Chapter 130: Semifinal 3
Popovich glared at Oden as he stepped onto the court, his expression stormy.
“Damn it, he really wants to play a half-court game with me!”
The so-called half-court game was a tactic in the league where a team burned through all its ammunition in the first half. Many times, just that opening stretch was enough to decide the outcome.
Popovich wasn’t worried about Malone’s tactics.
Go ahead and play! I’ve been through decades of ups and downs—you think I can’t handle you?
But Malone’s shameless, all-or-nothing approach had truly thrown his plans into chaos.
It was like Popovich had sat down properly, bathed and perfumed, ready for a serious game of chess—only for Malone to rip off his shirt, flip the chessboard, and roar:
“This game’s boring! Come arm-wrestle me instead!”
That was about the gist of it.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Popovich’s eyes hardened.
“Play dirty? You think I’m afraid?! When I was playing dirty, you were still playing in the mud!”
He shot Parker a glance. The French speedster immediately understood.
“Hit them with defense-to-fast break. Push the pace—don’t let them set up their half-court offense!” Parker whispered to his teammates.
“Got it!”
“This game just keeps getting stranger...”
The commentator scratched his head in confusion.
“This looks completely different from what we predicted before!”
Though the other commentator had already pieced together what was happening, he didn’t dare say it out loud.
“This has to be the result of the coaches’ chess match. We’ll wait for the post-game interviews to get the details.”
He chuckled, steering the topic away.
...
On the court, the Kings were attacking.
After relentless ball movement that forced the Spurs into useless rotations, CJ finally lobbed the ball inside.
Oden caught it, with Leonard on his back.
Feeling that iron-hard body pressing against him, Oden drew a breath and started his post-up without hesitation.
As a DPOY-caliber defender, Leonard was still a forward. His impact in the paint was far from what Duncan brought.
At the defensive end, the center position has always been in a league of its own. Just look at the Defensive Player of the Year awards—aside from a handful of extraordinary perimeter stoppers, the trophy has been dominated by big men.
(Duncan: “Rigged! I’m calling rigged!”)
One-on-one, Oden held all the cards. In size and strength, Leonard simply wasn’t in his weight class.
But just as Oden gathered and prepared to spin into a hook shot, a giant hand came out of nowhere and smacked the ball.
“Smack!”
Oden felt his hand go empty. Looking down, the ball had already been stripped!
Leonard swept it into his chest with those long arms.
“Run!”
Even on the break, Leonard kept his words short and sharp—but that was enough.
Parker had been ready from the moment Leonard moved. The instant the call came, he shot forward like an arrow from a bowstring.
Leonard launched a pinpoint quarterback-style pass straight into Parker’s hands. With no one in front of him, Parker took a few light steps and flipped the ball into the hoop with ease.
“What the hell are you doing, Greg?!”
Malone had been sitting calmly on the bench, but now he sprang up like a triggered spring. He roared at Oden like a furious lion.
“What did I teach you?! Did you forget everything?! High release, high finish—don’t you get it?!”
Oden’s face showed a flicker of shame.
“Give me another chance.”
He posted up again, raising his hands for the ball. CJ didn’t hesitate to feed him once more.
This time, Oden didn’t dribble. He held the ball at his chest, leaned back slightly to feel Leonard’s position, then spun and flicked a clean hook shot.
Leonard could only watch the high arc sail over his head and drop through the net.
“Yeah! That’s more like it.”
Malone sighed in relief and sat back down. Turning to Chip, he muttered, “Doesn’t matter how old Oden is, he still has to drill the fundamentals. This summer, I’ll need you to put in the work—his technique is still rough.”
“No problem. I’ll put together a training plan for him.” Chip nodded, watching Oden on the floor with a thoughtful look.
...
Next possession, Aldridge had the ball, with Thaddeus Young glued to him.
Aldridge stood in the paint, lifted his head slightly, faking a shot.
Young bit. He didn’t jump, but his center of gravity shifted upward. At this level, even that tiny mistake could be fatal.
LaMarcus read it instantly. With a sharp spin, he blew right past him.
“Help!” Young, thrown off-balance, couldn’t recover fast enough. He shouted for a teammate as he scrambled behind.
Aldridge spun into the restricted area. With no one in front of the hoop, he floated the ball up with ease.
But just as it left his hands, his pupils contracted—suddenly, a massive hand stretched in from the left, cutting off the ball’s path.
“Smack!”
The hand swatted the ball away clean, sending it off course like a startled bird.
“What a block!” Butler grinned as he grabbed the loose ball. The owner of that hand was none other than Oden, who had been lurking on the strong side.
Butler didn’t rush into transition. Remembering Malone’s instructions, he calmly dribbled the ball across half-court and then went one-on-one with Aldridge, scoring to trim the lead back to two.
...
With Oden shining on both ends, the Spurs were getting uncomfortable. They had their starters on the floor, yet the Kings were conserving energy everywhere else, leaning on Oden, a bench player, for offense!
Little by little, the stamina gap between the two teams’ starters was widening.
“We need to adjust.”
Popovich ran a hand through his graying hair, then turned to the bench.
“Manu, get ready. You’re going in for Tony.”
“They’ve dragged us into their mud pit. We need you to pull us out.”
The balding, hawk-nosed man smirked, rising lazily from his chair.
“Yeah, yeah, I know.”
Manu Ginobili shed his warm-ups, revealing the legendary black jersey with silver lettering and the number 20.
“In the end, it always comes down to me saving you, doesn’t it? Old man.”
Author's Note
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