Champion Rules

Chapter 117, Section 113: Lynch is the King of New York (Seeking monthly votes!)
Following his legendary declaration in last season's playoffs, "If you miss this free throw, you'll see who ends the game," Lynch added another classic quote to his career in Game 1 of the Finals, reminiscent of Caesar's famous line, "The dice have been rolled."

This superstar, a master of psychological warfare, continues to write his signature psychological drama in the playoffs, providing the media with plenty of compelling material for sensationalism.

As a commercially successful superstar, Lynch has long built a perfect star-making ecosystem that encompasses athletic performance, personal charm, and media buzz; he possesses all the elements to make money.

But he has always been missing one crucial thing, the most important thing in competitive sports: a championship.

Reebok's "Winner's Rules" advertising campaign, released some time ago, ignited the market with twenty meticulously crafted short films, but it has always been ridiculed by critics as "a collection of uncrowned champions' fantasies."

To be honest, Lynch couldn't refute it.

He won't be like LeBron James a decade later, awkwardly telling reporters when faced with the question of championships: "The number of championship rings doesn't represent the height of a player's career."

Lynch candidly admitted that the lack of a championship was a stumbling block to further increasing his commercial value and fame.

But now, this stumbling block is about to disappear forever.

After the first game of the Finals, some media outlets reported that the New York City government had already discussed the route for the championship parade with the Knicks and started the preparation process for the championship parade.

For a major metropolis like New York with its severe traffic congestion, this is definitely something that needs to be studied carefully.

How to manage the expected millions of revelers as they move in an orderly fashion through New York's steel jungle? This megacity is facing a sweet dilemma.

After all, neither the Knicks nor the New York City government had any experience.

Stephen A. Smith claimed that for New York, planning the victory parade was even more difficult than winning the championship itself.

As always, the New York media were champagne-pumping, and Lynch did not disappoint in Game 2 of the series.

In Game 2 of the series, Dirk Nowitzki, like a cornered beast, launched a desperate final attack.

He played very aggressively in this game, reducing his outside jump shots and repeatedly attacking the Knicks' paint.

Then, the eternally invisible protagonist of the 2006 finals made his appearance.

The referees gave Dirk Nowitzki a lot of free throw opportunities, it seems the league doesn't want the Finals to end too soon.

If the Finals only consist of four games, it will be a huge economic loss for the league.

Ironically, Dirk Nowitzki, who suffered greatly from refereeing errors in the 2006 Finals, is now enjoying the benefits of those errors.

Of course, Dirk Nowitzki could never achieve the astonishing feat of 25 free throws in a single game like the 06 Dwyane Wade in the original story.

But that was still enough for the Mavericks to stay close in the score after their crushing defeat in the previous game.

Unfortunately, the league's and Dallas's hopes were ultimately dashed.

With 43 seconds left in the game, the Dallas Mavericks were down by 3 points, and Nowitzki stepped up to the free-throw line again.

If he makes both free throws, the Mavericks will have a chance to retain a home game.

As a result, amidst cheers from everyone, Nowitzki's second free throw missed the rim—another easily overlooked factor in the 2006 Finals.

Dwyane Wade's excessive number of free throws has attracted too much attention from fans.

So much so that people easily overlook the fact that Dirk Nowitzki's performance in the 06 NBA Finals was absolutely awful.

It's easy to overlook how disastrous the Mavericks' free throws are in crucial moments.

When the pressure is on, everyone on the Mavericks will underperform, including Dirk Nowitzki.

In Rudy Tomjanovich's words, this spiritual deficiency meant that the 2006 Dallas Mavericks lacked a championship mentality.

This championship spirit was finally awakened five years later in 2011.

As Nowitzki missed his free throw, the Dallas despair froze in the airborne basketball.

The New York Knicks once again brandished their daggers, attempting to pierce the heart of the Mavericks.

Lynch positioned himself beyond the three-point line to guard Eric Dampier, and the Mavericks dared not double-team him. Because if they did, the other players could easily drive to the unguarded basket.

A player who can completely pull out the opponent's rim protector to take possession of the ball and launch an attack has given many coaches a glimpse of the future of basketball.

Lynch took two steps back and used a graceful Euro step to get past Dampier, whose clumsy body seemed to sink into quicksand.

German tanks arrived as reinforcements, becoming the last dam in an attempt to stop the flood.

When the two collided in mid-air, Lynch was still some distance from the basket. Even with his incredible physical attributes, the New York number 20 couldn't possibly dunk from that distance.

But Lynch still managed to slam the ball into the basket with his fingertips stretched to their limit, over Nowitzki. It wasn't exactly a dunk, because Lynch's hand didn't even touch the rim. Yet, no one can deny that it was a shot that trampled on Nowitzki's dignity and dreams of victory.

This goal, a masterpiece of violent aesthetics, sealed the game's fate.

The immense impact sent the German flying into the crowd of photographers on the baseline, and the conqueror, upon landing, pounded his chest and roared, his shout sweeping across the stadium like a devastating force.

This round was a microcosm of the game; Dirk tried his best, but he was powerless to stop the young Caesar's onslaught.

The league's carefully crafted suspense, the referees' delicate balance of judgment, and Nowitzki's desperate 15 free throws ultimately failed to change the outcome of the game.

The 2-0 series score remained hanging over the Dallas team's heads.

The next three games will be held in New York, which means that the entire finals have become Lynch's coronation ceremony to ascend the throne!
Back in New York, a red carpet had already been laid out for the king.

The neon matrix of Times Square continuously loops the "Winner's Rules" series of advertisements day and night, and massive advertisements cover every corner of Fifth Avenue. Reebok is already building momentum for Lynch's first championship in his career.

In Willis Reed's era, the NBA didn't have that much influence.

Patrick Ewing lived through an era of rapid commercialization in the league, but he was never a winner.

No one has ever witnessed the kind of commercial miracle a superstar with the New York market dominating the league could create by winning a championship for New York in an era where the league has become completely commercialized.

Now, as Lynch's legacy is about to be filled, Reebok's business juggernaut is also roaring to life.

At the same time, Lin Qi's skill gaps are also shrinking.

Back at his home on Long Island, Lynch opened the system interface.

At 34, you're about to win your first NBA championship, and of course, your first Finals MVP is just around the corner! Don't let any honor slip by at the end of your career!

[New goal: Win the finals and take the Finals MVP trophy from the youngsters.]

[Reward: You will receive three chances to refresh the shop. Each time you refresh, you can choose one talent from the updated product list for free. (Chances are not guaranteed; forfeiting a choice means forfeiting the chance.)]

As expected of a reward for the finals, this is probably the most generous reward Lynch has ever received.

Furthermore, as with most of his previous tasks, because of the age gap between himself and the system's perception of him, tasks that the system considered difficult were actually quite easy for Lynch.

As long as the referees don't go onto the court with baseball bats and injure Knicks players, the outcome of the Finals is unlikely to be reversed.

As for the Finals MVP, no one on the Knicks can compete with Lynch.

All that's needed is for everything to fall into place, and the reward will be yours.

In Game 3, the league seemed to give up, the calls returned to normal, and the Mavericks lost again by 13 points, giving the Knicks a 3-0 lead and a match point.

At that moment, Stephen A. Smith knew that, because of Lynch's presence, his wish to witness the Knicks win another championship before he turned 40 would soon become a reality.

Lynch's existence is intertwined with the fates of many more people.
-
June 15th, the day Game 4 of the finals began.

As the first rays of dawn pierced through the blinds of Brooklyn, Stephon Marbury's fingertips unconsciously caressed the Rolex on his bedside table.

He picked up his watch and glanced at it. In twelve hours, the spotlights on the Madison Square Garden dome would crown him.

He couldn't sleep at all last night; he was practically waiting for dawn.

He couldn't wait to witness the championship moment tonight.

There was a rustling sound in the living room as Mabel Marbury, the mother, wrapped a pearl necklace around her wrinkled neck. The family would be going to Madison Square Garden that evening to witness this historic moment.

Before Marbury left, his mother deliberately placed several old newspapers on the table.

The covers of these old newspapers all depict Stephon Marbury in a disheveled state. One of them, from the August 2004 issue of The New York Times, shows Marbury looking dejected after missing an airball at the Olympics. The headline still resonates with him: "Shame of the Century."

Marbury watched all this with a smile, recalling the time he poured Sprite over his head and almost ingested Vaseline. He gently stroked the yellowed newsprint with his fingertips, as if touching a cocoon left behind from a past life.

At that time, he was a disgrace to New York basketball, and the title of "Son of New York" was more like a mockery. "Becoming the pride of New York" was an unattainable dream.

Now, as he strokes his mother's hand, the nightmares of the past no longer haunt him: "I cried so much back then, but thankfully you were there."

“No, I’m not the key,” Mabel Marbury said, looking intently at her child. “It was that holy light that caught you when you fell. You must continue to follow God’s guidance.”

Marbury's mind flashed to number 20.

He nodded to the silhouette of holy light in the void, the shadowy figure that had dragged him from the spotlight of execution, the incarnation of God who had reached out to pull him up, now waiting in Madison Square Garden to join him in the final chapter of their legend. "Yes, I will follow him. I'm heading out now. Come early this afternoon to avoid traffic."

On the other side of New York.

After having breakfast, Grant Hill prepared to leave. His wife, Tamia, leaned against the oak door frame, the morning light gilding her meticulously styled curls: "Be careful, be very careful, and become a champion in good health."

As she spoke, she straightened the wrinkles in her husband's suit.

Upon hearing the word "champion," Grant Hill couldn't help but glance at the basketball in the cabinet, which was covered with his teammates' signatures and the words "For the championship."

Coincidentally, that basketball was the same one used in the Knicks' first regular season game against the Mavericks.

At the time, Lynch regarded that victory and that basketball as a kind of token, telling Grant Hill: "When you return to the battlefield from the operating table, we'll tear apart the Pistons' iron net in the playoffs together, extinguish the Miami heat, and then crush all the guys coming from the West to stop us! Together!"

Now, all of this will come true tonight.

They fulfilled their promise together.

“Darling, it’s time to go.” Tamia pressed a warm kiss to Hill’s cheek. Grant Hill nodded and strode out the door.

Grant Hill never imagined that the pinnacle of his career would not be in the glamorous Detroit or the desolate Orlando, but in New York.

Yes, he can only play as a substitute now, but the bench is a vast space.

There, he could see the crumbling iron fences of Detroit and hear the wailing of Dallas's retreating residents. More importantly, there were others there who joined him in raising the dawn of New York, a height he had never reached in his previous career.

He won't let that young leader down. He'll give it his all tonight and work with that young leader to keep the championship on the East Coast.

Trevor Ariza rolled down the car window, and the Brooklyn morning breeze, carrying the cheers of the fans, rushed into the car.

"Champions! Champions! Champions!" The boys in blue and orange jerseys shouted as they chased after the car, their knuckles pounding against the windows.

Ariza stuck his fist out the window and bumped fists with the children chasing him, reminding them, "Okay, be careful, get back on the sidewalk!"

In his senior year of high school, after LeBron James crushed all his pride like an armored vehicle, Trevor Ariza never imagined he would be so popular again.

On those sleepless nights, he would curl up in a corner of the UCLA locker room, staring at the names on the draft prediction list as they kept slipping down, as if he could see his life being packed into a shipping container bound for Europe, as if he would never be able to fulfill the dream he shared with his brother.

It was Lenny Wilkens who lifted him from the dust on the bench, and it was Sam Presti's early contract extension that kept him firmly in the NBA.

And Lynch, the new king who always stood behind him, instilled defensive instincts and competitive spirit back into his bones.

The tires rolled over the manhole cover, causing the car to shudder slightly. Ariza watched the cheering crowd recede into the rearview mirror, his Adam's apple bobbing slightly.

He may not be a game-winning superstar, but when Ron Artest's elbow failed to result in a goal, when LeBron James looked on with despair in front of him, and when Rasheed Wallace's crucial inbound pass turned into a turnover in front of his long arms, this California boy who had once fallen into the abyss finally fulfilled his vow in the locker room:

Even if it costs him his last drop of sweat, he will protect the glory of victory that belongs to New York. He will at least do his best to prevent the team from losing.

Tonight, he will continue to fulfill this vow.

Eddie Jones's cheerful whistle echoed between the lockers in the locker room. He stopped in front of the jersey with the number "20" printed on it and placed a carefully wrapped card underneath.

The ink on the card, still wet, gleamed faintly under the overhead light: "Hey, do you think that bloated behemoth will be furious tonight? Thanks, bro."

He loved this season so much; the thrill of revenge shot through the back of his neck like an electric current. Lynch gave him the chance to prove that it wasn't him who was incompetent, but rather a fat, dead pig.

He won't let anything go wrong today; he'll make the jet crash completely.

Then, he personally pushed Lynch onto the throne!

Lenny Wilkens swallowed an entire capful of pills, while his adorable granddaughter stood on tiptoe to measure his blood pressure.

The bandages on his arm tightened continuously, as if giving him time.

Today is probably his last day as a professional basketball coach, marking the end of his 37-year coaching career.

His gaze swept across the faded photo frames on the room's walls, from the champagne rain at the Seattle Dome to the ocean of sweat at Madison Square Garden. The river of memories finally stopped at that yellowed group photo from 1979—in the center of the picture, Dennis Johnson held aloft the Finals MVP trophy, his eyes burning with the same fiery passion as that young man.

He couldn't help but smile. For him, his greatest achievement wasn't winning another championship, but having the privilege of witnessing the rise of another hero. And he felt fortunate to be a part of this legendary career.

The championship night at Madison Square Garden was a huge success, with celebrities and players' families taking up almost all the front-row seats.

Even the seats at the very back were being sold for three figures.

This stands in stark contrast to the embarrassing situation this season's playoffs, where Memphis Grizzlies games sold for only $17 a ticket and still weren't full.

Amir Johnson looked at Daddario, who was wearing a beige dress, and made a crude joke to Sam Cassel beside him.

"Look at her, hehe, tonight is definitely going to be lively. If Lin Qi conducts a thorough investigation, he can uncover the taxes she's evading."

"Focus on the game, Amir." Lynch's voice suddenly came, startling Amir Johnson.

"Boss, I mean, uh, I was complimenting your size. Don't worry, I'll definitely do my job well tonight!"

Lynch looked serious, more so than in any of his previous games.

Although everyone thought everything was settled and the whole city was immersed in the countdown to the rave party, Lynch was more serious than ever.

He would never allow the championship to slip through his fingers.

After the match began, Lynch quickly demonstrated his determination.

He repeatedly attacked the penalty area, outmaneuvering the slow Dampier and dismantling the tough Dirk.

Not long after the start of the game, Lynch scored 10 points in a row, setting the tone for the Knicks' victory.

This was not a contest of equal strength, but rather a demonstration of the new king's powerful rule.

Stephon Marbury made those three-pointers that Lynch had passed him, and the cheers after each basket told him that he was becoming the pride of New York City.

Eddie Jones's tight defense made it impossible for Jason Terry to move.

Trevor Ariza played hard on defense in every round, and Grant Hill made an immediate impact after replacing Pietrus.

Lenny Wilkens' heart raced as he watched the timer tick away, awaiting the birth of a legend.

With 43 seconds left in the game, when Lynch scored his 36th point of the game to extend the lead to 15 points, the fans at Madison Square Garden could no longer sit still.

Mike Brin could no longer hear the voice in his earpiece; he could only shout along.

"New York leads by 15 points with 43 seconds left! Oh my god, this place is going crazy!"

The deafening roar of "MVP" didn't stop Lynch. He clapped his hands and yelled at Dirk Nowitzki, "Hurry up and serve, Dirk, let's end this!"

He's still killing; he won't stop until the buzzer sounds to signal the end of the match.

As the game time ticked away, the cheers swelled like an inflating balloon.

In the final possession, Coney Island's brilliant ball-handling led the Mavericks to completely abandon their defense.

As he dribbled the ball, tears streamed down his face.

Spike Lee stood up, the Knicks' most famous follower, who was like a mast in a storm, gripping the back of his chair tightly but unable to stop trembling.

The sharp-tongued Stephen A. Smith sat in his seat, burying his face in his palms, sobs seeping through his fingers.

Beyond the three-point line, the owner of the number 20 jersey stood proudly, smiling at his mother.

“I will make great things, Mom.” Wu Lan still remembers the words Lin Qi whispered in her ear the moment he was chosen.

She knew this day would come, because he always kept his word.

"Beep~~~"

"Game over! Game over! 4-0, the New York Knicks sweep the Dallas Mavericks, we are the new world champions! The new world champions!" Mike Breen, a New Yorker, used the word "we" to describe the championship team for the first time.

The tremors in his voice not only unleashed the commentator's passion, but also the roar of the entire city of New York that had been suppressed for thirty-three years.

The moment the game ended, the Knicks players transformed into a blue and orange torrent rushing toward their young Caesar.

He changed the fate of all of them; he led them all here.

Everything originated from him.

The broadcast camera panned across the stands: men in suits tore off their ties and roared with abandon, elegantly made-up socialites leaped onto their seats in red-soled high heels, and elderly fans with white hair held their faded 1973 championship T-shirts, tears streaming down their faces—this basketball mecca, which had witnessed Jordan's game-winning shot, Ewing's heartbreaking defeat, and Spike Lee's verbal sparring match that ended in defeat, had finally found its messiah.

Mike Brin took off his headset, looked at Lynch surrounded by his teammates, and let his tears glisten in the fluorescent light of the control room:
"Ladies and gentlemen, Lynch is the King of New York!"

(End of this chapter)