Chapter 227: The Finals Begin (3)
Watching James lose his cool on the court, Brown couldn’t help but flash a sly grin.
Sorry, LeBron. Back in ’07, we both got burned by this exact play. Now, ten years later, I’m using it against you.
Ten years gone, and I’m still picking on the same guy.
Who could he even complain to about that?
Sure enough, as James dribbled past half court, he suddenly turned his head and shot a fierce glare at Brown.
That look said it all: Don’t think I don’t know whose idea this was! Look me in the eye!
Feeling James’s predatory stare, Brown hunched his shoulders and quickly looked away.
With nowhere to vent his frustration, James soon found an opening, charging straight to the rim and throwing down a vicious dunk.
The sheer force made the rim creak and squeal under the impact.
That one slam was enough to quiet the once-raucous Kings crowd.
As James landed and prepared to do his signature celebration, something orange-yellow flashed past his peripheral vision.
“Why are you celebrating?! They’re already on the fast break!”
Love’s voice echoed across the court, full of despair and irritation.
James looked up—his dunk hadn’t forced a timeout. The Kings’ five players were already sprinting the other way, ready to attack in transition!
Come on, guys! No mercy for a thirty-something old man?
Realizing the danger, James took off in a desperate sprint.
“What on earth are the Kings doing?”
Tyronn Lue sat on the bench, his expression vacant.
He might’ve looked a little dazed, but Lue was far from dumb—his looks just made him seem that way.
From the start, the Kings’ tempo had been strange.
Normally, a team maintains a steady rhythm on offense or defense—either fast or slow—depending on the coach’s tactical calls.
But the Kings’ pace was all over the place, alternating between bursts of speed and slow, methodical possessions.
Just as Coach Lue was struggling to make sense of it, a voice spoke beside him.
“They’re playing the tempo gap.”
Deron Williams was watching the court with sharp, focused eyes.
“Whenever James has the ball, they spread out and force him to move quickly to drain his stamina. But when Irving takes over, they slow the pace to maximize their defensive success.”
Deron was nearing the end of his career, but as a former top-tier point guard, his understanding of the game was still among the best in the league.
He might have been overshadowed by contemporaries like Chris Paul and Steve Nash—both tactical legends—but his basketball IQ remained elite.
“What are you saying?”
Coach Lue’s eyes went wide, almost cartoonishly so.
“They’re trying to wear down LeBron’s stamina? Is that even possible?”
The idea of exhausting James made sense—after all, the Cavaliers with him were a completely different team than without him.
But in practice? No one really knew how deep James’s gas tank went.
Especially in crucial games, he could play the full forty-eight minutes and rest barely a couple.
“They’re not trying to push him until he collapses,” Deron said after a pause.
“My guess is, they’re using this pace difference to keep his energy constantly fluctuating. Then, when the fourth quarter hits, they’ll turn up the intensity—catching him before he can recover.”
He scratched his nose awkwardly. “Assuming we even get to the fourth quarter.”
The situation was clear: the Cavaliers’ Big Three were still holding up physically,
but under the Kings’ relentless control, Coach Malone had complete command of the tempo.
The score kept widening, steadily but surely.
“Let’s stick to our own rhythm,” Coach Lue said, arms crossed.
By the start of the second quarter, the scoreboard read 26–18, the Kings up by eight.
After a few minutes of play, it was time for substitutions. Lue hesitated, then decided to rest James, sending Jefferson in to replace him.
“Why are you subbing me out? I can still go!”
James plopped down on the bench, catching his breath as fast as he could.
“Look—Durant’s off the floor! This is our chance to close the gap!”
“Take a breather,” Lue replied calmly, unfazed by James’s protest.
“They’d love to have you out there messing up our tempo. The game’s just begun. We stick to our pace.”
Hearing that, James didn’t argue further and focused on recharging for the next stretch.
Both teams rotated their starters out, and the game entered its bench phase.
The Kings subbed Durant for Thaddeus Young.
But just as Lue feared, without James, the Cavaliers’ offense completely lost its engine.
Even with Irving and Love leading, they couldn’t hold off the Kings’ attacks.
Within minutes, the Cavaliers were forced to make another substitution, bringing James back in.
Seeing him return, Malone gave a cold, knowing smile—but didn’t bring Durant back.
Instead, he pulled Rudy Gay and sent in Young.
Young was a defensive specialist, weak on offense but tough as nails on defense.
Pairing him with Butler on the wings sent a clear message to James:
Fine, you’re back. Let’s see how many points you can score against my best defensive lineup.
Oh, and by the way—Kevin’s still resting. Once you’re gassed, we’ll strike and finish you off.
Seeing the lineup in front of him, James immediately understood what Malone was up to.
It was an open trap, plain as day—a pressure play hanging over him every second he was on the floor.
He suddenly felt boxed in, hesitant to make his usual moves.
Even the fans watching could sense something strange.
The whole game’s tempo felt like a car with bad brakes—lurching forward, then slowing abruptly.
Every time the Cavaliers closed the gap, the Kings would pull away again.
The score swung back and forth, never quite stabilizing.
By the start of the fourth quarter, the Kings finally unleashed their stored momentum, hammering the Cavaliers into retreat.
And in the end, they took Game 1 of the Finals at home—an effortless 118–99 victory.
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