Chapter 389: Final Showdown Between Protégé and Mentor (3)
“I’m not saying this just to complain.”
Buford spoke casually as he packed up his spare clothes.
“Are we really just letting that kid, Yilun, go through like this?”
“Do I look like some kind of soft-hearted old man?”
Popovich lay slouched on the hotel sofa, his white hair messy and unkempt, looking like an aging lion at rest.
“We’ve been used as a gun. I was wondering why, at the end of the season, every team suddenly played like they were on drugs, chasing us down. Turns out they wanted us to take the first wave of fire for them.”
He scratched his scalp absently, shifted into a more comfortable position, and continued in a relaxed tone.
“Given Yilun’s relationship with us, letting them pass this year isn’t something we can’t talk about.”
“So what are you getting at?”
Buford paused mid-motion, then straightened up and looked at Popovich meaningfully.
“This is our curtain call,”
Popovich said as he slowly stood up.
“I don’t have a habit of making wedding dresses for my protégés.”
“Given the gap in raw strength, winning this series would be incredibly difficult. But putting on a good fight? That part’s easy.”
He stretched lazily as he spoke.
“Starting next game, we’ll just let it rip. No more obsessing over tactics or rotations. Let them have one real, proper game.”
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“Something’s off with the Spurs today.”
Standing on the sideline, Malone frowned and chewed on his fingernail.
Today’s Spurs looked like a completely different team compared to the last game.
The Spurs on the court had completely abandoned the team discipline they once prided themselves on, replacing it with a heavy dose of isolation play.
Even their ball movement was no longer rigid or textbook.
Ginobili and Diaw were clearly just having fun out there.
Passes full of wild imagination flew one after another, constantly refreshing the fans’ expectations.
This creative style inevitably led to more turnovers, but it made the game far more entertaining.
And this sudden shift caught Malone completely off guard.
By the third quarter, the score still hadn’t been blown open.
Swish!
DeRozan used Aldridge’s screen to slip into the mid-range, faced Durant rotating over, and without a moment’s hesitation, turned for a fadeaway jumper off his back.
By modern basketball standards, DeRozan’s scoring arsenal was already a bit outdated.
It wasn’t especially efficient, and every shot took a noticeable toll on his stamina.
But there was no denying the visual appeal of this classic style.
Those smooth, effortless mid-range jumpers landed again and again, straight into the Kings’ hearts.
“What do we do? DeRozan’s a bit out of control today—we can’t hold him down!”
Butler watched the ball drop through the net and spoke with a hint of helplessness.
DeRozan was fully unleashed.
Even with Butler sticking to him like glue all game, he still couldn’t completely suppress DeRozan’s output.
“It’s fine.”
Durant glanced up at the giant screen above the court.
“I’ll tear their defense apart in a bit. I don’t believe they can really hold on like this until the final second.”
Only a few days had passed since the previous game. No matter how capable Popovich was, there was no way he could elevate the Spurs’ overall strength by an entire level in such a short time.
The reason the game looked like this now was entirely because Popovich had used preparation against surprise, catching Malone off guard.
The core of this approach was simple: all five players on the court had to maintain constant mobility, driving the entire offense.
This style worked quickly, but it put tremendous strain on the players’ stamina.
And so the Kings waited.
They waited for the Spurs’ legs to give out.
The Spurs, never a team known for elite conditioning, soon began to show signs of fatigue.
After waiting the entire game, the Kings naturally weren’t about to let the opportunity slip away.
When the fourth quarter began, the Kings looked as if they had just woken up, relentlessly chasing down the Spurs and hammering away.
The Spurs, who had held on all night, finally ran out of breath.
Under the Kings’ thunderous, wave-like assault, the close score they had clung to all game was blown open in an instant. In the end, the Kings once again defended their home court, pushing the series score to 2–0.
“No more playing around.”
Popovich sat in the head coach’s seat, a faint smile on his face.
The game had been exciting, but it also made one thing painfully clear.
The Spurs no longer had any real chance of beating the Kings.
Even when Popovich pulled out a surprise like today, trying to steal a win from Malone, the Kings only needed a small adjustment to once again toy with this once-great powerhouse.
“To leave the stage of history like this…”
Popovich looked up at the celebrating Kings players, a barely perceptible smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s not very dignified—but it’ll do.”
“It’s good that you can see it that way.”
Buford had appeared beside Popovich at some point.
“There’s still a lot we need to take care of next.”
“Didn’t I tell you about that already?”
Popovich curled his lip dismissively.
“I’ll just pretend I didn’t hear it. Don’t bring it up again.”
Buford shot him a hard glare, his expression serious.
What Popovich had mentioned was his growing desire to step back, but the Spurs were already in shaky waters.
The pillar was wavering, the core had left, and even Buford himself would be stepping down as general manager this summer to take a role at headquarters.
If Popovich left too, the Spurs would truly be starting over from nothing.
“For the kids’ sake, hang in there for two more years.”
Looking at the visibly aging Popovich, Buford could only offer a quiet appeal.
As he spoke, both men turned their eyes back to the court.
CJ, the player with the most development potential on the team and the one Popovich viewed as Parker’s successor, was chatting with Butler on the floor.
“You guys really aren’t holding back.”
CJ glared at Butler and Durant, clearly annoyed.
“Are you really trying to beat us into the ground?”
Because of a shoulder injury suffered late in the regular season, CJ was still able to play in this year’s playoffs, but the team strictly limited his minutes to protect him.
As a result, the Spurs’ primary ball-handler this postseason was still Parker, who was already so old he could barely move.
“That’s a bit unfair to say.”
Butler shrugged.
“You know what we’re here to do this year. We’re not letting you off just because of old friendships.”
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