Chapter Sixty-Nine: May He Win the Championship

Yesterday’s three-point contest still echoed with applause throughout the stadium, and today, the Rising Stars All-Star Game swept in with fervor. Lin Fei was selected as the starting point guard among the second-year rookies, while Keynes also made the roster, though due to the abundance of backcourt talent, Keynes had to settle for a spot among the substitutes. Lin Fei’s direct opponent tonight was Allen, a rookie in whom the league had placed high hopes. Allen had already made a name for himself in college; his playing style closely resembled that of the current league’s hottest guards, bearing a striking similarity to Rose, Evans, and Wall.

Many in the crowd had come for the very names lighting up the roster: Lin Fei, Reynard, and the rookie Allen. Of all these, the highest expectations, without doubt, rested on Lin Fei. His miraculous three-pointers, lightning speed, and status as the league’s leading scorer had so completely eclipsed even the glow of the Rookie of the Year that only one name resounded from the stands—Lin Fei.

Though this was an exhibition for the league’s youngest talents, many big-name players had come to lend their support. There was one figure, however, who drew more attention than any other: Iverson. The legend needed no introduction; his very presence on the court hinted at some deeper purpose. Time had etched fine lines onto his face, evoking a rush of nostalgia among the crowd—how many remembered the glory days, how many lamented the swift passage of time, and how many felt sorrow for a superstar whose prime had faded.

“I wanted to come see Lin for myself,” Iverson said. “Many friends have told me that he plays with an echo of my younger self. His style is as dazzling as mine once was. Perhaps I can find a piece of my past in watching him play.” In that moment, people realized that the once-indomitable number 3 had been softened by the years. Some say that when a man begins to search his memories, he has truly grown old. Perhaps Iverson truly had; the player who once believed himself an unstoppable force on the court now knew even he could not defy time forever. In such moments, fans could not help but recall the number 3 who dared to cross over Jordan, the four-time scoring champion.

Many of Lin Fei’s supporters were long-time fans of the game, and a great number had once cheered for Iverson. Since Iverson’s departure from the NBA, a void had lingered in their hearts. To find a new star who, in their eyes, played with the same independent flair was an electrifying discovery. Now Iverson himself had come to this arena, this place that echoed with the crowd’s single-minded chant: “Lin Fei.”

The game began. In truth, the match was more entertainment than competition, and the intensity was relatively low.

Lin Fei took possession and broke out at full speed. Allen, who admired his second-year rival, was impressed by how a low draft pick like Lin Fei could explode in just half a season and then challenge for the scoring title in his sophomore year. He had many questions for Lin Fei, and now he would get to see his answers up close.

Lin Fei smiled lightly, recalling the nickname “The Smiling Assassin.” The game had just begun, but it seemed Lin Fei was already preparing to reveal his killer instinct.

He accelerated, and Allen stepped back, surprising Lin Fei. This rookie was fast. Normally, one of Lin Fei’s feints would be enough to shake off a defender, but Allen kept up. Lin Fei changed direction, accelerating again. Still, Allen stuck with him. Yet Lin Fei held the initiative. After the crossover, Allen was just a beat late. Lin Fei stepped back—a move he rarely used. The most likely outcome of such a maneuver was a jump shot. Allen lunged forward to contest, but Lin Fei was too clever to draw a foul in an All-Star game. Instead, he passed inside to Reynard, this year’s Rookie of the Year. Reynard caught the ball, spun, and hit the jumper.

Thus, the two brightest second-year stars made their mark with effortless synergy.

Now it was the first-years’ turn. Allen, undaunted, drove hard against Lin Fei’s defense, pulled up just beyond the three-point line, and nailed the shot. Was he copying Lin Fei? That kind of deep three was usually Lin Fei’s signature, but now this rookie had mastered it as well. Allen flashed a sweet smile at Lin Fei, as if to say, “What do you think, big brother? How’s my imitation?” The crowd roared its approval.

Lin Fei laughed—this junior was a quick study! Lin Fei’s range was nearly unmatched in the league, but now Allen could also pull up from distance at speed, and given his exceptional athleticism, his future was limitless.

Allen was, after all, the first overall pick, much like Rose or Wall—players whose blend of skill and athleticism made them irresistible to scouts. Such traits were largely innate and impossible to teach, while players like Lin Fei—technically unremarkable, lacking in athleticism, possessing only speed and a deadly shot—were often overlooked or drafted late, if at all.

“Very well,” Lin Fei thought. “Since my young apprentice holds me in such regard, let me show him the true ‘Lin-style coast-to-coast three.’” Lin Fei was genuinely enjoying the game now.

With the ball in his hands, Lin Fei faced a wary group of first-year defenders, their eyes fixed on him after witnessing his speed. Lin Fei dribbled quickly. His style was entirely different from Allen’s, whose handle balanced skill and strength, allowing him to blow past slower defenders or overpower weaker ones. Lin Fei, on the other hand, relied on one thing: pure speed—perhaps with a touch of cunning. His quickness was so extreme that almost no one could stop him.

Allen again stepped into his path, and Lin Fei smiled—a smile that sent a chill through Allen. Lin Fei feinted right. Allen thought it was a bluff, expecting a crossover, but Lin Fei simply accelerated past him on the right. Allen’s reaction was delayed—not out of sluggishness, but because he expected a flashier series of moves, typical of Lin Fei’s compatriots. This time, though, Allen was fooled. Once past Allen, Lin Fei took another stride to the right, creating even more space. He was now a step behind the three-point line, about the same spot from which Allen had scored earlier. With no defender in sight, Lin Fei smiled, dribbled, and launched—swish.

Another wave of applause swept through the arena.

“Oh, big brother, I’m counting on you to break the rookie game’s three-point record!” Allen called out.

“Ha! Records are nothing but clouds that drift by,” Lin Fei replied. “That’s a popular saying back home in China.”

Allen looked utterly confused.

“He really is just like I was,” Iverson murmured from the sidelines, his voice low and thick with emotion. Tears glimmered in his eyes—something no fan would have believed possible from the fierce competitor who once played through blood and pain, both on and off the court.

“I hope he can win a championship,” Iverson said. After Lin Fei sank his first shot, Iverson left the arena. No one knew the reason, but many guessed he left for fear of seeing too much of his younger self—and being moved to tears. Perhaps it was because the championship he never won remained a wound in his heart, and in Lin Fei, he saw another version of himself, striving for the dream that always eluded him.