Champion Rules

Chapter 156, Section 152: This is what you call equal retaliation! (Seeking monthly votes!)
It was a tough night for Mark Cuban.

His clenched fist slammed heavily onto the sofa in the private room.

In Game 6 of the Western Conference Finals, the Dallas Mavericks lead 3-2. They are just one game away from facing the Knicks in the NBA Finals for the second consecutive season. Just one more game, and Mark Cuban will see Dirk Nowitzki take revenge on that fake MVP.

But as the game entered the second quarter, his proud Dallas team was already shrouded in the shadow of fate.

Jason Terry's ankle twisted at a horrifying angle while defending Manu Ginobili, the roar of his engines abruptly halting. Mark Cuban was heartbroken; he knew all too well how important this high-scoring guard was to the Mavericks.

But it wasn't over yet. Jason Terry had just been helped into the players' tunnel when Mark Cuban heard another scream.

This time, it was the turn of an even more indispensable guy. Dirk Nowitzki collapsed to the ground in pain, clutching his ankle, while Bruce Bowen nonchalantly chewed on his braces next to him.

Dirk Nowitzki was fouled by Bruce Bowen. Previously, Vince Carter, Wally Szczerbiak, and even Bruce Bowen's former friend Ray Allen had all complained about his dirty defense.

Of all these people, Ray Allen is undoubtedly the most heartbroken. They had always been close friends and often trained together during the offseason.

Ray Allen's tearful and furious accusations during a hospital interview with The Seattle Times during the 05 playoffs:
"Bruce is really good at this. When I landed, he turned his foot and stepped on me. Yes, this is competitive sports, and I know that on the field, nobody is your friend. But Bruce went too far. It's a low-class tactic. I really wanted to punch him. This friendship is over."

The spotlights in the dome of the ATT Center now seemed like beams of judgment, projecting Bruce Bowen's sinister figure onto the floor.

This guy has a long history of bad deeds. In the last round, the Spurs treated the Suns just as brutally. The incident where Steve Nash was knocked down, resulting in Stoudemire and Diaw being suspended, completely dictated the course of the series.

But Mark Cuban never imagined that this devil would extend his tentacles to Dirk—people never believe bad news will happen to them until it actually does.

The broadcast camera panned across the Spurs' bench, where Gregg Popovich was writing and drawing on the whiteboard and talking with the assistant coaches, as if what was happening on the court was just a normal competition.

The Dallas Mavericks, having lost two key players in a single minute, lost all fighting spirit and ultimately lost this pivotal Game 5. For the second consecutive season, the Mavericks-Mavericks rivalry has gone to a Game 7.

At the post-game press conference, Mark Cuban, as the owner, personally attended and denounced the Spurs' brutality:
"Bruce is always pushing and shoving, touching every inch of his opponents. His dirty tricks are very subtle, usually unseen by the referees. When you shoot, he'll deliberately touch your elbow, and when you drive, he'll fake a fall. The worst part is, he often puts his foot under his opponents' feet! Every pore of that bastard is filthy!"

This is absolutely dirty basketball. You guys have documented our battles with the Spurs over the past few years. I don't mind the competition; they can challenge us on both ends of the court.

But when they start using dirty tricks to win games, that's dirty basketball. I have no respect for people and teams like that. That damn Bruce Bowen should be suspended!
If he isn't suspended, then this damn league has absolutely no fairness!

Mark Cuban unleashed a barrage of attacks, completely unconcerned about how much the league would fine him.

If Bruce Bowen wants to go head-to-head, he'll play along to the end.

But what's most infuriating about Bowen is that he'll never argue with you or confront you head-on.

He will always pretend to be innocent like a master of manipulation after doing something disgusting.

"I apologize for this accident. Of course, I would not have intentionally hurt anyone. I just did what I was supposed to do, which was to play defense seriously. I have always revered God, and I even follow the rules when I'm on defense, like when I'm breathing."

When Mark Cuban heard this response, his head turned as red as his little head.

When someone gets angry, they often want to mess with someone, and Mark Cuban is probably thinking of giving Bruce Bowen a good beating right now.

As expected, the league fined Mark Cuban but did not suspend Bowen. The biggest advantage of such acts of foot-planting is that it is difficult for the league to determine whether the perpetrator had "malicious intent," so they often escape punishment and operate in a gray area of ​​the system.

After Game 6, there was good news and bad news for Dallas fans.

The good news brought them some relief: Dirk's ankle was still swollen, but there was no structural damage, and he was able to play in Game 7.

The bad news was as biting as a winter's wind: Jason Terry wasn't so lucky; he was out of the season for good, and "The Jets" were forever parked at the end of the 06-07 season.

Although the league did not suspend Bowen, due to public pressure, the referees still gave him some "special treatment".

In just 18 minutes of playing time in Game 7, Bowen had already picked up five fouls, and his fragmented playing time greatly weakened the Spurs' defensive anchor on the perimeter.

However, fortune did not favor the Mavericks who went all in. Without Terry and with Dirk struggling after an ankle injury, shooting only 6-for-16, the Dallas Mavericks lost the decisive Game 7 at home.

After the match ended, more than 20,000 fans lingered in the stands, booing and expressing their dissatisfaction and protesting the unfair result.

Greg Popovich ignored the noise, walked to center court, and lifted the Western Conference championship trophy. The iron-willed coach, unusually, removed the stoic mask behind the clipboard, his reddened eyes brimming with emotion.

"At this time last year, we failed to return to the Finals, and the whole world was tolling death knells for us, saying that San Antonio's glory had long since faded into the past. We were ridiculed, everyone said we were old, and our championship window was closed."
But here we are, and we've brought the team back to the Finals. We've been through so much, we've been knocked down and gotten back up, and these doubting fighters have given a perfect response!
This trophy is not the end, but a declaration of our reclaiming of the throne!

The boos grew louder; Dallas fans couldn't believe Gregg Popovich had the nerve to say such things so brazenly.

If it weren't for the dirty play of Bruce Bowen, the series might have ended in Game 6!
David Stern watched the Spurs lift the Western Conference championship trophy, his temples throbbing.

The matchup he least wanted to see still happened.

On television, the San Antonio Silver and Blacks displayed a victorious posture, while the steel defenses of Madison Square Garden in New York were already on high alert.

The Spurs vs. Knicks game will be an even more suffocating defensive battle than the Eastern Conference Finals.

There is no doubt that the ratings for this final round will be high, with Lynch's phenomenal performance and the huge pull of the New York market providing a solid foundation for the ratings.

But as I said before, the ratings should have been higher.

At this moment, he seemed to see two scenes overlapping in front of him: on one side, the European teenager yawning while watching the video of the muscle-clashing game, and on the other side, Lynch's potentially brighter star was being gradually swallowed up by the quagmire of defensive battle.

In any case, the Finals matchup for this season is unlikely to change.

But David Stern assured that this would be the final chapter of the Dark Defense era.
-
At a lavish Reebok party, DeShawn Stevenson, dressed in a burgundy suit, strolled amidst the neon lights.

As the crisp sound of high heels clicking on the marble floor entered his ears, his Adam's apple bobbed involuntarily, and his hawk-like gaze immediately locked onto his target.

A waitress carrying a crystal tray swayed gracefully through the crowd, the third button of her silk shirt hanging precariously between her full curves, and black ripped stockings outlining the perfect curves of her legs.

With a charming smile on her face, she nodded slightly to Desean Stevenson, who was staring at her.

As someone who is halfway to Wade, with his top-notch offensive instincts, he knew very well that this was a good opportunity to show off.

Once it's installed, he can have his brother install it properly later.

The second-best shooting guard in the East instinctively adjusted his stance, allowing his impeccably tailored suit to perfectly accentuate his biceps. His diamond-encrusted watch reflected a dazzling halo; he was confident this look, a blend of suave sophistication and ruthlessness, could break down any defense.

As the waitress paused, she brought with her a citrus scent, and the Dom Pérignon champagne on the tray was still covered with frost.

"Sir, I'd like a drink."

Her professional smile was abruptly cut short as DeShawn Stevenson took the entire bottle: "Sweetheart, remember, I drink by the bottle."

After saying that, he slapped five hundred-dollar bills on the tray and raised his angular chin like a peacock spreading its tail.

"But sir."

"Don't say anything, darling. This little bit of money is nothing to me. More is more."

"I meant to say... the drinks are free." "Huh?"

While DeShawn Stevenson was still in a daze, the waitress had already deftly pocketed the money: "But thank you for the tip, sir."

After saying that, the waitress quickly left, leaving DeShawn Stevenson, who had paid to play the clown, standing there dumbfounded.

If Shaquille O'Neal were here ten years from now, he would definitely choose DeShawn Stevenson as the MVP of "Shaq Time".

At that moment, Lynch happened to walk up to DeShawn Stevenson.

"DeShawn, everyone's been waiting for you. What are you doing here? Hey, put the drink down. Our whole team has an agreement: no drinking before the finals." Lynch snatched the drink and placed it on another waiter's tray for him to take away.

"Wait, Lin Qi, those are my flowers."

"No arguments accepted, DeShawn. No drinking means no drinking."

DeShawn Stevenson stared wide-eyed as the bottle of liquor was carried away; he had just spent $500 on a pile of air.

The second-best shooting guard in the East was led into a room filled with the aroma of Cuban cigars. Crystal chandeliers cast dappled light on the dark brown leather sofas. This was the Knicks' VIP entertainment room.

The players in the room were either playing cards, video games, or lounging on the sofa smoking cigars and chatting.

Reebok held this party to promote Lynch's sneakers. Those invited were media professionals with good relationships with him, partners, VIP customers, and some dealer managers.

Secondly, it was also to allow the entire Knicks team to relax before the Finals began.

The party was only for the players, no coaches, and there were no reporters in the room, so everyone was very relaxed.

Stephen Marbury, seeing the dejected Stevenson at the poker table, greeted him with a smile: "What's wrong, Draco? Got robbed on the way?"

“My fucking name is DeShawn! And yes, I just got robbed!” he replied irritably.

Grant Hill took it seriously; he abruptly put down his cigar: "What happened? Didn't you call the police?"

DeShawn Stevenson waved his hand: "I was robbed willingly. Okay, I don't want to discuss this anymore."

After Lynch brought DeShawn Stevenson in, he sat back down on the sofa, picked up his half-finished cigar again, and sat next to an equally frustrated Trevor Ariza.

"Alright, Trevor, you absolutely cannot play with an injury, no questions asked. The championship isn't decided by a single series, so you don't have to feel like you didn't contribute to the championship just because you didn't play in the Finals."

"Lin Qi, I can fight."

“Look at my brother, I don’t want to remind you of what happens to those who play injured. You have a long career ahead of you, a long battle ahead of you. Believe me, Taj doesn’t want to see you fade into obscurity after just three good seasons. You think playing injured is heroism? No, it’s gambling with your career like Russian roulette.”

As Lynch spoke, he lightly tapped Trevor Ariza's chest with his finger.

Lynch knew very well what a grade 2 hamstring strain was, and Ariza needed to rest and recover properly.

Not everyone can elicit such a reaction from head coach David Adelman as Aaron Gordon in the 2025 Western Conference semifinals: "I know almost no one who would try to play in that situation (a grade 2 hamstring strain). It was one of the most shocking things I've ever seen."

Ariza's gaze was fixed on a crack in the floor. The crisp sound of chips clashing from the card table in the distance made the air in this corner seem even more stagnant.

He didn't argue anymore, because Lynch was right. A hamstring strain itself isn't scary, but if it's not treated properly, it can get worse and even affect one's entire career.

He just felt regretful that he had finally become a true starter this season, but had to end the season prematurely.

At this point, the card players started discussing their opponents in the finals.

Stephon Marbury, cigar in hand, said, "To be honest, I'd prefer to play the Mavericks. We're not afraid of offensive teams. But the Spurs will be a tougher opponent. I'm not saying we can't beat them, but I expect it will be a hard-fought battle."

"Putting Tim Duncan and Ben Wallace together is a crime," Eddie Jones agreed, already imagining how difficult it would be to attack the basket in the Finals.

But Grant Hill clearly had a different opinion: "Doesn't anyone think Bruce Bowen is the real problem? Tim and Ben Wallace are just playing basketball, but Bruce... I didn't expect him to even mess with his best friend."

As soon as the topic was raised, Sam Cassell immediately cursed: "That bastard is a piece of trash! I've never seen a scumbag hurt his opponents so often!"

Sam Cassell was once teammates with Wally Szczerbiak, and he was right there when that handsome forward got kicked by Bruce Bowen.

It's normal to have physical contact on a basketball court, but Bruce Bowen's physical contact was purely aimed at the player.

Just then, a manic laugh suddenly came from the corner. The thug who had just spent $500 on air was using a Zippo lighter to char a newspaper with Bruce Bowen's image on it. The charred edges of the newspaper curled up and turned to ash, swirling in the room with cigar smoke.

"DeShawn, what's wrong with you? Damn it! Stop it!" Stephon Marbury looked nervously at the fire alarm above his head; he didn't want to go home soaking wet.

"Don't worry, guys, he won't be a problem. I'm not just the second-best shooting guard in the East, I'm the Bowen of the East. If the Spurs dare to make a move, I'll retaliate just the same. We're not those softies from Dallas." DeShawn Stevenson stared at the burning villain; he wasn't going to let his team suffer the same fate as the Mavericks.

“Listen,” the King of New York’s voice seemed to silence even the hum of the air conditioning vents, “the Spurs have twin towers, dirty tricks, and a system that’s been the same for twenty years—” He opened his arms as if to embrace everyone, “but we have something even more terrifying.”

Lynch glanced at DeShawn Stevenson, but did not stop him from his idea of ​​"reciprocal retaliation."

Sometimes, it is necessary to fight violence with violence.

The following day, during the locker room interview after practice, almost all the reporters' questions were about the finals.

"Lin Qi, how would you deal with the Spurs' Twin Towers?"

"Let them not be able to defend against me."

"Do you think the last round of games was fair? If Dirk hadn't gotten injured, do you think the Spurs could have advanced?"

"Injuries are common, and we all have our share of injuries; that's no excuse. But I have to say, Dirk Nowitzki's injury was abnormal. Bruce Bowen is responsible for that; he tarnished the Spurs' victory." Lynch was outspoken, unafraid to offend the Spurs and San Antonio fans.

Seeing this, reporters also inquired about Lynch and Bowen: "What if Bruce also injured a Knicks player?"

Before the reporter could finish speaking, DeShawn Stevenson burst into the frame, his pupils flashing with the ferocity of a predator: "What did you just ask?"

The reporter, intimidated by the bull's imposing manner, took a half-step back: "Uh, I mean, if Bruce injures a Knicks player, what will you do?"

“Oh, we’ll definitely retaliate in kind, I promise,” DeShawn Stevenson said seriously. “Think it through, Bruce. Don’t force me to go after Tim Duncan.”

Lynch and all the reporters were stunned for a moment.

The reporter quickly corrected, "Tim? Wait, weren't we talking about Bruce the whole time?"

"That's the problem! Yes, we're talking about Bruce, but why does Bruce dare to act so recklessly? Because he knows he's just a mad dog, and even if he gets suspended or crippled, the Spurs won't care. So, if that bastard dares to put his foot under Lynch's feet, or even intends to, then I'll go find Tim. Star player for star player, that's what you call equal retaliation."

DeShawn Stevenson leaned close to the camera, casting shadows over the entire frame: "Either play your game properly, or you guys can give it a try."

(End of this chapter)