If you dont like it dont comment....u people are nuts, this is one of the most wasted internet space ever created, dude lids flips w/e the fuck u call yourself, get a life! get a gf ,bf, something this is just sad spending 5 years on fictional people
Your such a piece of shit it makes me laugh.u people are nuts, this is one of the most wasted internet space ever created, dude lids flips w/e the fuck u call yourself, get a life! get a gf ,bf, something this is just sad spending 5 years on fictional people
Yeah just Steph Curry's run with the Warriors in 2015 made me think of John Li a lot. But I agree Jeremy Lin pretty much is John Li he just hasn't had as much success with all of the injuries he's had or won a ring yet.John Li is Jeremy Lin no? Never gave a chance because of his race, caught on eventually, etc?
BUMPING THIS. the only thing wrong with this story is that it hasn't been made into a book, or used as nba 2k's MYCAREER mode story. show some love to this man's talent for writing @NBA2K
Redemption, Part 1
[image=[URL]http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k284/Garrett7713/Glossy%20NCAA%20Logos%20D-H/HAWAII.png[/URL]] [image=[URL]http://i727.photobucket.com/albums/ww276/chises2k9/John%20Li/ncaa-basketball.gif[/URL]] [image=[URL]http://i91.photobucket.com/albums/k284/Garrett7713/Glossy%20NCAA%20Logos%20N-R/northwestern.png[/URL]]
#1 Hawaii Warriors vs #2 Northwestern Wildcats
NCAA Tournament, Championship Game
Staples Center
Los Angeles, CA
Michael’s alarm clock screamed to life at 9AM that Saturday morning. We rolled out of bed, took turns showering, shaving, and getting dressed. Previn didn’t normally require us to wear anything special to games—if there were interviews afterwards, we’d give them in our uniforms and warm-ups anyway to get them over with sooner. But this game was different, and Previn had called for jackets and ties from everyone. It was, I reflected, an added layer of ritual, simply the first step that day of the heightened stage we had reached. In one sense, this was like any other game. It would last 40 minutes. The court dimensions were the same. There would be ten men on the floor and three officials. Even Staples Center wasn’t new to us, as we’d played against North Carolina on that floor two days prior. As always, there would be a winner and a loser. But whereas every playoff game before this was sudden death, a fight to keep our season alive for one more round, now death was a given. Win or lose, our season was over after tonight.
I privately wondered on the elevator down to the hotel lobby whether the Hawaii Warriors were having a similar sensation. After all, they’d been here before. We hadn’t. What was going through their minds as they went about their morning ablutions? Were they thinking about the last time they were here, how they came within one point of unparalleled glory and instead were dealt crushing disappointment?
By 10AM, all of our players had gathered in the lobby in our suits. Jacques herded us onto the chartered bus for our first bus ride of the day. We were, in effect, a tour group now.
Previn was faced with a dilemma because of the 8PM tipoff time. We’d spent ten hours the previous day getting ready for the Warriors, and he didn’t want us to spend hours warming up and shooting around and generally psyching ourselves out for the game. At the same time, he didn’t trust us not to do exactly that if we spent all day cooling our heels in the hotel or wandering around Los Angeles left to our own devices. So he arranged to have us distracted in settings where he could keep us together and organized. Our first stop was the California Science Center, a museum with all sorts of interactive exhibits. Jacques handed out our admission tickets and made us partner or triple up to make sure nobody got lost. Then off we went to enjoy the exhibits. At 1PM we filed back onto the bus, which took us to the 2PM matinee performance of Shakespeare’s Richard III at the Geffen, which I suspect Previn picked for its bellicose and hyper-masculine nature. When Richard came crawling onstage after his horse was killed, Cochrane blurted, “He about to get f***ed up!” Minutes later he was stabbed to death.
Finally, at exactly 5:33 PM PDT, we arrived in the visitor’s locker room in Staples Center and began to dress. We knew there would be a sellout crowd and record television audience watching this game. For the first time in history, international viewers were expected to outnumber domestic ones; the game would be seen in 50 countries by around 30 million people. But all of that was outside. Dressing in a locker twice the size of the one I’d left behind in Evanston, I was alone with my thoughts. So, it seemed, were my teammates. Although we were, perhaps, more businesslike than most college teams in our preparation for play, our locker room was still usually a place of friendly banter. Previn liked that. It got our energy levels and spirits up before game time. But today, it was silent.
Previn broke the silence briefly.
“I’ve never had to give big speeches to motivate you before, so don’t expect me to start now. You all feel inside, I know, but it needs to be said anyway: this is the end. Don’t save anything. You Americans say, ‘Leave everything on the floor.’ Of course, everybody always says that, it’s become pithy. But I think what it means is this: play so that if you lose tonight, you can walk away with your head held high. Play so that if your heart is broken, you will be proud. Play so that in victory, you will know that you earned every bit.
“See you on the floor.”
With that, he turned and walked out into the tunnel.
Slowly, deliberately, I hung up my suit and shirt, then pulled on my gear. Girdle first, with compression shorts over it. Elbow and knee pads next. Then socks. Shorts and jersey next, the white uniform—though we were the lower seed and thus the away team, Hawaii had chosen to wear its colored jerseys. Last of all, my Air Penny X’s. I meticulously laced them up and double-knotted them to the perfect tightness. I had a look in the mirror, carefully tucked my jersey in and drew in the waist on the shorts. My hair was a bit tighter on the sides and longer on top, my face perhaps a bit more oval and cheeks less round, my shoulders an iota broader, but otherwise I looked for all the world like the seventeen-year-old boy who first put on this uniform four years ago. I hadn’t taken nearly so much care in dressing since that very first game—a home match against Harvard. The white uniform then, too. This very same one. This would be the last time.
I snapped on my warm-ups and headed out the tunnel. Normally Maybach and I were the first ones out, but this time everyone was dressed and ready within five minutes of each other. We went through all of our usual pregame—layup line, dunk line (me excluded, instead passing to the cutters), catch-and-shoot at the charity stripe, and so forth. The ritual had been the same for four years. No sense changing it now. Our band and Hawaii’s took turns playing—the same tunes, with few changes, we’d heard all along. Once our band struck up “The Final Countdown,” we knew it was just about tipoff time. The pregame was over—perfect timing. We all gathered at our bench, around Previn.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for attending tonight’s game between the Hawaii Warriors and the Northwestern Wildcats…”
“Gentlemen,” Previn said as the lights dimmed, “it’s been an honor.”
Redemption, Part 2
“First, the starting lineup for the Northwestern Wildcats, coached by Pierre Previn.”
We five stripped off our warm-ups while the reserves made a corridor for us to run through, slapping hands with them on our run into the spotlight for the last time.
“Starting at one forward, a 6-7 junior from San Francisco, California, number thirty-three, Michael Eaddy.
“At the other forward, a 6-10 senior from Southend-on-Sea, England, number forty-five, Robby Gold.
“Starting at center, a 7-1 senior from Stuttgart, Germany, number thirty-seven, Richard Maybach.
“Starting at one guard, a 6-2 senior from Evanston, Illinois, number twenty, William Howe.
“At the other guard, a 6-1 senior from San Francisco, California, number seventeen, John Li."
That was it. We were on the floor. The spotlight shifted to the other end. Hawaii’s reserves, clad in black from head to toe, made a pulsating circle from which each starter burst into the light when his name was called.
“And now, the starting lineup for the Hawaii Warriors, coached by Thomas Yune.
“Starting at one guard, a 6-3 sophomore from San Jose, California, number twenty-three, DeAundre Washington.
“Starting at forward, a 6-7 sophomore from Schofield Barracks, Hawaii, number seven, Stanley Howard.
“At the other forward, a 6-10 sophomore from Waipio, Hawaii, number eighteen, Peter Perseo.
“Starting at center, a 6-10 senior from Pusan, South Korea, number thirty, Kim Chen-Song.
“At the other guard, a 6-3 senior from Honolulu, Hawaii, number ninety-eight, Cornelius Cameron.”
There he was in all his glory, Afro high and proud, muscles hanging out everywhere. He spotted me, smirked, and gave the most miniscule nod. We two would play a game within the game, a ceaseless duel in the midst of a larger five-on-five conflict. We would never switch off, never leave each other, never leave the floor except together. There would be no respite, no quarter given, no mutual relaxing of effort even for a moment. Our fates were linked.
The lights came up. Our band struck up “Hot Time in the Old Town.” Maybach and Kim stepped to halfcourt for the tipoff. Cameron wiped the heels of his shoes. Gold cracked his knuckles. Howard blew into his cupped hands. Howe bounced on the balls of his feet. The official stepped out, holding the ball right in the middle of the “NCAA Final Four” logo. Maybach and Kim got down in their stances, waiting for the tip. It was up. They leapt. Kim tipped it to Washington. Hawaii got the opening possession.
Howe met Washington as he advanced the ball, while I stayed a few feet in front of Cameron, walking up the opposite sideline as the outlet man. Washington called the play, and Cameron took up position at the far corner. Now I went into denial defense mode, turning my side into his and leaning my weight into him, extending an arm across the front of his torso which he kept trying to push down. Cameron shucked me with a hard push from his palms and raced along the baseline; I was just a half step behind. Perseo set a screen for him. I saw it and went around, running out of bounds and almost hitting the basket support as I did so. Cameron caught the ball eighteen feet out and faced me up. I shaded him with my left foot forward, daring him to go to his left—his weaker hand. He pump faked. I didn’t bite. He fired the jump shot. My contest was late. Swish.
“Cornelius Cameron!”
Hawaii drew first blood.
I took the inbounds pass from Gold and brought the ball up. Cameron met me as soon as I crossed halfcourt, playing right up in my chest. I knew the only way to get him to back off was to drive around him, but that was easier said than done, especially since I was already dribbling. I called for a Guard Wave at the right wing, and Gold came over and set the pick. Cameron saw it, and elected to go under the pick. That gave me enough space—for a half a second, anyway—to fire a three, but that wasn’t the point of this exercise, and we needed better shots than that to win. Cameron was right up on me coming off the other side of the pick, but after three steps I let my right (non-dribbling) shoulder impact on Cameron’s sternum, then spun off him. I came back around from the counterclockwise spin, took the ball in my right hand, and dashed into the lane before Cameron could react. Kim cut me off, leaving Maybach open. Once Kim committed to me, I zipped Maybach a no-look bounce pass, and he cut behind Kim for a tomahawk dunk.
“Richard Maybach!”
The rest of the first half proceeded in a similar fashion. The next time I tried to use that spin move, Cameron poked the ball loose, scooped it up, and threw in a dunk before anyone knew what happened. Cameron guarded me a bit more loosely after getting his ankles broken, but that actually made matters worse because he found the right distance where he could react to both drives and shots in a timely fashion. I played him just a bit looser because his jumper wasn’t automatic the last time we played, but out to 20 feet or so he now was. I had to keep a hand in his face at all times from midrange, and he took advantage with pump fakes. I was usually disciplined enough not to commit to more than a disruption, but on two occasions, Cameron got me out of my stance, then went baseline and threw in a reverse dunk.
Cameron played off the ball most of the time, so I spent most of my time on defense grabbing his jersey between the numbers, chasing him around screens, and pushing him out of the post. If nothing else, I at least had to keep a bent arm on him at all times, with the back of my hand on him and with a bent wrist to avoid getting called for a foul. When I was on offense, I had to use picks in order to dribble anywhere inside the arc; Cameron was quick enough that if I tried to drive on him I’d smack into his 245-pound body and bounce off.
At halftime, the score was 51-50 Hawaii. Neither team had led by more than five points. Cameron and I had played all 20 minutes without any rest. As we went to the locker rooms, the commentators jawed:
“Well, we’ve seen the best two players in the country going at it tonight. Of the battles these two have had over the last few years, this one is shaping up to be the greatest. Could we be witnessing the start of a Magic-Bird type rivalry here?”
“You know, it’s so tempting, I mean, who wouldn’t love to see these guys going at it for the next ten years? And like Magic and Larry, to have it start in college adds something. But let’s be honest, these guys are not going to be NBA stars. Their time is now, and they are absolutely making the most of it.”
Redemption, Part 3
I didn’t realize how much my body ached until I sat down in a rolling chair in the locker room. That’s when I noticed that my quads were on fire, probably pumped full of lactic acid from my exertion. My shoulders were burning, too, and I had dull aches in all of my joints.
“This is what we expected,” Previn said. “Close game, they’re fighting like hell, we’re fighting like hell. One adjustment only: John, we need to get you moving without the ball. Make sure you call a couple of our 3-point plays for you and iso plays for Michael. If we need a postup play, let William or Matt make the entry pass.”
On our first play after the half, Eaddy isolated on the wing, hitting me with a bounce pass as I raced off a screen by Howe. I tossed in a layup as Cameron got caught on the pick, bowling Howe over in the process. A possession later, I returned the favor with an alley-oop pass to Eaddy right over Kim’s head. Cameron thought it was a pump fake and didn’t contest the pass.
After Kim blocked a Maybach dunk attempt, Washington snagged the rebound and fired it ahead to Cameron at the head of the break. I was the first to make it back on defense, with Dessay just a step behind me. Dessay tried to cut Cameron off, but Cameron took a deft in-and-out move and simply stepped around the big man. That left me between him and the basket…and he hadn’t seen me because Dessay’s body was in the way. With Cameron out of control, I set my feet, covered my privates with my hands, and waited. A split second later, he hit me. It was like being run over by a Mack truck. The base of my skull hit the floor with such force that I expected to have a bruise for weeks.
“Offensive foul on number ninety-eight, Cornelius Cameron. His third.”
With ten minutes to go and the score tied 77 all, neither Cameron nor I had spent a second on the bench. When Hawaii called their first timeout of the game, I could see Cochrane stewing in his warm-ups, rocking back and forth in his seat. After Previn gave us a little pep talk, I saw Cameron marching back onto the court. I looked over at Cochrane and shook my head. Your time will come, young man, but it is not now. With that, I retucked my jersey and walked back into the game.
Previn had predicted that the Warriors would fight us to the very end. He was vindicated. The last five minutes saw ten lead changes, and both coaches used up all their timeouts. Finally, with 37 seconds to go, Stanley Howard hit a three-pointer right in Michael Eaddy’s face to make the score 100-99 Hawaii. With no timeouts, I’d have to take the ball the length of the court and call a play. Cameron was waiting.
He wasn’t going to gamble for a full court press, shadowing me at a couple feet’s distance until I crossed halfcourt. I expected a trap. It didn’t come. The Hawaii defenders were grabbing Eaddy and Spoerlis’ jerseys between the numbers, so passing to them was not a preferable option. Maybach and Gold were pushed out of the post, in positions where they were unlikely to get good shots. That left me.
I gave the signal: isolation. My teammates cleared out to the arc, taking their defenders with them. Cameron didn’t have to look behind him to know what was happening. There would be no help defense and no picks. It was him and me.
With the clock at eleven, I began advancing closer to the key from the left wing, a series of three between-the-legs sizeup dribbles. Cameron gave ground, but closed the distance between us by a couple of inches with each step. With five seconds left, I made my move. I smacked my right elbow into Cameron’s right shoulder and spun off him to my left, coming back around on the right of him with the ball in my right hand. As soon as my shoulders came around I dug my toe into the floor and exploded down the lane, as Cameron was still turning to catch me.
Just as my right foot left the floor to elevate for the layup, I was jerked abruptly from behind and toppled to the ground onto my right side, my jersey pulled out and slightly torn, and I heard an anguished cry from behind me. Whistles blew. Gold helped me up, gingerly.
My right arm, from the shoulder down to the wrist, felt like it had just been crushed in a vise. My right hip was throbbing. I saw Cameron hiding his head in his hands, and realized what had happened. He knew he was beaten, and stopped the layup the only way he could. He fouled me—hard.
“The foul is on number ninety-eight, Cornelius Cameron. His fourth, seventh team foul. John Li at the line with two shots.”
I stepped to the line, tucking my jersey back in, fixing my right elbow pad, pumping my right arm a couple of times to limber it up and get some of the pain to go away. I glanced at the scoreboard. Still 100-99 Hawaii. With 0.09 seconds left, there would be no more plays. This was the game.
“Now, at the line John Li. He is a 94% career free throw shooter, but Justin, what a lot of people don’t realize is that as a senior in high school, he missed two free throws that eliminated his team from the playoffs. You gotta wonder if the pressure’s gonna get to him.”
“It’s all John Li now. No defense, just you and the basket. Settle down, young fellow. Show ‘em what you’re made of.”
As the official passed me the ball, the Hawaii faithful—roughly half the sold-out Staples Center—stood up and began to roar and pound the seatbacks. I did what I always did. I tucked the ball against my right hip, took a deep breath and relaxed all my muscles, focused on the rim and imagined the ball dropping through it, then took my left heel back three inches, bent my knees, and got a shooter’s grip on the ball with the finger pads of my right hand, the left alongside as a guide. Smoothly, unhurriedly, I brought the ball up, thrust from my legs, and released the shot with a snap of the wrist, my index finger left pointing at the rim. The ball dropped through, nothing but net.
100 all.
The Northwestern fans shouted “woosh!” and then the arena was silent for a moment. I brought my feet back to parallel on the line again, and the official passed me the ball for my second shot. The Hawaii fans came into full throat now, louder than before. I’d never heard anything like it. Between their screaming and pounding the chairs, it was literally impossible to hear anything. I even couldn’t hear DeAundre Washington talking trash to me from two feet away. What’s more, I’d swear I could literally feel the vibrations from the chair-pounding in my bones.
No matter. Same ritual. Same breaths. Same shot.
“And the shot is…good! That’s it! It’s all over! The Northwestern Wildcats are your N-C-Double-A 2033 National Champions!”
Result: W, 101-100
[image=[URL]http://i727.photobucket.com/albums/ww276/chises2k9/John%20Li/northwestern.jpg[/URL]]
Watching the finals and seeing Chris Paul made me think of this thread.The Nth Degree, Part 2
There in that playoff game was the great Chris Paul, a guy about my height with a lot less strength, dominating the game. He was over forty years old at the time, yet he darted around defenders with sick spins, crossovers, jukes and moves of all sorts, making them look silly. But what really got my attention was how he put the ball in the basket once he beat them. I hit “record” and captured the rest of the game.
I legit thought the same thing lol he predicted CP3’s game aging super wellWatching the finals and seeing Chris Paul made me think of this thread.