Chapter Six: An Extra Vote

A trace of embarrassment appeared on Lin Fei’s face—just when he thought the lane was wide open for his layup, an unexpected defender leapt in and blocked his shot. The height gap was simply too great.

Ah! It seems the paint is not where you belong.

He hurried back on defense, matching up with Paul. Paul dribbled twice behind the three-point line before pulling up for a jumper—so effortless, it left Lin Fei speechless. The Hornets were ahead and should’ve been running down the clock.

The ball swished cleanly through the net; Paul had already tallied an easy double-double. Against Lin Fei’s defense, it was as if no one stood before him. An unchallenged three-pointer—back when Agent Zero, Arenas, was the Wizards’ leader, he could hit 76 out of 100 one-handed threes. And Steve Novak, a Rockets role player, once spent an entire afternoon shooting, missing only three times.

After such a sequence, Lin Fei was filled with guilt. Down by 13 points, just over two minutes remained. He was determined to make up for it—he had to. Gritting his teeth, he reflected that he’d already played over twenty minutes, made just one of seven attempts, and hadn’t even gone to the free throw line. Ah!

Dribbling, huffing, he ignored whoever stood before him—breakthrough, breakthrough, racing upcourt, launching a shot. He tried to replicate his play from yesterday, fast and decisive. None of his opponents saw how he got past them, none saw how he released the ball; Paul was at least two meters away. But today, the shadow of yesterday’s performance remained, without its spirit. The ball clanged off the rim—just a hair off, a hair that often decides victory, a championship. If that sliver of luck is yours, it might be a perfect game-winner; if not, you might suffer the cruelest defeat.

Lin Fei still controlled the ball, once more sprinting down court—three seconds left. Panic rose. Paul was close now, and the Warriors were racing too. Near the three-point line, Lin Fei leapt, firing off-balance, a drifting “riding shot.” The ball hammered off the rim with a loud clang. Because Lin Fei was so fast, the Hornets’ players hadn’t established position. Charging forward, Lin Fei’s momentum carried him to the rebound, and in one fluid motion, he flicked a behind-the-back pass to the perfect spot, where X followed up with a thunderous tomahawk dunk.

An innocent grin broke across Lin Fei’s face, reminiscent of Carmelo Anthony’s boyish smile. Even at this moment, while trailing, such a smile might seem out of place, but this was his first NBA assist—and an exquisite one at that, surely a candidate for play of the day.

Lin Fei knew that a true point guard must always be aware of every player’s position on the court, even anticipating his teammates’ movements. After missing that three, he knew immediately it wouldn’t go in, so he raced after the rebound, recognizing X trailing behind—creating a classic highlight together.

Among the NBA’s best passers—veterans like Nash and Kidd, rising stars like Paul, Deron Williams, and Rondo—each possessed brilliant passing skills, with unpredictable drives and almost magical assists. In the NBA, if you want to make a name for yourself as a point guard, you must learn to pass. Is that really true? Lin Fei once wondered.

There are players in this league who treat scoring as trivial, like Rondo—his shooting is almost painful to watch, yet he orchestrated the entire Celtics offense. In the era of the “Big Three,” Rondo became the team’s de facto core thanks to his passing.

But is there anyone who treats assists and rebounds as trifles? Lin Fei wondered: if someone’s scoring reached a transcendent level, would assists and rebounds even matter? Like a scientist who’s achieved greatness in one field—no one cares what else he can or cannot do. From another perspective, does that make him a fool? Like Lee Chang-ho in Go, who excels at nothing but the game, yet no one calls him foolish. Or Ding Junhui in snooker, whose life skills are minimal, but his cue skills are legendary. Does such a person exist?

After such a morale-boosting play, and with two minutes left—less than ten seconds spent on the last possession—gritting his teeth, Lin Fei thought maybe the 11-point deficit could be erased, just like yesterday when they trailed by nearly 20 at this point, only to stage a comeback.

But as long as the Hornets scored steadily, it was as if the Warriors’ fate was sealed.

Paul orchestrated the offense, Lin Fei defended—it was late in the game, and after this possession, Paul might even check out. Paul dribbled leisurely in the frontcourt, running down the clock, waiting for the final seconds to attack. Lin Fei kept his eyes locked on him. Paul dribbled with his right, directing his teammates’ movements with his left.

Lin Fei had only one thought: steal the ball. Eighteen seconds had passed—it was time to make a play.

He reached in, but Paul was no ordinary player! Lin Fei gave up a foul, gifting the Hornets free throws—a typical rookie mistake. In moments like this, it’s almost a death sentence.

Paul nailed both free throws.

Lin Fei still wouldn’t give up. Taking the ball, he prepared to sprint forward again. With a behind-the-back dribble, he blew past Paul—such speed was rarely seen. But just a step ahead, Paul turned, reached, and got a fingertip on the ball—Lin Fei lost control, Paul snatched it and charged for the basket. Lin Fei sprinted after him, closing in fast, as Paul went for the layup. Lin Fei tried for the chase-down block, but caught Paul’s arm instead. The ball still went in. And one!

Nelson subbed in for Lin Fei. This is the reality for a rookie—lacking experience, and now he realized just how exhausted he was. This was a grueling back-to-back! He’d been too excited to sleep the night before. Back on the bench, Lin Fei felt as though he were falling apart—he’d never stopped running while on the court. No wonder he was so tired; in the NBA’s physical play, lasting more than twenty minutes is no small feat for a rookie. Many hit the “rookie wall” in their first season, largely because of fatigue.

This game: one for nine shooting, three points, one assist, zero rebounds, three turnovers, three fouls. So not every night belongs to the gods. Today, Lin Fei was thoroughly outmatched by Paul; the difference between a rookie point guard and a top veteran was painfully clear.

After the game, the Golden State newspapers described Lin Fei as “half angel, half devil.”

Some said it was understandable—back-to-backs are exhausting. Even a sharpshooter like Ray Allen once went one for nine, but Allen has made over 2,600 threes and never made nine threes in three minutes.

Of course, Lin Fei had simply taken one more shot than usual!

A flash in the pan? Think of Jennings, the rookie who scored 55 points in 2010—a feat so astonishing even the brightest newcomers like Iverson or LeBron never matched as rookies. That single game kept Jennings atop the Rookie of the Year rankings for a long time, but after those 55 points, he faded. Ultimately, the award went to Evans with his 20+5+5 season. The top pick that year was Griffin, but he missed the season with an injury, only to explode the next year—but that’s another story.