Chapter Fifteen: The Final Moment

There were 39 seconds left on the clock when the Clippers inbounded the ball from the baseline.

Ginobili clung to He Xinghui with all his might, refusing to let him receive the pass.

Yet, through relentless movement, He Xinghui finally managed to take possession of the ball.

Getting the ball was merely the first step; there were still several hurdles before he could score.

He first had to bring the ball past half-court, then find an opportunity to shoot.

This process was anything but easy.

So, He Xinghui resorted to a cunning maneuver—a sweeping arm swing from below, crashing his arm forcibly into Ginobili’s palm as he launched the ball carelessly away.

He hadn’t even tried to aim, and the ball sailed straight into the stands.

The referee’s whistle blew: Ginobili, three-point foul on the shooter.

Ginobili, furious, could only sputter out an unintelligible string of words.

“That wasn’t a shot! Have you ever seen anyone take a shot before crossing half-court?” Parker translated heatedly on the side.

“I have. When time’s almost up, it happens quite a lot,” He Xinghui retorted.

“But you guys still had time—and you literally threw the ball into the stands! How can you call that a shot?” Parker demanded.

“I can, and I do,” He Xinghui replied.

The scene almost descended into chaos, but in the end, the referee upheld the original decision.

Regardless of He Xinghui’s dubious intent, from the court’s perspective, it was indeed a shooting foul.

With a mischievous grin, He Xinghui walked to the free-throw line, driving the Spurs’ players nearly mad with frustration.

He made all three free throws without missing, further stoking their urge to lay hands on him.

The Spurs inbounded the ball, and He Xinghui quickly committed another tactical foul.

This time, luck was on his side—the foul was on Devin Brown.

“Hey man, make those free throws, or if we pull off a comeback, you’re the villain again,” He Xinghui said with a smile.

His words piled on the pressure for Brown. Even though Brown knew He Xinghui was doing it on purpose, he still couldn’t remain completely calm.

Mental toughness is, after all, a kind of talent.

Some people may tell themselves not to tremble before stepping up to the podium, but when the moment comes, they tremble just the same.

Brown made only one of his two free throws.

After missing the second, he wore an expression of aggrieved innocence, like a child wronged.

Brand grabbed the rebound, and Popovich, fearing the Clippers might seize victory from chaos, burned his last timeout to set up a defensive strategy.

107 to 102. Thanks to He Xinghui’s six points, the gap between the two teams was now only five.

Thirty seconds remained, and suddenly the game was shrouded in suspense.

Some spectators who had begun to leave sat back down.

“A miracle is called a miracle because it’s so unlikely. We’re still up by five—that’s a huge advantage. As long as we don’t make mistakes, they have no chance,” Popovich first soothed his players, then took Brown off the court and set up a defense for the three-point line.

With so little time left, the only way for the opponent to catch up was to rely on threes.

On the other side, Dunleavy placed all his hopes on He Xinghui.

Give the ball to He—that was his strategy.

When Dunleavy said this, Brand’s heart skipped a beat.

He, the legitimate star of the team, had lost even the right to take the crucial shot.

The game resumed. He Xinghui caught the defense off guard, darting inside for a quick two points.

At first glance, it seemed like a waste of precious time.

In truth, He Xinghui had noticed the Spurs were out of timeouts and wanted to throw the situation into disarray.

At this stage of the game, every player is stretched to the limit, and without a timeout to regroup, mistakes are more likely.

The Spurs inbounded. All their reliable free-throw shooters were closely guarded. Duncan, erring on the side of caution, passed to Bruce Bowen, who had only a 65% free-throw percentage.

Seeing this, He Xinghui immediately charged at Bowen, clearly aiming to foul.

Bowen could have simply stood there and waited for the foul.

But, wanting to be safe, he passed to Ginobili, the more accurate shooter.

And that played right into He Xinghui’s plan—he stopped abruptly, leaped, and intercepted the pass.

Before anyone could react, he dashed for the basket and laid the ball in for another two points.

In that moment, in an unnoticed corner, Brown broke into a twisted grin.

The Spurs had made another mistake, another turnover, but this time, it wasn’t his fault.

At last, he could shout to the world: the “McGrady moment” wasn’t all on him. Years of unjust blame could finally be wiped clean.

The gap had suddenly shrunk to a single point; the spectators felt as if they were dreaming.

Fifteen seconds remained. The Spurs led by one and had possession—a considerable advantage.

Yet most people now favored the Clippers, whose morale soared, while the Spurs looked deflated, drained of all spirit.

Fans just tuning in might have thought the Spurs were the ones trailing.

With no timeouts left, Popovich could only fret helplessly on the sidelines.

Fortunately, the “GDP” trio was steady. This time, Duncan inbounded to Parker.

Mobley fouled Parker, sending him to the line.

Parker made one of two.

Witnessing this, Brown nearly broke into a victory dance.

He wanted all the fans to understand that even the stars can’t help but make mistakes sometimes.

With twelve seconds to go, the Clippers had many options.

They could go for a two-point play to force overtime, try for a three to end it all, or even score a quick two and then try to defend the next Spurs possession.

Dunleavy called a timeout, determined to prove he earned his paycheck.

Yet his words made the Clippers players suspect he was, in fact, being paid for nothing.

“Give the ball to He. He, you decide whether to go for two or three,” Dunleavy said.

Watching this, Cassell mused that perhaps after he retired, he could become a head coach himself and earn a salary for doing nothing.

As play resumed, Kaman inbounded, Cassell received the ball and used his broad hips to shield it, all the while searching for He Xinghui.

He Xinghui, meanwhile, worked with Brand to shake off Ginobili and Parker, who were both convinced he’d be the one to take the final shot.

Luckily, the captain’s ample frame blocked Ginobili’s path.

Soon, the ball found its way into He Xinghui’s hands.

Open, he glanced at the clock—two seconds left—and paused briefly.

Ginobili arrived; the clock was about to expire.

Then, under the gaze of thousands, He Xinghui sent the ball flying.

Every pair of eyes followed the ball’s arc—except He Xinghui’s. He had already run to the bench, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and drank deeply.

His nonchalant posture seemed to say, “Does it matter if it goes in or not?”—yet also hinted, “Is there really any suspense about my game-winner?”