Chapter 137: Crossing the Mountains
Popovich stood at the door for a long time, hesitating, before finally knocking.
“Knock, knock, knock!”
A few seconds later, the door opened. Tim Duncan poked his head out.
The two stared at each other in silence. Popovich lifted a takeout bag in one hand, giving it a little shake, while holding a bottle of wine in the other.
Inside Duncan’s room, an odd silence settled.
Popovich had brought him his favorite carrot cake.
This was a small ritual between mentor and student.
Whenever they were on the road, no matter the city, Popovich would bring Duncan a slice of carrot cake—a tradition that had lasted for more than a decade. Eventually, it became second nature: Popovich would just leave the cake at the door, knock, and Duncan would know.
Duncan ate slowly, savoring his cake, while Popovich sipped his drink. They didn’t speak a word, yet the atmosphere felt warm.
Even now, Popovich couldn’t quite define what Duncan meant to him.
In 2002, Duncan’s father lay in a hospital bed, waiting for death.
Before passing, he held Popovich’s hand tightly and said, “My son is diligent, hardworking, and trustworthy. I sincerely hope, sir, that years from now, Tim Duncan will remain as genuine as he is today.”
It was like Duncan’s father was entrusting his son to him.
Popovich had promised Duncan’s father, and from that day forward, he watched over Tim.
Year after year!
And Duncan, through his excellence on the court, kept proving how wise that choice had been. Together, the veteran coach and the young star weathered nearly twenty years of the NBA’s storms.
Now, as Popovich looked at Duncan’s graying temples, he suddenly laughed.
Hearing it, Duncan glanced up curiously.
“You’re getting old too,” Popovich teased, pointing at his temples before taking another long drink.
Duncan paused, spoon in hand, then gave a wry smile. “Pop, I’m almost 40. A few gray hairs are normal, right? At least my hair’s still thick. Look at Manu—he’s gone bald, and you never say a word to him.”
“You really don’t know why he’s bald?” Popovich chuckled.
Duncan felt wronged. Sure, he often messed with Ginobili’s hair, but that bald spot had nothing to do with him—it was genetic! Who could possibly rub someone’s scalp bald with their hand?
After a laugh, Popovich took another sip, then finally asked,
“What happened in the game today?”
Duncan hesitated for a moment before answering. “I plan to retire after this season.”
“Retire?!”
Though Popovich had braced himself for this day, hearing Duncan say it aloud nearly made him spit his drink all over him.
“Why so sudden?”
Duncan gave a weary smile. “Pop, you know me. I’ve always said I’d retire the moment I knew I couldn’t help the team move forward anymore. I’d step aside willingly.”
“You can still contribute to this team!” Popovich argued instantly.
“You know what I mean.” Having spoken the words, Duncan seemed lighter. “You saw today’s game. Greg destroyed me. I know my body better than anyone. I can’t compete at a high level anymore.”
“Then come off the bench. Your experience alone would make you invaluable to any team, helping the young guys.”
“Coach!”
Duncan cut him off sharply, then softened again.
“Don’t say that. I can’t accept sitting on the bench just watching others play.” A rare smile appeared. “Let me retire with dignity, Pop.”
“How about one more year?” Popovich asked cautiously. “Look at Kobe’s farewell tour this year. Want me to arrange one for you next season?”
A farewell tour is every player’s dream, but only a handful ever get one.
Kobe’s tour happened because the Lakers wanted it, and the rest of the league respected his legacy enough to go along.
Wade tried later, but not every team acknowledged him, and his tour ended up rocky and awkward.
But Duncan? That would be different.
As one of the most successful players in the post-Jordan era, widely regarded as the greatest power forward in history—whether for his achievements or his character, Duncan was nearly flawless.
If he wanted a farewell tour, every team would gladly agree.
“Forget it.” Duncan chuckled, returning to his cake. “You know I hate that kind of spotlight.”
“Are you really set on retiring?” Popovich asked again, unwilling to give up.
“Yeah.” Duncan swallowed his last bite and nodded firmly. “Now’s the best time. Manu and Tony still have more in them, and Kawhi and LaMarcus are ready to take over. My job’s done—it’s time to step aside.”
“Alright.” Popovich let out a long sigh. “If that’s your decision, I’ll support you. But don’t say anything to the team yet.”
He spoke each word carefully. “We’ve got Game 5 coming up. If they find out now, it’ll throw everything off.”
“Don’t worry, Pop. I know when to keep quiet.” With that, Duncan flopped onto his bed.
Seeing his carefree attitude, Popovich couldn’t help but laugh and mutter, “You rascal.”
After leaving, he stood alone in the hotel hallway for a long while. Finally, he lifted his head, his eyes red.
“William, the promise I made you back then—I didn’t fail. He’s still the good kid you entrusted to me.”
...
“This series unfolding like this has actually surprised me.”
O’Neal, dressed in a suit, shook his head. “I predicted the Spurs would take out the Kings 4-0 or 4-1 easily. Who could’ve guessed the Kings would defend their home court and tie it 2-2?”
“The Kings’ resilience has exceeded expectations, pushing the Spurs to a Game 5. Butler and his teammates already have plenty to brag about in the offseason.”
Today’s broadcast paired O’Neal with Reggie Miller.
After chatting a bit, they turned back to the game.
“Shaq, what’s your outlook for today?”
“Do we even need to guess?” O’Neal leaned back confidently. “Popovich and the Spurs will be the winners.”
It wasn’t surprising he was so certain—the talent gap on paper was massive.
The Spurs had six current or former All-Stars. The Kings? Just two, counting CJ.
No comparison.
“Well, if you’re that sure, let’s see how it plays out!” Miller rubbed his hands in excitement.
But once the game tipped off, both commentators went from excited to dumbfounded.
“Is… this for real?”
Miller craned his neck, eyes locked on the screen.
Popovich, the strategist who had ruled the NBA for decades, kept making mistakes. He looked distracted, almost absent.
And it trickled down—the Spurs played flat. The most obvious was Duncan.
Not that he’d given up after announcing his retirement. As a Hall of Famer, his professionalism demanded effort.
But at the highest level, games are fueled by spirit.
Duncan’s competitive fire had vanished the moment he decided to retire. The body that once held together by sheer willpower now showed its age—he was gasping for air after just a few minutes.
“Something’s off!”
CJ exclaimed after draining a three off a screen. “The Spurs don’t feel the same.”
“You noticed too?” Butler frowned. “Their intensity just dropped way down.”
“Something’s definitely wrong!”
Coach Malone stood on the sideline, unblinking. “That old man’s up to something. What’s he planning? Why can’t I figure it out?”
No matter how hard he thought, Malone couldn’t fathom why Popovich would leave so many openings in such a crucial Game 5.
“Forget it if I can’t figure it out.” He shook his head. “The Spurs are full of holes. I’ll just take advantage!”
And so the much-anticipated battle never materialized. The Kings easily claimed Game 5.
“I don’t get it! I really don’t get it!”
Even on the ride home, Malone muttered the same words.
Chen Yilun sat with his eyes closed, pretending not to hear.
He had expected this. When a team’s cornerstone falls, no matter how talented the others are, without someone to step up, they crumble.
That was the Spurs. Duncan and Popovich hadn’t said a word, but the players felt it. It showed on the court.
The clearest case was Leonard.
He was still a fledgling who had grown under Duncan’s wing. Though he had started to show his claws, he hadn’t yet faced adversity alone. Confronted with this, he was lost.
For Chen Yilun, raised in the Spurs system, Duncan’s fall was nothing to celebrate.
And knowing he had helped push Duncan toward retirement only made his conscience ache.
But what choice did he have? For victory, no price was too high. That was what the old man had once taught him—only now, years later, the lesson came back to hit him.
Even with Popovich trying to rally the group, it was no use.
Game 6 returned to Sacramento.
The entire city seemed to roar for the Kings.
How many years? How many years since the Kings last reached the Western Conference Finals? Some fans had grown from children to adults waiting for this day.
Now the chance was here. One more win. And they would return to the Western Finals!
Against all odds—how could that not stir the heart?
When Popovich led his team onto the floor, the deafening boos nearly knocked them off their feet.
No hope.
Looking around the packed arena, Popovich understood. With such a gap in momentum, the Spurs had no chance.
And sure enough, from the start the Kings controlled the game. Ginobili and Leonard tried to spark comebacks, but the Kings snuffed them out.
“I’m sorry, David.”
Seated on the bench, Popovich turned to David West, guilt in his voice.
Last year, West had given up more than ten million to join the Spurs on a minimum deal, chasing a championship ring before retiring. Instead, the Spurs bowed out in the semifinals—a total loss.
“It’s fine.” West smiled faintly. “No one could’ve seen this coming. It’s not your fault.”
After a few polite words, Popovich pulled his starters, raising the white flag. Malone responded in kind, subbing in his entire bench and letting the game drift into garbage time.
Popovich glanced at Chen Yilun across the court, eyes heavy with melancholy but tinged with admiration.
By then, the other Western semifinal had already ended.
Contrary to the hype, the Warriors had brushed aside the Thunder with ease. Now they waited for their next opponent.
“You won.”
Popovich murmured, watching Chen Yilun.
“You fulfilled the vow you made when you left San Antonio. You really built a team strong enough to challenge me.”
“Carry your mentor’s legacy forward. Kerr is waiting. Go face your senior brother for that damn ring!”
...
(40 Chapters Ahead)
p@treon com / GhostParser
Author's Note
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