Snoopy's entrance drew not only sarcastic remarks from alumni but also frowns from the VIP rows.
Because the rookie didn't head to the perimeter, he walked straight into the paint, parking himself beside Kansas State's 6'10" center Heywood.
Heywood, wiry but tall, looked down with narrowed eyes.
"Kid, wrong address?"
Snoopy met his gaze with calm seriousness. "Not at all."
Even as he spoke, Westbrook exploded past his defender on the wing. One step, gone. With no help in sight, he rose on stiffened legs and launched a jumper.
Clang!
The shot rimmed out hard.
In that instant, Snoopy spun, bent his knees, and locked Heywood behind him like a vault door. The center tried to shove forward, to rise over him, but found himself caged. Snoopy's seal was textbook, suffocating.
Heywood could only watch, helpless, as the ball dropped.
And then, Aboya slid in, plucked it like fruit, and flipped it in off the glass. Swish!
The deficit shrank to single digits.
"Nice instincts by Aboya," whispered the Heat VP beside Pat Riley. "Off-ball timing, rebounding sense, he could be a serviceable wing."
But Riley's eyes never left the #10 in blue.
It wasn't Aboya who had made the play possible, it was Snoopy. Without his immovable box-out on the tallest body in the gym, there would've been no board, no bucket.
"That number ten," Riley asked quietly, "what's his story?"
The VP shrugged. "Got a report a few days ago. Not a real player. He's a business school honor student. Got pulled onto the roster when UCLA's starting center tore his ACL. Big arms, that's about it."
"No real training?" Riley pressed.
"None. Nineteen years old already, just picked up basketball. And at center, no less. Too late. Hopeless."
The VP's words were final, dismissive.
Riley didn't respond. His eyes stayed locked on the court, on the anomaly in the paint. Others saw a waste of time. He saw raw stone waiting for a sculptor's hands.
Next possession, Beasley attacked.
A quick stride past Aboya, and the lane opened wide. The stage was set, crowd buzzing already. This was his chance to posterize UCLA, to roar his name into the rafters.
One gather step, then he launched, elevating like a rocket. His head rose to the rim, right arm cocked back, the dunk already alive in his imagination.
But from the shadow of Heywood's body, a blue jersey erupted.
#10.
Snoopy's leap was violent, vertical, sudden. His hand stretched into Beasley's path with raw defiance.
"Fool," Beasley sneered mid-air. "I'll crush you."
He didn't even bother to adjust, so certain that his power would erase the nuisance before him.
But then, shock.
Snoopy's rise was too fast, his reach too high.
Panic flickered in Beasley's eyes. He tried to twist, to contort for a last-second adjustment—
Too late.
"DOWN!!" Snoopy's growl tore from his chest as his palm smashed the ball.
CRACK!
The ball shot backward, ripped from Beasley's hand. The impact rocked Beasley himself, knocking him off-balance. He staggered, retreating three steps before he could stabilize, humiliation burning in his face.
And Snoopy? He landed squarely in the lane, solid as stone. Unmoved. Like he belonged there.
Westbrook was already gone, rocketing the other way. His war-cry ended in a thunderous tomahawk slam. The crowd erupted.
But behind the cheers, a quieter duel sparked.
Beasley lifted his head, locking eyes with Snoopy.
The rookie only shook his head, faint disappointment in his expression.
This? This was the so-called #1 pick?
To him, Beasley felt no different than Mbah a Moute or Taj Gibson. Another forward whose shot could be snuffed, whose drive could be denied. Nothing special.
Pat Riley leaned forward, elbows on knees.
"How?" His voice was low, more to himself than anyone.
The VP beside him, assuming he meant Westbrook, answered easily. "Speed, explosion, insane bounce. He's a jet in sneakers..."
Riley cut him off.
"No. I mean UCLA's #10. That block."
The VP frowned. Hesitant. "…Probably a fluke."
Riley's eyes gleamed. Fluke?
He didn't believe in flukes.