NBA: Northeast China's spectacular dunks sweep the entire league.

In the locker room during halftime, Don Nelson didn't give a long speech. He stood in front of the clipboard, drew a circle with a marker, wrote a "5" inside the circle, and then turned to look at the five players on the offensive team.

"In the second half, they'll switch to defense. In the last three minutes of the first half, Payton wasn't marking Lin anymore, did you notice?"

Lin Hao nodded. He had noticed. In the last two minutes of the first half, Payton suddenly changed his defensive strategy—no longer pressing him all over the court, but instead giving him a step back, retreating to the vicinity of the free-throw line.

"That's not abandoning defense," Old Nelson tapped his pen on the whiteboard. "That's a trap. Payton taking a step back isn't for you to shoot, it's for you to drive. You drive in, and Foyle and Dunleavy come in from both sides and shut you down. That's why your last drive in the first half got blocked."

Lin Hao touched his left wrist. During the last attack of the first half, he broke through, and Foyer and Dunleavy closed in at the same time. He was knocked off his balance in mid-air, and the ball was blocked by Dunleavy. Although he wasn't injured, his left wrist caught the impact when he landed, and it was still a little sore.

"In the second half, Lin, don't keep driving inside. When they close the gap, pass the ball. Nick, stand at the right 45-degree angle, Jason, stand at the left corner. When they close the gap, someone will definitely be left open at the corner." Old Nelson took his cigar out of his mouth and tapped the ash on the edge of the ashtray. "Also, get moving. You guys stopped moving again in the latter part of the first half, holding the ball for more than three seconds. How many times have I told you, the ball can't be stopped."

Van Exel chewed his gum and added, "Coach, it's not that we wanted to stop, it's that old bastard Payton wouldn't give us any space. Once he closes in, I can barely even turn around."

"That's your problem." Old Nelson glanced at him. "You're an NBA player, not a high school player. If he guards you closely, you get past him. If he backs down, you shoot. Don't hesitate."

On the other side, in the defense team's locker room, Thibodeau was squatting on the ground with a tactical board spread out in front of him, the lines on it blurred by sweat.

"We came back from six points in the last four minutes of the first half," Thibodeau said, his voice low but each word clear. "It wasn't because our offense got better, it was because our defense got more aggressive. Payton took a step back, they broke through, closed down the defense, they made mistakes. We continued playing like that in the second half."

He looked up at Payton: "Gary, can you still keep going?"

Payton took the toothpick out of his mouth, broke it in two, and threw it into the trash can. "Whether I can hold on or not, we'll know after the game."

Thibodeau nodded, then looked at Arenas: "Gilbert, in the second half you'll be marking Axel. Don't let him receive the ball. If he runs to the far corner, you follow him to the far corner; if he runs to midfield, you follow him to midfield."

Arenas wiped the sweat from his face: "Coach, he runs faster than me."

"If you run slower than him, we lose."

Arenas opened his mouth, but swallowed the rest of his words.

Thibodeau stood up and erased the words on the tactics board. He didn't say anything more encouraging, but simply walked to the door and glanced back.

"In the second half, I don't want them to score forty points."

The second half began with both sides switching sides.

The defense went first. Payton dribbled across half-court, facing Lin Hao's defense. This time, instead of slowing down the pace, he lobbed the ball directly to Foyle in the low post. Foyle backed down Dampier, who took two steps, and Foyle turned and hooked the ball—missing. Dunleavy grabbed the rebound and scored on the putback.

48 to 46. The score difference is back to two points.

The offense moves. Lin Hao receives the ball, and Payton, as expected, takes another step back, standing near the free-throw line with his arms outstretched, neither too close nor giving Lin Hao space to drive. Lin Hao glances at the basket; Payton doesn't pounce—he's waiting for Lin Hao to drive.

Lin Hao didn't drive. He took a step and pulled up for a three-pointer. By the time Payton rushed over, the ball was already out.

"Whoosh."

51:46.

Payton watched the ball fall into the basket, picked it up expressionlessly, and walked towards the baseline. His steps were unwavering, as if nothing had happened.

The defense was on offense, and Payton once again passed the ball to Foyle in the low post. This time, Foyle didn't go one-on-one, but instead drew a double team before passing to Dunleavy on the weak side. Dunleavy received the ball, and facing Richardson's help defense, he didn't shoot, but instead passed it to Arenas in the corner. Arenas received the ball, and Van Exel was a fraction of a second too slow—the three-pointer went in.

51:49.

Lin Hao received the ball at the baseline and quickly advanced the ball. This time, Payton didn't retreat, but instead closed in near the mid-court line. Lin Hao changed direction to get past Payton and rushed to the three-point line, where Foyle switched onto him. Lin Hao didn't slow down and drove straight to the basket, with Foyle following him towards the inside. Dunleavy moved over from the weak side to close the gap.

Lin Hao jumped up near the free-throw line. Not to shoot, but to pass.

He threaded the ball through the gap between Foyer and Dunleavy, and it landed precisely in Richardson's hands as he cut from the baseline. Richardson caught the ball and slammed it home with both hands. The backboard creaked as it was pulled back, and the timer on the backboard jolted.

53:49.

Thibodeau yelled from the sidelines, "Close the door quickly! What are you hesitating for!"

Dunleavy raised his hand, indicating that it was his fault.

In the following rounds, the two sides entered into a real tug-of-war.

For every point scored by the offense, the defense would close the gap by one point. The score difference hovered between three and five points, with neither side able to pull away.

With five minutes left in the third quarter, Lin Hao was double-teamed by Payton and Foyle during a drive, and Payton stole the ball. Payton then made a long pass to Arenas, who was cutting inside, and Arenas scored a layup. The score was narrowed to one point, 58-57.

Don Nelson called a timeout.

"Lin, you're too tired." Old Nelson looked at him. "Make a substitution. Knicks have the ball, you play off-ball."

Lin Hao was taken aback. He'd played basketball for so many years and had never been asked to play off-ball. He was the point guard, the initiator of the offense; the ball was most effective when in his hands. But he didn't question it, and nodded.

After the timeout, the offense changed its lineup. Van Exel controlled the ball, Lin Hao played shooting guard, and Richardson played small forward.

Payton frowned at the change. Who was he guarding? Van Exel or Lin Hao?

Van Exel dribbled the ball across half-court, and Payton chose to guard him. Lin Hao, facing Arenas' defense, began running off-ball beyond the three-point line.

This was the first time he had showcased his off-ball skills against Thibodeau. Lin Hao started from the right baseline, using Murphy's screen to cut to the top of the key. Arenas was screened by Murphy, Lin Hao received the ball and shot. By the time Arenas rushed in, the ball was already in.

61:57.

Arenas clenched his fist in frustration.

The next possession, the same tactic. Lin Hao started from the left baseline, cutting to the right 45-degree angle using Richardson's screen. Arenas bypassed the screen this time, but was a half-step too slow. Lin Hao received the ball but didn't shoot immediately. Instead, he made a shooting fake, shaking off Arenas, then took a step, stopped, and jumped for a jump shot—and it went in.

63:57.

The point difference widened to six points.

Thibodeau called a timeout. He walked up to Arenas, crouched down, and looked him straight in the eye. "Gilbert, when he's running a screen, you need to squeeze in ahead of him, don't follow him. The moment he starts moving, you need to judge the direction."

Arenas, panting, nodded.

After the timeout, Arenas tightened his marking on Lin Hao's off-ball movement. Lin Hao couldn't shake him off with two consecutive screens, and the offense's pace began to slow down.

In the final two minutes of the third quarter, the defense capitalized on an 8-2 run. Arenas hit a three-pointer, Payton stole Van Exel's pass and assisted Dunleavy for a dunk, and Foyle drew a foul on Dampier under the basket and made both free throws.

At the end of the third quarter, the score was 68-67, with the offensive team leading by only one point.

During the break, Don Nelson didn't adjust the tactics, but simply said, "In the fourth quarter, Lin, you continue playing off-ball. Their stamina is waning."

Lin Hao glanced at the defense. Payton was bent over, panting, Arenas was applying an ice pack to his knee, and Dunleavy was pacing back and forth, supporting his lower back. Their defensive intensity hadn't decreased, but their stamina was visibly waning.

The fourth quarter begins.

Lin Hao continued playing off the ball. He stopped looking for screens beyond the three-point line as he did in the third quarter and started cutting inside. His first attempt involved cutting in from the right side using Murphy's screen, receiving a bounce pass from Van Exel, and scoring a layup. Payton's help defense came too late.

The second time, Lin Hao made a reverse run from the left baseline, shook off Arenas, received a pass from Richardson, and made a layup with a reverse hand in mid-air—the ball spun twice on the rim before falling in.

The point difference has widened to five points again.

The defense started to slow down. It wasn't that they weren't trying, they were just really exhausted. Arenas chased Lin Hao for an entire quarter, his legs feeling like lead; Payton's 37-year-old legs were protesting during the continuous off-ball screens; Foyle battled Dampier in the paint for over 30 minutes, each jump feeling like a fight against gravity.

But they didn't lose their defensive discipline.

With three minutes remaining in the fourth quarter, the score was 86-82, with the offense leading by four points. The defense had possession. Payton dribbled the ball across half-court and passed it to Arenas. Facing Lin Hao's defense, Arenas executed a series of crossovers before pulling up for a three-pointer—which went in.

86:85.

The offense goes on. Lin Hao runs off the ball, Arenas closely marking him. Lin Hao uses a double screen from Murphy and Richardson to cut out from the right side, receives the ball, and Payton switches to defend him. Lin Hao doesn't shoot, but passes the ball to Dampier, who is cutting to the basket. Dampier receives the ball, and Foyer fouls him—Dampier makes one of two free throws.

87:85.

The defense was on offense, with Payton controlling the ball and running down the clock. The offense's defense—the same kind Thibodeau had taught them in practice—was starting to work. Payton tried to find Arenas, but Lin Hao cut him off. He tried to find Dunleavy, but Richardson stuck to him tightly. With only five seconds left on the shot clock, Payton forced a drive and, under Murphy's interference, attempted a floater—which missed. Foyle grabbed the offensive rebound but missed the putback. Dampier grabbed the defensive rebound and passed to Lin Hao.

One minute remains. The score is 87 to 85.

Lin Hao dribbled the ball across half-court, not in a hurry to attack. Payton stood near the free-throw line, not rushing forward. Lin Hao glanced at the timer, then at Payton. Payton's eyes were calm, like a lake.

Lin Hao took a step, pulled up and shot. Payton lunged at him, his fingertips almost touching the ball.

Three point hit.

90:85.

The defense called a timeout. There were forty-eight seconds left.

Thibodeau crouched down in front of the five defenders, his voice low but urgent: "Don't panic. We still have time. Next possession, score, then foul. One at a time."

Payton dribbled the ball across half-court, wasting no time, and went straight for Arenas. Arenas received the ball, made a pump fake beyond the three-point line, shook off Van Exel, then drove to the free-throw line, pulled up for a jump shot—and it went in.

90 to 87. Thirty-six seconds remain.

The offense inbounds the ball, and the defense applies full-court press. Payton and Arenas double-team Lin Hao, who passes the ball to Van Exel. The defense immediately switches, with Dunleavy sticking close to Van Exel. Van Exel dribbles for eight seconds before finally getting the ball across half-court. The defense fouls—sending Van Exel to the free-throw line.

Van Exel made his first free throw. He also made his second free throw.

92 to 87. Twenty-two seconds remain.

The defense had run out of timeouts. Payton received the ball on the baseline, dribbled across half-court, and pulled up for a three-pointer from just outside the arc—and it went in.

92 to 90. Eleven seconds left.

The offense inbounds the ball, and the defense presses full-court. Payton and Arenas swarm Lin Hao like madmen, and Lin Hao almost loses the ball, managing to catch it near the sideline. The defense commits a foul—sending Lin Hao to the free-throw line.

The entire arena fell silent. Everyone watched as Lin Hao walked to the free-throw line.

First free throw. The ball bounced twice on the rim and went in.

Second penalty. Hollow.

94 to 90. Nine seconds left.

The defense had run out of timeouts. Payton received the ball on the baseline, dribbled across half-court, and forced a shot from two steps beyond the three-point line—the ball bounced off the backboard. The final buzzer sounded.

The scrimmage is over. 94 to 90. The offense won.

Lin Hao stood at the free-throw line, hands on his knees, panting heavily. His jersey was soaked with sweat, his hair was stuck to his forehead, and sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor.

Payton walked over and extended his hand.

"Kid, you won." Payton's voice was hoarse, but carried a composure unique to veterans.

Lin Hao grasped his hand; Payton's hand was cold, but covered in sweat. "Uncle Gary, you didn't lose. You just had bad teammates."

Payton paused for a moment, then burst into laughter. He laughed so hard he bent over, coughing twice. "Damn, are you praising me or insulting me?"

Arenas walked over, plopped down on the floor, and looked up at Lin Hao: "Brother Hao, your off-the-ball movement, I chased you the whole game and couldn't catch you. Did you have springs in your legs?"

"No springs. It's filled with Northeast rice." Lin Hao reached out and pulled Arenas up from the ground.

Thibodeau stood on the sidelines, holding a tactical board, the lines on it blurred by sweat. He glanced at Lin Hao, said nothing, and simply nodded slightly.

The nod was so subtle that it would be almost unnoticed unless one looked closely. But Lin Hao saw it.

Old Nelson, a cigar dangling from his lips, walked over, patted Lin Hao on the shoulder, and then addressed the entire team: "Don't go anywhere. Stand still."

Everyone stood in a row, panting, looking at old Nelson.

Old Nelson took the cigar out of his mouth and stubbed it out on the sole of his shoe. He looked at the group of players in front of him, drenched in sweat, their clothes soaked, and their legs wrapped in muscle tape, and remained silent for three seconds.

"The training camp has come to an end."

No one speaks.

Don Nelson's voice wasn't loud, but every word slammed onto the wooden floor: "You know what you've been practicing for the past two weeks. Offense, seven seconds. Defense, low-impact slides, chair spins, hand-raised contests. Some of you have cursed me, some have cursed Tom, some have wondered, 'Is this NBA training or military training?'"

He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping across everyone's faces.

"But no one quit."

"So, thank you."

After speaking, Old Nelson turned around, walked back to the sidelines, and sat on a bench. He picked up the half-read tactics manual, closed it, and placed it on his lap.

Thibodeau walked to the front of the line, facing the entire team. His face was expressionless, but his voice was a little lower than usual, so low that only Lin Hao, standing in the front row, could detect the slight difference in tone.

"Take a rest tomorrow. The preseason starts the day after tomorrow."

Thibodeau paused for a moment.

"We've been practicing defense for half a month. Whether it's effective or not, we'll let our opponents test it starting the day after tomorrow."

The training hall was quiet for a few seconds.

Then Lin Hao spoke. He stood at the front of the line, his jersey soaked, his hair a mess, and his face covered in sweat. He looked at the group of people in front of him—Payton, Richardson, Van Exel, Arenas, Murphy, Dunleavy, Dampier, Foyle, Zhao Dabao, and Old Nelson sitting on the sidelines, and Thibodeau standing in front of him.

"Listen up, everyone."

Everyone was looking at him.

"Training camp is over. But this is just the beginning." Lin Hao's voice wasn't loud, but it was steady. "Preseason, regular season, playoffs. We'll be playing for eight months. In these eight months, we'll win, and we'll lose. We'll make game-winning shots, and we'll be game-winning shots ourselves. We'll be praised, and we'll be criticized."

He paused for a moment.

"But one thing will never change—we're together."

No one speaks.

Payton took the toothpick out of his mouth and threw it on the ground. Richardson draped a towel around his neck. Van Exel stuffed the large gold chain into his collar. Arenas clenched his fists. Murphy rubbed his knees. Dunleavy straightened his back.

Lin Hao turned around to face Thibodeau.

"Tom, send out tomorrow's training plan tonight."

Thibodeau looked at him, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

This time, Lin Hao was certain that it wasn't an illusion, but a genuine laugh.

It was very faint, very short, and flashed by in an instant.

But it does exist.

[Ding! Intra-team scrimmage complete! Offense team wins!]

[Training camp officially ended! Team chemistry increased by 15%!]

[Defensive system proficiency: 42%!]

[Preseason countdown: 2 days!]

Lin Hao walked to the sidelines and picked up his phone. On the screen was a message from Zhang Qingying, sent just that evening: "Training camp is over, right? You've worked hard. I'll make you some pork ribs when you get back."

Lin Hao looked at the message and a smile slowly crept onto his face.

He typed a few words: "Soon. I'll go home after the preseason is over."

After sending the message, he put his phone in his pocket, picked up his backpack, and headed towards the entrance of the training hall.

It was already dark outside. The Auckland night sky was devoid of stars, save for the flashing lights of a few airplanes moving by. The traffic on the Harbour Bridge resembled a flowing ribbon of lights, etching holes into the darkness.

Lin Hao stood on the steps and took a deep breath.

The night wind blew into his collar, chilly. But his heart was warm.

Behind me, the lights in the training hall went out one by one. In the end, only the dim yellow light at the entrance remained on, illuminating old Nelson's dilapidated pickup truck, Thibodeau's black Ford SUV parked in the corner, and the training cones scattered all over the ground that hadn't been cleaned up yet.

Lin Hao opened the car door, got in, and started the engine.

The headlights came on, illuminating the road ahead.

He shifted gears, released the brakes, and the car drove out of the parking lot, disappearing into the Auckland night.

In the back seat, there was still half a box of canned yellow peaches left. The tin cans clattered gently as the car bumped along, making a clanging sound, like playing an off-key tune.

Lin Hao glanced at the box of canned food in the rearview mirror, then at the training hall that was gradually receding into the distance.

He stepped on the gas, and the car lurched forward.

Ahead lies the preseason. Beyond that, the regular season. And beyond that, a place he doesn't know if he can reach, but he's determined to try.

The road ahead is long.

But the car had already started.