Chapter 129: Semifinal 2
On the court, the Kings stuck to their slow, methodical half-court offense. The pace was steady, but the scoreboard tilted toward the Spurs.
Yet Popovich showed no sign of satisfaction. His brow only furrowed deeper.
“Coach, what are they even doing? I don’t get it at all.”
After watching for a while without understanding, Ime Udoka finally asked.
Popovich sneered at his assistant.
“That’s exactly why you’re still just my assistant, while others already have teams of their own.”
“You can’t even read something this simple?”
Even as he spoke, Butler once again attacked the paint. Duncan held him off but picked up a foul in the process.
Butler got up without concern and headed straight for the free-throw line.
“They’re trying to wear down Duncan,” Popovich said through clenched teeth.
That was exactly the Kings’ plan—relentlessly forcing him to defend inside. They weren’t rushing shots; every possession dragged on, bleeding away Duncan’s stamina.
“They’ve found our weak spot.”
Popovich gave a cold laugh. There was no way Malone had figured this out on his own. This had Chen Yilun’s fingerprints all over it.
This year’s Spurs looked nearly flawless, but they had one glaring vulnerability.
Over the summer, to clear cap space for LaMarcus Aldridge, the Spurs reluctantly traded away starting center Tiago Splitter.
And once Aldridge arrived, his preferred spots overlapped with Duncan’s. The aging Duncan, hauling his tired body, was pushed back to center for the first time in years.
That left the Spurs with a hole at the five.
Granted, even at the twilight of his career, Duncan was still among the league’s elite defenders. But Father Time catches up to everyone.
Without stamina, even the best defense falls apart—it’s just an illusion. Once Duncan ran out of gas, the whole structure would collapse.
And behind him, the Spurs’ other options were an aging David West, the defensively porous Boris Diaw, and rookie big man Boban Marjanović.
Malone’s strategy was clear—grind Duncan down.
Sure, our roster isn’t as talented as yours. But we’re younger, fresher!
If I run Duncan into the ground, let’s see who guards the paint then.
Aldridge, though a perennial All-Star, still wasn’t a defensive anchor. Back in Portland, he always needed Lopez to cover for him.
“What should we do?”
Hearing Popovich’s explanation, Udoka finally realized the danger.
The first quarter wasn’t even over, and Duncan was already gasping for air. His stamina was nearly gone.
“You alright?”
Aldridge asked Duncan with concern. “Want me to take your matchup?”
“It won’t matter.” Duncan’s face stayed blank, as always.
“If we switch, they’ll just run strong-side pick-and-rolls. Either way, it drains me.”
A bead of sweat trickled down between his graying temples.
“They’re not even focused on scoring right now. They’re dead-set on wearing me down. It’s an open strategy—there’s nothing we can do about it.”
The Kings’ stamina-draining tactic wasn’t efficient offensively, but by the end of the quarter they had already opened up a near double-digit lead.
“Tim!”
Just then, another flat, emotionless voice called out.
Kawhi Leonard jogged over unhurriedly.
“No big deal. If you’re tired, take a break.”
He stared blankly toward the Kings, but behind his calm eyes, a fire flickered.
“Don’t worry. I’ve got this. I’ll hold down the defense myself.”
“Timeout, timeout!”
Popovich called the Spurs’ first timeout right on cue.
“The Spurs called it first? Weren’t they playing pretty well?”
A curious fan craned his neck for a better look.
Casual fans see the show; real students of the game see what’s happening. To ordinary fans, it looked like the Spurs were still in control.
“Tim, you’ll sit for a breather.”
Popovich scribbled furiously across his playboard.
“How are you holding up? Still got enough in the tank?”
On the other bench, Malone looked over at Butler with concern.
Butler snapped his head, sweat spraying onto the hardwood.
“I’m fine!” he said without hesitation. “This intensity is just enough to get me warmed up!”
Relieved, Malone turned to Chen Yilun and asked quietly,
“Yilun, you’re the old man’s protégé. Based on your experience, what do you think he’ll do next?”
Chen Yilun, no longer idly scrolling his phone, answered immediately.
“The old man’s first-quarter plan has already been blown up. Duncan will definitely rest next. Most likely, Diaw comes in to organize the offense, and Leonard drops back to protect the paint.”
Keeping Duncan on the floor would be suicide. His waning stamina would only weaken his impact inside.
The Kings could just keep attacking him—scoring more efficiently while draining him further.
Resting Duncan was the only move.
“So we have two options: one, attack the perimeter while Leonard sags inside and try to close the gap. Or two, keep pounding the paint, wear down Aldridge and Leonard, and push all our chips to the second half.”
Chen Yilun’s words left Malone deep in thought.
Neither plan was ideal. Playing the perimeter meant going toe-to-toe with the Spurs, and no one could predict the second half.
Attacking inside was a gamble—one slip, and the Kings could collapse before halftime.
After a moment’s calculation, Malone made his choice.
“Greg!”
His voice carried a hard edge.
“Here!”
Greg Oden, seated on the bench, lifted his head, eyes resolute.
“You’re going in for Jokić!”
Malone sketched quickly on the board.
“No holding back! Go at Leonard and Aldridge with everything you’ve got!”
“Use every ounce of strength. Don’t shy away from contact—turn the pressure up on them!”
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