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

Lin Hao sat at home, looking at his computer screen. It was a training plan that Dell Curry had just sent him. He opened it and saw that it wasn't text, but a picture—a shooting heat map.

The red area represents the top of the arc and the 45-degree angle to the right, marked with "Hit rate above 47%".

The yellow area represents the left 45-degree angle and the bottom corner, marked with "Hit Rate 38%-42%".

The blue areas represent the mid-range shots on either side of the free-throw line, marked as "areas that need improvement".

At the very bottom was a handwritten line: "Shooting isn't about feel, it's about muscle memory. Be there at 7 AM tomorrow."

Lin Hao stared at the chart for a few seconds. This was the first time he had ever seen someone create such a precise chart of their shooting heat maps—not based on memory, but actually compiled from each shot individually.

"That old man is even more meticulous than I thought."

---

The next day, Lin Hao pushed open the door of the training hall.

Old Nelson's pickup truck and Thibodeau's Ford SUV are still there. But today there's an extra car—Dale Curry's silver Honda, parked perfectly between the two.

Dell Curry was already in the training facility.

He wasn't standing in the center of the court, but rather crouching under the basketball hoop, with a camera in front of him, the lens pointed at the basket. A basket of basketballs lay neatly stacked in three layers beside him.

"They're here?" Dale Curry didn't even look up, continuing to adjust the camera angle.

"Here I am." Lin Hao tossed his bag onto the bench. "Coach, what's going on?"

"Record it." Dell Curry stood up, brushed the dust off his knees, "I'll record your shooting motion, and break it down frame by frame."

He walked up to Lin Hao and held out his hand: "Give me the ball."

Lin Hao handed it over.

Dell Curry received the ball, but instead of shooting, he raised it above his head and stopped.

"Look."

He slowly broke down the movements—his knees were slightly bent when catching the ball, his wrists were already down when the ball was raised in front of his forehead, and his fingertips flicked the ball at the moment of release, following the complete movement.

Between each of the steps, there is a momentary pause, as if the pause button has been pressed.

"This is the core of 'lightning-fast shot'," Dell Curry said, putting the ball down. "There's no adjustment between catching and releasing the ball. The moment the ball gets to you, your knees are already bent, your wrists are already bent, and your eyes are already aimed at the back of the rim."

He glanced at Lin Hao: "Your current shot, from receiving the ball to releasing it, averages 1.2 seconds."

"That's fast enough," Lin Hao said.

"Not enough," Dell Curry shook his head. "When Payton is guarding you, you always hesitate for a second before you shoot. That hesitation is 0.3 seconds. In the NBA, 0.3 seconds is enough for a defender to get from the three-point line to the basket."

Lin Hao didn't say anything.

Dell Curry turned on the camera, and the screen showed Lin Hao's shooting footage from yesterday.

"See for yourself."

Lin Hao leaned closer. On the screen, he saw himself catching the ball, pausing, adjusting, jumping, and shooting.

"See that?" Dell Curry pointed at the screen. "When you catch the ball, your knee is straight. You only start bending your knee after you get the ball. That bending and straightening breaks the rhythm."

Lin Hao stared at the screen. Indeed, Dell Curry was right. His shooting motion wasn't unsmooth; it was just slow at the initial release.

"What should I do then?"

"Let's practice again." Dell Curry turned off the camera, stood up, and said, "From today onwards, for every shot you take, your knees must be bent when you catch the ball. No matter what kind of ball you catch—fast, slow, high, low—your knees must be in position the instant you catch it."

He pushed a basket of basketballs beyond the three-point line.

"start."

---

The first ball.

Lin Hao stood still, and Dell Curry tossed the ball to him from under the basket. He caught the ball with his knees straight.

"Stop." Dell Curry shook his head. "Start over."

The second ball. He caught it, his knee bent, but his wrist didn't buckle.

"Stop. Wrist."

The third ball. He caught it, his knee bent, his wrist snapped, but his release point was too low.

"Stop. The strike should be on the forehead, not the chest."

The fourth. The fifth. The sixth.

More than a dozen balls in a row, none of them were up to standard.

Lin Hao stopped and took a breath. He glanced at the basket of balls, then at Dell Curry.

"Coach, this is too difficult."

"Difficult?" Dell Curry picked up the ball, twirled it in his hand, and said, "Do you know how long my son Stephen practiced this move?"

"how long?"

"Three years. From five to eight years old." Dell Curry tossed him the ball. "You've only practiced for fifteen minutes."

Lin Hao caught the ball and took a deep breath.

Come again.

The twentieth ball. Catching the ball, knees bent, wrists pressed down, release point perfect, ball flies from fingertips.

"Whoosh."

Hollow-core netting.

Dell Curry glanced at the camera replay and nodded: "That's good. Remember that feeling."

Lin Hao remembered. The moment he received the ball, his body was already prepared—knees bent, wrists pressed down, eyes aimed at the back edge of the rim. Receiving the ball wasn't the start of thought, but the continuation of action.

He etched that feeling into his muscles.

---

During the morning practice, Dell Curry didn't let him shoot three-pointers.

"Three-pointers are the result, mid-range shots are the cause." Dell Curry placed training cones on either side of the free-throw line. "Today, we're only practicing mid-range shots. One hundred on each side."

Lin Hao stood near the left free throw line, and Dell Curry threw the ball from under the basket.

Catch the ball, bend your knee, press down your wrist, and shoot.

"Whoosh."

"Okay. Next."

Catch the ball and shoot.

"Whoosh."

"continue."

Catch the ball and shoot.

"Whoosh."

Twenty shots in a row, all in. Lin Hao's shooting touch was like a floodgate had been opened; every shot he took went in.

Dell Curry didn't praise him; he just kept tossing the ball.

By the fiftieth shot, Lin Hao's breathing became heavy. Sweat streamed down his forehead, dripping onto the wooden floor and leaving a small, dark stain. His arm began to ache, requiring more effort with each shot.

On the 80th ball, Lin Hao received the ball and shot.

"Bang!"

Blacksmithing.

"Stop." Dell Curry caught the ball. "Do you know why that didn't go in?"

"I'm tired," Lin Hao said, panting.

"It's not that you're tired." Dell Curry walked up to him and held up his right hand. "It's that your fingers weren't controlling the ball. Look at your right hand—after the shot, your fingers are spread out, not pointing downwards."

Lin Hao looked down at his hands. Indeed, his five fingers were spread out, like an unopened flower.

"You don't push the ball with your palm, you press it with your fingers," Dell Curry demonstrated. "The last moment the ball leaves your hand, your index and middle fingers control the direction. Your index and middle fingers are your aiming scope."

Lin Hao flexed his fingers and stood up straight again.

The ninetieth ball. He catches the ball, bends his knee, presses down his wrist, and releases it. At the moment of release, he deliberately flicks the ball with his index and middle fingers.

The ball spun halfway through the air and fell into the basket.

"Whoosh."

“Right,” Dale Curry nodded, “that’s the feeling. Remember it.”

---

In the afternoon, the training was intensified.

Dell Curry set up a camera on the side, filming Lin Hao's shooting motion from two angles simultaneously.

"Now practice moving catch-and-shoot." He placed three practice cones outside the three-point line. "Start from the right corner, run to the top of the arc to receive the ball, and shoot."

Lin Hao ran to the top of the arc, and Dell Curry tossed the ball to him. He caught the ball, bent his knee, snapped his wrist, and released the shot.

"Whoosh."

"Okay. Next, 45 degrees to the left."

Lin Hao ran over, caught the ball, and shot.

"Whoosh."

"45 degrees to the right."

"Whoosh."

"Ace of the arc".

"Whoosh."

Twenty in a row, all in.

Dell Curry pulled up the recording and showed it to Lin Hao frame by frame.

"Look here," he pointed to the screen. "When you run, your body leans forward. When you catch the ball, you need to pull your weight back, which slows you down by 0.2 seconds."

He stood up and demonstrated for himself. Dell Curry started from the baseline, ran to the top of the key, received the ball, and shot. Throughout the entire process, his body remained straight, without leaning forward or backward, like a moving pillar.

"When running, don't sway your upper body. Your legs are running, but your hands and upper body are still."

Lin Hao stared at Dell Curry's movements, and a thought suddenly flashed through his mind—this was his counterintuitive insight: shooting isn't about using your hands, it's about using your body. The hands are just tools; the body is the engine.

"Again."

He started running again. This time, he deliberately controlled his upper body, preventing it from swaying. He ran to the top of the arc, received the ball, and shot.

"Whoosh."

"Okay." Dale Curry smiled, a rare occurrence for him. "This is it."

---

At four o'clock in the afternoon, the training was nearing its end.

Lin Hao had already shot over three hundred balls, and his arm was so sore he could barely lift it. But he didn't want to stop. The feeling was amazing—every time he released the ball, it was as if it were being drawn into the basket by a magnet.

Dell Curry sat on the sidelines, flipping through his notebook, which was filled with detailed records of Lin Hao's every shot of the day.

"Coach, let's shoot another set." Lin Hao walked to the three-point line.

"I'm not voting anymore." Dell Curry closed his laptop. "That's enough for today."

"Let's throw another set."

"I've said enough," Dell Curry said, his voice low but firm. "Your muscles are tired. If you keep shooting, your form will become distorted, and your muscles will remember the wrong movements. That's not training, that's ruining."

Lin Hao was taken aback. He had never thought about this before. He used to think that the more he practiced, the better. True training meant throwing until his arm couldn't lift anymore.

"Coach, when will that be enough?"

"As long as your form is correct, that's enough." Dell Curry stood up. "Shooting isn't about physical strength, it's about technique. Five hundred shots with incorrect form are less valuable than fifty shots with correct form."

He walked up to Lin Hao and handed him the notebook.

"Today's stats: 137 mid-range shots, 123 made, 89% success rate. 70 catch-and-shoot attempts, 61 made, 87% success rate."

Lin Hao took the notebook and looked at the numbers.

"Do you know what this means?" Dale Curry asked.