Chapter 131: The Vulture Takes the Court
“So I’m the one who has to save you in the end, huh? Old man.”
Ginobili’s words sparked an inexplicable surge of irritation in Popovich.
“What did you eat tonight to make your mouth stink so bad, kid?”
“Alright, alright.”
Ginobili cracked his neck and slowly walked to the scorer’s table, ready to check in.
“Ginobili’s coming in.”
In the broadcast booth, the commentator spotted the Argentine warming up at the edge of the frame.
“What’s going on tonight? We’re only in the second quarter and both teams have already traded several heavy blows.”
The other commentator frowned at his tablet.
“If the first half is this intense, will there even be anything left for the second half?”
“Looks like both coaches are waging a fierce battle off the court too!”
Coach Malone saw Ginobili warming up and immediately turned to his bench.
“Crowder, get ready to go in!”
Crowder quickly nodded, preparing to sub in for Butler.
“Isn’t it a little early to bring in Crowder now?” Chris Finch asked with concern.
“Not too early.” Malone shook his head. “Ginobili’s here specifically to target Butler, to erase the advantage we built earlier. We can’t let them get away with it!”
“But can Crowder stop Ginobili?”
“Let’s hope so,” Malone muttered, watching Crowder head to the scorer’s table, his confidence wavering.
“Because when that vulture really bares his fangs, nobody knows what might happen.”
That doubt wasn’t Malone’s alone. It was shared by every coach in the league. Even Popovich himself might not know Ginobili’s true limits.
This wiry veteran had once played like he could reach the stars, yet he still sat firmly as a sixth man for the Spurs.
Back in the brutal 2005 Finals, Ginobili had been the lone X-factor.
With Tim Duncan smothered by the Wallace brothers, it was Ginobili who carved a runway through Detroit’s no-fly zone. His unpredictable drives tore apart the Pistons’ ironclad defense and became the deciding force behind that year’s championship.
Even now, deep into the second half of his career, no one could say how much fuel Ginobili still had left in the tank.
“Want me to set you up for a couple first?”
As Ginobili checked in, Diaw sidled up and whispered.
“Sure!”
Ginobili adjusted his jersey, his eyes gleaming with the focus of a predator.
“Just let me warm up these hands.”
Aldridge inbounded to Ginobili. The old vulture took the ball and sauntered into the frontcourt.
The Kings stuck with their 3-2 zone defense. At the point of attack, Crowder locked his eyes on Ginobili.
A rookie who had grown up hearing Ginobili’s stories, Crowder faced the unpredictable scorer with extreme caution.
Ginobili stood at the top of the key. He motioned for his teammates to spread, then suddenly shifted gears—driving hard.
Left!
In an instant, Crowder read his body lean and moved to cut him off, shifting his weight left.
But at that same moment, he caught a sly smile flash across Ginobili’s face.
No!
Ginobili planted his left foot at a twisted angle. His body, feinting left, suddenly surged right.
He wasn’t fast anymore. Age had long stolen the blistering speed of the Pampas Eagle. But Ginobili had forged something far more dangerous.
Crowder turned, watching helplessly as Ginobili strolled past. Frustration flared as he tried to pivot and chase—but the harder he pressed, the less his body responded.
His unstable balance collapsed. Stumbling, one knee hit the hardwood.
Seeing Crowder fall, Ginobili eased up, stopped his drive, and with the basket wide open, floated in an easy jumper.
“Oh! Ankle breaker!”
The commentator couldn’t help blurting out.
“Ginobili—almost 38 years old—just shook Crowder to the floor!”
“That’s pure craft. No speed, no strength—just technical mastery!”
Crowder scrambled up, face burning with shame, wishing the court would swallow him whole.
“Snap out of it!”
CJ barked. “Getting faked out by Ginobili isn’t embarrassing! Get ready for the next play!”
In the final minutes of the second quarter, the Kings tried every trick they had, but nothing worked against Ginobili, now fully in rhythm.
CJ, Crowder, Porter—even Oden—all fell victim to his cuts and feints.
Watching his disciple carve up the floor, a long-missing smile crept back onto Popovich’s face.
As the halftime buzzer sounded, the Spurs held a 48–40 lead.
Casting a mocking glance toward the Kings’ bench, Popovich led his team into the locker room without looking back.
“We lost.”
Coach Malone stared at the whiteboard, covered in messy scrawls, and gave a bitter smile. This half had been a complete defeat.
No matter what adjustments he tried, Popovich—aside from a shaky opening—had countered them all perfectly.
“Bullshit!”
Chen Yilun’s cheeky voice cut in.
Malone looked up. Chen’s once-neat suit was rumpled from his excitement, and he was chugging a beer from a courtside vendor.
“It’s just one half. What’s there to worry about?”
“But…” Malone started, but Chen cut him off.
“We’ve already won.”
Malone blinked, question marks filling his head.
“How have we won?”
“Look.” Chen tilted his head back, downing the rest of his beer in one gulp. With a satisfied burp, he explained:
“The old man’s tried two different lineups against us. Both times, it came down to Duncan or Ginobili.”
“He’s got nothing else. Those old bones are all that keep him afloat.”
A sharp gleam lit up Chen Yilun’s flushed face.
“Just this half proves it. The Double D are only for show. The Spurs’ real backbone is still GDP—the Big Three.”
“So what?” Malone tilted his head, still not connecting the dots.
“So!” Chen tossed the empty cup into the trash.
“When we hit their defense in the second half, the old man won’t have any tricks left to answer with!”
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