Chapter 90: League Politics
“This Malone guy really has something.”
Inside Divac’s villa, Chen Yilun, Peja, and the Iron Triangle had just finished watching the game against the Magic.
The Kings cruised to victory over Orlando, firmly silencing the rumors that the team would decline with CJ sidelined.
“When did Richardson develop like this? I had no idea.”
Divac scratched his thick beard, puzzled as he watched Richardson on the court.
“I didn’t know either—how could you possibly have?”
After the game, Chen Yilun finally let his nerves unwind.
Richardson’s scoring had been mediocre, and he made several mistakes while trying to run the offense. But flaws aside, he at least showed enough to catch management’s attention and prove he had potential worth developing.
“Over time, we can groom him into a tall ball-handler,” Peja said after a moment of thought. “If he really pans out, that’s a huge win for us.”
“And right now, Booker seems to fit with Jokić perfectly. If this momentum holds, maybe we should even move CJ into a sixth-man role?”
As he spoke, Peja suddenly turned toward Chen Yilun.
“Boss, I’ve got to ask… are these young players thriving because of your sharp eye, or because Malone’s really that good at developing talent?”
“Bullshit!”
Riding the high of victory, Chen Yilun kicked Peja playfully. “Of course it’s thanks to our brilliant GM Chen Yilun and his sharp eye for talent. I only pick the best prospects, which makes it easy for Malone to look good.”
The three of them laughed and joked, but then Chen Yilun’s phone rang again at the worst possible moment.
“Every damn day. Don’t forget to remind me to expense this phone bill later!”
He pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, and his expression immediately hardened.
“You guys go on—I need to take this.”
He stepped into Divac’s garden before answering.
“What’s the matter, Coach?”
It was his mentor, Buford.
“You’ve cleared another hurdle, kid,” Buford teased, though his tone carried little joy.
“I just wanted to remind you—you’ve been drawing too much attention lately. A lot of people are watching you.”
“Watching me? Why?”
Chen Yilun tensed.
“Think about what you’ve done since joining the Kings,” Buford said, counting off on his fingers. “CJ, LaVine, Oden, Booker, and now Richardson.”
He lowered his voice. “A record like that is enough to put over ninety percent of the league’s GMs on edge.”
“And your position means you’re tied to us. Lately, your fellow disciples haven’t had it easy either.”
“Disciples? What do you mean?”
Chen Yilun froze.
The Spurs coaching tree had spread far and wide—not just Kerr and Budenholzer.
There was Brett Brown with the 76ers, Quin Snyder with the Jazz, Alvin Gentry with the Pelicans, and countless assistants across the league.
And in the GM ranks, there was Chen Yilun’s fellow disciple, Sam Presti of the Thunder.
“The owner’s been putting pressure on Budenholzer. Chances are, he won’t keep his president role after this season,” Buford said slowly.
Barring a miracle, the Hawks would once again fail to break out of the East. And when that happened, Budenholzer—both head coach and president of basketball operations—would have to take the fall, stepping down as president.
“But that’s not too big a deal, right? His head coaching job is still safe.”
Buford’s cryptic words left Chen Yilun puzzled. What was the real reason for this call?
“The bigger you are, the bigger a target you become.”
Buford finally explained. “The Magic are preparing to fire Scott Skiles. If nothing changes, James Borrego will take over. The Bulls don’t plan to keep Hoiberg much longer either—they’re ready to replace him with Jim Boylen.”
Both men were lead assistants. And both were disciples of Pop.
“Our influence has grown too big. One-third of the league’s core management comes from us. And in the other two-thirds, do you even know how many of our guys are embedded?”
“How could I possibly know? You and Pop trained so many disciples—how could I keep track?”
“That’s exactly the problem.”
Buford’s voice grew more serious. “We’ve gotten too powerful. Since Adam took office, he sees us as Stern’s leftovers.
You know the saying: ‘A new emperor brings new courtiers.’ Budenholzer’s situation could be the first shot fired. We’re about to be targeted.”
“Come on, Coach—no way it’s that serious. Adam Silver may be Commissioner, but at the end of the day, he’s just another employee like us. Can he really move against us?”
“What if the other team owners think the same way?”
Buford’s words hit like a bucket of cold water.
“The Lakers, Celtics, Knicks, Heat—they’re already unhappy with us. They think we’re reaching too far.”
Chen Yilun’s mind raced. He suddenly remembered that after this season, a wave of Spurs-connected head coaches had indeed lost their jobs.
Gentry, Brown, and two more disciples who had been next in line—all dismissed without clear reason.
In his previous life, as just a basketball fan, he had always wondered why coaching changes came so quickly. Some coaches were doing just fine, only to be abruptly fired.
If that was really the case, then maybe it had all been the league’s purge of the Spurs coaching tree.
But there was nothing Chen Yilun could do. It was the inevitable tide of history.
Half the league was filled with Pop’s disciples, and many trades happened within that network. If the Spurs tree kept growing unchecked, the implications were terrifying.
Would league trades eventually just be decided among the Spurs disciples? Would they end up choosing who won the championship each year?
“Coach… what are you trying to tell me?”
Chen Yilun asked cautiously.
“I’m telling you your good days are numbered, kid. The league won’t be a place where you can just call on your disciples at every corner anymore.”
“I’ve looked at your team. It’s solid, but winning a title will still be tough.”
Buford’s voice dropped almost to a whisper.
“Pop and I both think you should take advantage while your disciples are still in place. Push those teams that still have a chance to stay relevant. We’re family—help when you can.”
“If you want your team to take the next step, now’s the best time. Miss this window, and it won’t come again.”
Author's Note
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