Chapter 133: Surging Forward
“Is that guy out of his mind?”
Popovich slowly rose from the bench, staring at the game in disbelief.
Butler kept charging into the paint like a man on a suicide mission, forcing his way past the Spurs’ traps and double-teams without hesitation.
Even Leonard, an elite defender, was at a loss.
If he tried to meet Butler head-on, he risked committing a foul. But if he didn’t, there was simply no stopping him.
“Does he not have a stamina bar?”
For the first time, a flicker of astonishment crossed Leonard’s usually expressionless face. “How long has this been going on? How is he still playing at such intensity?”
It wasn’t surprising Leonard didn’t know.
As a rising star making his first playoff run in the Western Conference, Butler was still unfamiliar territory for him.
Watching Butler’s reckless onslaught, Popovich rubbed his eyes in disbelief.
“Udoka, look at this.”
Hearing his mentor call, Udoka quickly stood. “What is it, Coach?”
“Watch Butler.”
Popovich’s voice trembled slightly, as if he’d seen something extraordinary.
“Doesn’t he look like Jordan?”
Udoka studied Butler carefully.
“Hss…”
The more he looked, the stranger it felt.
“He does!” Udoka nodded hard. “Not just the way he plays—his face too. The resemblance is uncanny!”
“Where’s Butler from again?”
“Houston, I think.”
“Hmm…”
A sly smile spread across Popovich’s face.
The private lives of athletes in North America were so messy, even sewer rats would call them filthy.
“Could it be that bald dude from Chicago fathered a kid in Houston?”
For a moment, Popovich forgot all about the outcome of the game, more entertained by the idea that Butler might actually be that man’s illegitimate son.
After all, victories come and go, but gossip lasts forever.
“Enough gossip!”
Sitting nearby, Buford finally snapped, cutting off the two men’s stares at Butler.
“Look at the clock! You want me to just wave the white flag for you? Save the gossip for the offseason!”
At Buford’s interruption, Popovich and Udoka realized the timing was off and quickly turned back to the game.
“Coach…” Udoka frowned.
“Don’t get mad at me, but it feels like we’re about to lose.”
“Mhm.”
Popovich answered casually and said no more.
“What?” Udoka stared at him in disbelief. “We’re losing! Aren’t you going to do something?”
Instead of mocking him as usual, Popovich spoke evenly.
“There’s nothing left to adjust. We’ve already lost this one.”
Then, with a sudden shift in tone, he added, “But it’s only this game.”
“Remember what I taught you before?” He didn’t wait for a reply before continuing. “As head coaches, we’re like spiders.”
“Our personnel moves and tactical preparations are our web. Even if the Kings win tonight on our floor, they’re still caught in that web.”
Seeing his mentor so composed, Udoka thought for a moment, then suddenly let out a long “Ohhh.”
“I get it now, Coach—you’re using this game to lure the Kings in!”
“You’re not as dumb as you look.” Popovich chuckled.
“After tonight, the media will put Butler on a pedestal. And once that happens, the Kings will keep giving him more touches. That makes our job easier.”
Popovich’s strategy was simple.
When both sides had thrown everything at each other, he realized this game might slip away. At that point, the smart move was minimizing the damage and setting a trap for the next one.
So he let Butler take over, knowing the Kings would ride his hot hand.
Then, in the next game, Malone would almost certainly keep feeding Butler, hoping to replicate the win.
And that would be Popovich’s chance.
You want to be the lone hero, Butler? Fine—I’ll let you. Then I’ll drag you from heaven straight down to hell.
We locked up James back in the day. You think a Butler can shake us?
...
And so, beneath these hidden currents, the game ended.
The Kings stunned San Antonio, 96–88, stealing Game 1 on the road!
With Popovich’s quiet blessing, Butler erupted in the fourth quarter. He dropped a monstrous stat line: 46 points, 9 rebounds, and 7 assists—setting a new playoff career-high.
As the buzzer sounded, Gay grabbed the game ball and shoved it into Butler’s arms. The rest of the team stormed the court, embracing him without a care that it was enemy territory.
Popovich gave one last meaningful glance at the young men celebrating, then turned away, calmly leading his players off the floor.
“We won! We won!”
Malone shook Chen Yilun with excitement, while Yilun’s eyes were already glazed from the alcohol.
“I know! Now let go!”
Loaded with beer, Chen Yilun felt the world spinning as Malone rattled him, his stomach threatening to rebel.
Finally breaking free, Yilun’s eyes showed no joy.
He stared at Popovich’s retreating back, his mind clouded in confusion.
“There’s a problem. A big problem.”
Part of it was Popovich holding something back, never teaching Yilun everything. Part of it was the haze of alcohol.
But one thing was clear—Popovich wouldn’t just surrender. There had to be something else.
No matter how hard he thought, Yilun couldn’t put his finger on it.
“Don’t overthink it.”
At dinner that evening, seeing Yilun still brooding, Malone tried to console him. “Maybe the old man just ran out of tricks and didn’t want to lose face by meeting you.”
“Impossible!”
Chen Yilun stabbed his fork hard into a bloody piece of steak.
“He wouldn’t fall that easily. There’s something we’re missing!”
But it wasn’t until two days later that Chen Yilun finally realized what Popovich was really planning.
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