with a counter that fast."
He glanced toward Kerr with genuine admiration.
Kerr's adjustments were simple yet sharp.
Defensively, he switched to a 1-1-3 zone, using Draymond Green as the spearhead to disrupt the Kings' flow.
This also allowed Curry to drop deeper, making it harder for the Kings to isolate him.
Offensively, they reduced Curry's ball-handling load and leaned on Thompson–Green pick-and-rolls to preserve Curry's stamina.
"No wonder this kid's one of the best from our coaching tree," Brown muttered, half-amused, half-resentful.
"Guy really knows his stuff."
By seniority, Brown was technically Kerr's mentor—but that only made the contrast sting more.
He'd toiled for years as an assistant, while Kerr had already become a championship coach.
As he sighed, his gaze drifted toward Malone's back.
You know what? Fair enough.
"So what do we do now?"
Chris Finch's voice pulled him back to the game.
"Wait."
Malone watched the court for a moment, then sat back down, calm as ever.
"No matter how hard they push, it's still just a fight between the ten starters. They've got no chance."
"Ding! Get ready to sub in."
Kerr glanced at his thin bench, hesitated briefly, then called out.
"Me? Oh—yeah! Got it!"
Ding Yanyuhang froze for a second before excitement surged through him.
A second-round rookie, he'd joined the Warriors just as their wings were thinning and Iguodala's form was dipping.
His hustle had earned him a spot on the active roster—even in the Western Conference Finals.
As the crowd erupted in cheers, Ding stepped onto the Western Conference Finals stage for the first time.
The thrill lasted only a few seconds before reality hit—hard.
Butler quietly stepped up beside him.
"Let's go, kid."