Bucket and Nope

We had just beaten Detroit at home and now had to head straight to San Antonio.

After that came a back-to-back against the Lakers before hosting Philadelphia at home.

Given that both the Lakers and Philadelphia were already deep in tanking rumors, beating San Antonio could mean we would open the season with an 11-game winning streak.

It would tie the franchise record of 11 straight wins set back in the 97-98 season.

‘After all, Atlanta has never once finished first in the conference.’

Players and fans alike were locked in with the single-minded goal of claiming that first-place finish for the first time in franchise history.

Even franchise cornerstones Horford and Teague said the atmosphere was better than it had ever been.

Anyway, with that crucial road game against San Antonio looming, I sent Seo-eun back to Korea.

“Be careful heading back. Don’t wander around the duty-free shops and get lost.”

“Am I a child? You worry about staying healthy. Wear the daily outfits I laid out for you. Understood?”

Seo-eun, who had stayed in the States for roughly a month since preseason, had nothing but positive things to say about American life.

She seemed to genuinely enjoy even the small tasks, like coordinating my work outfits, and lately she had been busy every day—learning to cook, studying sports massage, the works.

I felt relieved.

I didn’t want to watch her struggle through a difficult life in America just to accommodate me.

“Next time I’ll learn even more recipes. I’m going to get certifications in Korean, Chinese, Western, and Japanese cuisine, so look forward to it!”

“At this rate you’ll become a full chef. Anyway, call me when you land.”

“Okay. Oppa…”

Seo-eun rose onto her tiptoes, asking for a kiss. Even then she couldn’t reach, so I had to bend at the waist.

“I’m off!”

She waved and disappeared through the gate.

‘It’s going to feel a little lonely.’

In my previous life I had always lived alone, so I never noticed the feeling. But now that I knew the joy of sharing a home with the woman I loved, the emptiness stabbed at my chest.

At the same time, it fueled my motivation even more. It meant I finally had a family again.

‘Let’s keep grinding.’

Though I had taken a strong first step, the season was only just beginning.

.

.

.

On game day against San Antonio, I arrived at the AT&T Center around ten in the morning for optional workouts.

Morning sessions were voluntary. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Most starters skipped them to manage their bodies, but I had dedicated ball-handling drills scheduled, so I showed up every single day.

The two goals interim GM Robert had set for me this season were clear.

I had already blown past the first goal, but the second remained distant.

‘At least securing the starting role has bought me more time…’

That grace period only lasted until February, though. If I failed to establish myself as the secondary ball handler by the trade deadline, the front office planned to simply install Dennis Schröder in that role for the rest of the season.

“Lee! Eyes up, stay focused!”

The skill trainer snapped me back. He stood in front of me with both fists extended, then raised his right index finger.

Right index means leg-through dribble.

Thump. Thump. I dribbled between my legs and advanced slowly.

My feel for the ball still wasn’t natural; my mind kept drifting to my hands. The trainer seemed to anticipate that and extended his pinky alongside the index.

Pinky is crossover.

Thump! Thump, bang! Leg-through into crossover. Then he dropped the index and lifted the middle finger.

Behind-the-back.

Stop the leg-through, go straight from behind-the-back into crossover…!

My brain felt overloaded. I couldn’t focus on the sensation in my palms and the dribble grew sloppy.

I barely held it together, waiting for a signal from the left hand. Finally the left ring finger extended.

What was that one again?

My mind went blank for a second.

Index was stationary jumper, middle was rim attack, pinky was step-back… so ring finger must be… pass.

I created space off the crossover and fired a pass to Coach Spiah waiting at the opposite 45-degree angle. He clapped, caught it, and sent it back.

“Nice! Next set right away!”

I must have gone for fifty minutes like that.

“Whew!”

I wiped the sweat from my brow and took a breather. The work wasn’t physically exhausting, but the mental drain left me just as tired.

Coach Spiah handed me a water bottle.

“Definitely better than a week ago. You were losing the ball constantly back then. At least now you’re keeping it on your hand.”

“Still a long way to go, though, right?”

“True. In a real game you’ll get bumped. Of course, contact also creates openings you can exploit… but at your current level, protecting the ball while attacking will be tough.”

Coach Spiah took the moment to speak his mind.

“Honestly, I don’t think you need to grind this hard. The talent you already have is more than enough to make you an elite player.”

He was telling me to stop obsessing over weaknesses that might never fully disappear and instead sharpen the strengths I already possessed.

‘That might be the correct answer, too.’

In my previous life that was exactly what I had done—polished only my target play while neglecting precise shooting and passing. It had still gotten me to the EPL, so I couldn’t call it a mistake. Yet the regret lingered. What if I had fixed those flaws? Would I have become even better?

That was exactly why I refused to walk the same path again.

“I want to push it as far as I can. The trainers and coaches all say there’s potential.”

“Hah, all right. Let’s call it here for today. Looks like we have another guest anyway.”

I turned to where he was looking. A massive man was walking onto the court.

Tim Duncan!

Whether it was part of his routine or not, he had shown up with the training staff. He began warming up with his usual blank expression, but he must have felt my stare. He turned and looked straight at me.

“Ah.”

Staring was rude. I quickly looked away and went back to my cooldown stretches.

But then—

Thud. Thud. Duncan walked over.

“…?”

He extended his hand.

“Hey, Seo-jun Lee.”

I clasped it. Duncan gave a warm, gentle smile.

“Nice to meet you. I’ve been enjoying your games. I’m hoping you make the Third Team.”

“Uh… thank you?”

The sudden encouragement had a reason, Duncan explained.

“There’s a lineage, you know. Larry Bird won Rookie of the Year and First Team before David Robinson retired. Then I came along before David retired.”

The lineage of Rookie of the Year winners who also made an All-NBA team.

“Now that I’m nearing retirement, you’ve appeared. I don’t want that line to break. So carry it forward. Pass it on to the next guy someday.”

“Haha, in that case I’ll make the All-NBA team even if it’s out of pure spite.”

“Do it. I’m counting on you.”

Some people claimed my Third Team comments were creating unnecessary enemies, but plenty of veterans were rooting for me. European players in particular gave strong support. Maybe they had experienced subtle hazing themselves—every one I met encouraged me to earn that Third Team spot. Dirk Nowitzki even tweeted support before every game I played.

Pat, pat. Duncan tapped my shoulder.

“Today’s game won’t be easy, though. Not for me, and especially not for you. Our small forward is on fire lately.”

“Then I’ll just have to run into him and find out.”

“That’s the spirit. See you tonight.”

Duncan returned to his spot and resumed warming up. I watched for a moment, then headed back to the hotel.

The game tipped off at 11 a.m. Korean time on a Sunday. Being a weekend matchup against the defending champions drew massive interest back home.

Seo-eun had just landed at Incheon International Airport. She stared at the flood of positive comments on her phone, unsure how to feel. Shin Won-hyung, who had come to pick her up, chuckled.

“Seo-eun, why don’t you open a fashion mall while you’re at it?”

“A fashion mall?”

“Look at them—all asking where he bought it. Before long some shady mall will start selling the exact same pieces advertising them as ‘official Lee Seo-jun look.’ Might as well sell them ourselves under the real thing.”

Seo-eun realized he had a point.

“Think about it. It’s not that hard. Just say the word and I’ll set everything up.”

“Yes, thank you, Father!”

“Haha, no need to call me Father… Come on, get in the car.”

“Okay!”

Once inside, Seo-eun couldn’t tear her eyes from her phone. She was dying to know how the game would unfold.

Soon the starting lineups dropped.

Fans were sending both worry and anticipation toward how Seo-jun would fare against Leonard. American media felt the same. Every major basketball show, including Inside the NBA, highlighted the matchup. Could Seo-jun still produce against Leonard and the Spurs?

“And now, please welcome both teams to the floor!”

Atlanta rolled out the same lineup that had carried them to eight straight wins and first place in the East: Teague and Korver in the backcourt, Lee Seo-jun, Millsap, and Horford up front.

San Antonio countered with:

The Spurs sat at 6-2, second in the West. They wanted another ring to send Duncan off in style.

Whistle.

Splitter won the jump ball. San Antonio took the first possession.

The home crowd roared.

From their very first possession the Spurs did exactly what they were supposed to do. That was their identity—an almost mechanical team that executed every assignment. They weren’t flashy, yet that very lack of flash made them terrifyingly effective.

The first attack belonged to Duncan. He jostled with Millsap in the elbow, sliding subtly to set up the pick-and-roll with Splitter and Parker. When he saw daylight he dove into the low post, took Parker’s perfectly timed entry pass, bumped Millsap once with his back, spun, and floated a one-handed shot.

Swish. Clean first blood.

The Spurs scored with surgical efficiency. Atlanta, however, ran into trouble on their first possession. Ball-handler Jeff Teague couldn’t create a driving lane. He used Horford’s screen to force a mismatch against Splitter but Leonard slid over at the perfect moment, forcing the ball back outside.

The shot clock dropped to seven seconds.

Got them.

Coach Popovich sensed a defensive stop coming. But Atlanta showed why they were first in the East. Leonard’s help on the drive had left Lee Seo-jun free.

He’ll already be moving!

Even though they had only been playing together for a month, Teague trusted Seo-jun’s off-ball basketball IQ. He whipped a pass to Horford on the free-throw line. Horford immediately hit Seo-jun, who was already cutting hard.

Seo-jun caught it in stride, exploded upward—

“Hup!”

Boom! A thunderous two-handed dunk gave Atlanta their first points.

On the next defensive possession Seo-jun made an adjustment on the fly. After watching Duncan score, he slid into a position that took away the entry-pass angle to the big man. When Parker swung the ball to Leonard, Seo-jun shuffled quickly to regain proper guarding stance, forcing Leonard to face the sideline.

“Oh…!”

Even Popovich raised an eyebrow.

Not bad. Now I see why people are already calling him Rookie of the Year.

Seo-jun had diagnosed and corrected the coverage himself—team defense, not just ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠individual—without any instruction from the bench. That was the kind of play Kevin Garnett would make.

What an interesting kid.

Popovich licked his lips and focused on the next action. Leonard caught the ball, spun into a face-up, and stared Seo-jun down. He used Seo-jun’s quick reactions against him—jab-stepping as if to pass, then rising straight into a jumper. The momentary hesitation was all he needed.

Swish. Mid-range jumper.

“Bucket.”

“…?”

Seo-jun frowned. The flat, mechanical tone made it impossible to tell whether it was trash talk or just a habit.

He found out on the next possession. Teague again failed to turn the corner and swung the ball around. This time Leonard was glued to Seo-jun, taking away the cut. The ball rotated to Millsap, who was smothered by Duncan. With 2.7 seconds left he dumped it back to Seo-jun.

Seo-jun wanted to drive but time was too short. Every Spurs defender except Danny Green had collapsed to the rim. The only threat they had to respect was a drive.

Tsk. Such disciplined, calculated defense.

He could have passed back to Teague for a desperate heave, but instead Seo-jun used the two seconds to rise into a mid-range jumper.

But—

“…!?”

Leonard’s contest was far better than expected. The long arms seemed to swallow the sky.

How are his arms so long?

His palms looked enormous, like a center swatting at the ball. The rushed shot left his hand.

Leonard muttered again.

“Nope. Nope. Nope.”

It sounded like a machine repeating an error code.

Clang. The shot bounced out.

Leonard jogged downcourt as if he had expected nothing else. Seo-jun let out a dry laugh and clenched his teeth.

This guy is low-key getting under my skin.

It wasn’t as blatant as DeMar DeRozan’s trash talk, yet it wasn’t nothing either. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠That awkward middle ground irritated Seo-jun more than open provocation.

On San Antonio’s next possession Danny Green scored on a backdoor cut. The lead grew to 6-2.

Seo-jun raised his hand toward Teague.

“Jeff! If the drive is stuffed, give it to me right away!”

He called for the ball in a specific spot so Teague would have an immediate outlet when his lane closed. Teague used Horford’s screen, attacked, and drew Duncan and Splitter toward the rim. The high post opened up. Teague whipped a pass to the left elbow where Seo-jun waited.

“Hah!”

Before the collapsed defenders could recover, Seo-jun attacked Leonard with a bump.

Bang! He drove with one hard dribble and slammed his shoulder into Leonard’s chest, creating just enough space to rise into a jumper.

Swish. Clean through the net.

“Hit. Hit. Hit.”

The ball passed through the rim with a soft splash.

…

…

A chill passed between the two men as their eyes met. The real showdown between them had just begun—on both ends of the floor.