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

Chapter 123 Lin Hao Practices "Northeast Sniping" Again

Dell Curry stared at Lin Hao quietly and said in a cool tone, "Practice three-pointers more tomorrow." After saying that, he turned and left.

Lin Hao stared at his retreating figure, his grip on the water bottle tightening. A three-pointer? He'd just broken down and reworked his mid-range shot yesterday; his shoulders were still sore, his wrists stiff, and now he was going to be on the three-point line?

"Coach, I haven't mastered my mid-range shot yet."

Dell Curry didn't even turn his head: "Mid-range shots are like pistols, three-pointers are like rifles. If you can't even hold a pistol steady, you'll be even less accurate with a rifle. Be there at seven tomorrow."

Lin Hao crushed the empty bottle and threw it into the trash can.

There's no other way, just do it, and that's it.

---

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

Dell Curry was already on the court. He wasn't standing under the basket, but a step outside the three-point line, holding the ball, with a speed measuring device at his feet—not to measure the ball's speed, but the speed of his release.

"You're here?" Dell Curry tossed him the ball. "No spot-up shooting today, we're practicing three-pointers while moving and catching the ball."

Lin Hao caught the ball: "Where to start?"

"Right corner. Run to the top of the key, catch the ball, shoot." Dell Curry pointed to the practice cones on the ground. "Three cones, three spots. Shoot twenty from each spot."

Lin Hao walked to the right corner. Dell Curry stood under the basket, holding the ball.

"run."

Lin Hao started running and reached the top of the arc. Dell Curry tossed the ball over. He caught it, bent his knee, snapped his wrist, and released the shot—the whole motion was fluid and seamless.

"Bang!"

Blacksmithing.

"Too fast." Dell Curry shook his head. "Your body moved before your hand followed. When you released the ball, your center of gravity was still shifting forward."

Lin Hao picked up the ball and walked back to the bottom corner.

The second time. Run, catch the ball, shoot.

"Whoosh."

Hollow.

"Okay. Next."

He shot ten times in a row, making seven. The accuracy was decent, but Lin Hao wasn't satisfied. Every time he took a shot, he felt something was off—not that his movements were clumsy, but that at the moment of release, the ball seemed to be "pushed" out rather than "pushed" out.

He stopped on the eleventh ball.

"Coach, I have a bad feeling."

Dell Curry walked over: "Something's not right?"

"When you release the ball, it feels like it's sliding out of your palm, not being flicked out from your fingertips."

Dell Curry didn't say anything, but brought up the camera and replayed Lin Hao's shot.

"Look," he pointed to the screen, "when you release the ball, your palm is flat. The ball slides out of your palm in a scattered direction."

He stood up and demonstrated. He caught the ball, jumped, and shot. In slow motion, at the very last moment the ball left his hand, his palm was facing down, with his index and middle fingers pointing towards the basket.

"To flick the ball, you don't push it with your palm, you press it with your fingers. Your index and middle fingers are your aiming scope. The last two fingers to touch the ball are the ones that make contact with it before it leaves your palm."

Lin Hao stared at the screen, then looked at his hands.

Come again.

He walked to the corner, took a deep breath, ran, caught the ball, and jumped. At the moment of release, he deliberately flicked the ball with his index and middle fingers.

The ball spun twice in the air.

"Whoosh."

Hollow.

Dell Curry glanced at the speedometer: "Release time 0.78 seconds. Pass."

Lin Hao was stunned for a moment. 0.78 seconds? His previous three-point release time was 1.1 seconds. After two days of practice, he had improved by 0.32 seconds.

"Don't get too excited," Dell Curry tossed the ball over. "0.78 seconds is just passing. I need you to make it in 0.7 seconds."

---

The training intensity was doubled in the morning.

Dell Curry increased the number of shooting spots from three to five—left corner, left 45-degree angle, top of the key, right 45-degree angle, and right corner. He made thirty shots from each spot, for a total of one hundred and fifty three-pointers.

Lin Hao's arms started to ache, not the kind of tiredness that comes after practice, but a throbbing, aching feeling that started halfway through his throw. Every time he raised his arm, his shoulders felt like they were filled with lead.

On the seventieth ball, he received the ball and shot.

"Bang!"

Blacksmithing.

The eightieth one, also iron.

The ninetieth one is the "three no-sticks".

Lin Hao stopped, resting his hands on his knees, panting heavily. Sweat dripped from his chin onto the floor, leaving a small, dark stain.

"Coach, stop, take a break."

"Don't rest." Dell Curry picked up the ball. "Your movements haven't changed; it's just that your stamina is waning. When your stamina drops, your hand position must remain the same. If it does, your muscles will remember the wrong movement."

He tossed the ball to Lin Hao: "Again."

Lin Hao had no choice but to get up and walk to the corner.

Run. Catch the ball. Shoot.

"Whoosh."

They're in.

"Remember this feeling," Dell Curry's voice came from behind. "When you're tired, your hand position needs to be even steadyer."

---

In the afternoon, the training was intensified.

Dell Curry set up cameras at two angles to simultaneously film Lin Hao's shots. He placed five training cones outside the three-point line, each with a defensive mannequin in front of it—not a real person, but a long-armed plastic dummy, specifically designed to simulate defensive interference.

"What we're practicing now is the 'catch-and-shoot' three-pointer," Dell Curry said from the sidelines. "After receiving the ball, don't make any adjustments, just shoot. The more times you dribble, the more seconds the defender has to close in on you."

Lin Hao stood at a 45-degree angle to the right. In front of him was a mannequin with long arms outstretched, blocking half of his view of the basket.

Run, catch the ball, shoot.

The ball flew over the dummy's arm.

"Whoosh."

"Okay. Next."

45 degrees to the left. Run, catch the ball, shoot.

"Whoosh."

Top of the arc. Run, catch the ball, shoot.

"Whoosh."

Fifteen 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 shot, your body was upright, but your eyes were looking at the left side of the basket. Why?"

Lin Hao stared at the screen. Indeed, his gaze had wandered.

"Because you're afraid of getting blocked." Dell Curry turned off the recording. "Every time you shoot, you subconsciously look for the defender's position. But a real shooter only has the basket in their eyes when they shoot. Where the defender is doesn't matter."

He stood up and walked to the three-point line.

"I'll teach you a trick. Before you shoot, stare at the back of the rim. Before the ball leaves your hand, don't look at the ball, don't look at the defender, just stare at the back of the rim."

Lin Hao stood outside the three-point line. He received the ball, jumped, and shot. Throughout the entire process, his eyes were fixed on the back edge of the basket.

"Whoosh."

Hollow.

"Again."

"Whoosh."

"Again."

"Whoosh."

Ten in a row, all in.

Richardson had slipped in unnoticed and was leaning against the wall watching. After a while, he walked to the sidelines and said to Dell Curry, "Coach, can I try?"

Dell Curry glanced at him: "What's your three-point shooting percentage?"

"A little over 30%."

"Then you watch first." Dell Curry pointed at Lin Hao, "Watch how he shoots."

Richardson didn't leave; he leaned against the wall, watching Lin Hao throw one after another. He nodded each time Lin Hao made a shot. After twenty shots in a row, he finally couldn't hold back any longer.

"Haozi, you're too fast. I blinked and the ball was already out of bounds."

Lin Hao was panting and didn't say anything.

Dell Curry answered for him: "Because when he caught the ball, his knees were already bent and his wrists were already bent. You guys only started adjusting after catching the ball, but he was already prepared before he caught it."

Richardson paused for a moment, then asked, "You were prepared before you even caught the ball?"

"Right." Dell Curry tossed the ball to Lin Hao. "Shooting doesn't start with catching the ball, it starts with positioning. When you're positioning yourself, your body is already in shooting mode."

Lin Hao caught the ball and walked to the corner.

Run, catch the ball, shoot.

"Whoosh."

Richardson shook his head: "I can't learn this thing."

Dell Curry glanced at him: "How do you know you can't learn it if you haven't even tried?"

Richardson opened his mouth, but didn't say anything.

---

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

Lin Hao has already taken more than two hundred three-pointers, maintaining a success rate of over 80%. But he can no longer lift his arm, and he has to grit his teeth every time he shoots.

Dell Curry pushed the last basket of balls over: "One more set. Five spots, five balls per spot. Make them all, and it's over for today. Miss one, and we start again."

Lin Hao stood at the bottom right corner.

First one, in. Second one, in. Third one, in. Fourth one, in. Fifth one, in.

45 degrees to the right. Five, all in.

Top of the arc. First four, all in. Fifth, receive the ball, shoot.

The ball spun twice in the air, hit the back of the rim, and bounced up.

Lin Hao stared at the ball, his heart pounding in his chest.

The ball went into the basket.

"Whoosh."

They're in.

45 degrees to the left. Five, all in.

Left corner. First four shots, all in. Last one, Lin Hao receives the ball and jumps. At the moment of release, his hand trembles slightly.

The ball flew out, its trajectory very flat.

"Bang!"

Blacksmithing.

Dell Curry didn't say anything, he just picked up the ball and put it back in the basket.

Lin Hao took a deep breath and stood back in the corner.

Run, catch the ball, shoot.

"Whoosh."

"Remember this feeling." Dell Curry put away the camera. "That shot of yours wasn't because the movement was wrong, it was because you were thinking, 'This is the last one.' When you shoot, don't think about the result. Just think about the movement."

Lin Hao supported himself on his knees, panting heavily.

"coach."

"Um."

"Did you train like this back then?"

Dell Curry remained silent for a few seconds.

"I didn't have time to practice back then," he said. "I was a substitute, and my playing time was not fixed for each game. In training, I had to compete with the starters for the ball, and in the game, I had to prove myself in the limited time available."

He put the camera in his bag and zipped it up.

"So I'm telling you, if you can train now, don't waste it."

---

It was already dark when Lin Hao walked out of the training hall.

His arms ached so much he could barely lift them, but his mind was filled with images from the daytime—catching the ball, jumping, shooting, swish. Over and over again, as if etched into his being.

My phone vibrated. It was a message from Richardson.

"Haozi, that three-pointer you made today was insane. I was standing on the sidelines, and I didn't even have time to react when you released it before it went in."

Lin Hao typed a few words: "Just practice more."

After sending it, he added, "You should practice too. Dale teaches in great detail."

Richardson replied instantly: "I'm afraid he'll yell at me."

Lin Hao: "What's there to be afraid of? Everyone gets scolded before."

There was a few seconds of silence on the other end, then a reply came: "Okay. I'll come tomorrow too."

Lin Hao stared at the message, and the corner of his mouth twitched slightly.

He put his phone in his pocket and opened the car door.

In the back seat, the box of canned yellow peaches was almost empty. The tin cans were leaning precariously, with only two left.

He picked up a can, unscrewed it, and took a sip of the sugar water.

Sweet.

[Ding! Second phase of shooting training complete! Three-point shooting percentage +8%!]

[Current shooting proficiency: 31%!]