Chapter 53: Forcibly Alley-Ooped!

"Coach Frank Vogel must be out of his mind!"

The ABC commentator felt absolutely certain: the Magic’s head coach standing on the sidelines must have made some kind of error. Looking at the score between the two teams, truth be told, the gap wasn’t wide enough for a do-or-die moment. Although the Magic appeared to be thoroughly suppressed, basketball is unpredictable—until the final buzzer sounds, no one knows what might happen.

Otherwise, there would never have been legendary moments like Reggie Miller’s or Tracy McGrady’s.

With this logic in mind, the commentator could only shake his head as he watched Michael Wu surrounded by the Magic’s starting five. But no matter how much he shook his head, the fact remained—Wu was right there on the court, starting the third quarter for Orlando!

“GO, GO, GO!”

Standing on the baseline, Ibaka inbounded the ball, calling out loudly as he sprinted forward. Though the team was trailing, it wasn’t as if hope had vanished. After Wu’s impassioned speech in the locker room, Ibaka knew he had to ignite the team’s spirit.

Young Payton, the Magic’s point guard, seemed to understand this well. As he advanced with the ball, he waved his free hand constantly, directing his teammates’ movements. The coach handles strategy from the sidelines, but on the court, the point guard is the team’s brain.

With the second half just underway, Utah’s defense wasn’t as tight as it had been before. Orlando’s offense found a bit of breathing room; both sides exchanged blows, each scoring in their first two possessions.

When it was Orlando’s turn again, Utah’s defense snapped back to full strength. Under their tight marking, the Magic’s movement proved futile; no one could shake free for an open look. Especially Michael Wu, starting in the third quarter, found himself smothered by Gordon Hayward.

“Young man, is this all you’ve got?”

Having matched up against Wu for several possessions, Hayward couldn’t help but feel disappointed. Previously, he’d faced Aaron Gordon, or—if the lineup shifted—Jeff Green. Compared to Wu, those two forwards put much more pressure on Hayward defensively.

He wasn’t underestimating Wu. On the contrary, Hayward respected the young man thrust into the game under such circumstances; anyone called up in a moment like this surely wasn’t weak.

But Wu’s performance on both ends left the All-Star forward far from satisfied.

“Of course, this is my level,” Wu replied, clearly uncomfortable with Hayward’s relentless defense, his answer slow and self-effacing. “Sorry to disappoint you.”

Wu’s words made Hayward pause. In the NBA—where trash talk escalates to family feuds—he’d never met someone who admitted defeat so readily.

Yet, in that instant of surprise, Wu seized the opportunity. He leaned into Hayward, spun sharply, and charged toward the basket, raising his right hand high.

“Michael Wu’s breaking for the rim, he’s calling for the ball!” The commentator caught Wu’s sudden move, but, glancing at Gobert waiting beneath the hoop, sighed again. “Look at Rudy Gobert stationed under the basket—Elfrid Payton won’t risk the pass, Michael won’t get the ball.”

Indeed, with Gobert guarding the paint, nobody would dare challenge him lightly, let alone Wu.

Payton thought the same, but then Wu, right hand raised, pointed a finger skyward.

Seeing his teammate’s signal, Payton was stunned. Wu wanted an alley-oop!

Wu broke away from his defender, sprinted into the paint—this was the perfect alley-oop moment. Though Gobert stood guard, Payton remembered Wu’s locker room speech. Gritting his teeth, he made a split-second decision.

“Whoosh!”

The young point guard whipped the ball toward the left side of the rim. At the same time, Wu, having shaken Hayward, bent his legs, exploded upward, seized the ball with both hands, and soared toward the basket.

Propelled by momentum, he glided toward the hoop.

Almost simultaneously, Rudy Gobert, timing his jump, leaped high, arm extended. In his mind, this would be his third block of the night.

In midair, two giants collided—each over two meters tall—charging from opposite directions.

Wu strained with everything he had to slam the ball home; Gobert stretched his arm, intent on snuffing out Wu’s audacious dunk.

“Duang!”

“Bang!”

Two sharp sounds rang out together. The ball bounced off the front rim, flying free. Wu crashed to the floor, upended by Gobert, landing with a heavy thud.

On the sideline, Frank Vogel’s heart sank—Wu’s forced alley-oop and attempted poster dunk had clearly failed.

“Tweet!”

But just as Vogel prepared to sigh, the referee’s whistle cut through the air.

“Rudy Gobert called for defensive foul? Michael Wu gets two free throws!” The commentator was astonished by the call. “Unbelievable. I thought Rudy had a brilliant block, but the referees stick to their principles.”

“Michael!”

As the whistle faded, Magic players rushed to Wu’s side as he lay on the court. Payton was about to ask Wu if he was alright, when Wu raised his right hand in a tight fist.

“Elfrid Payton!” Wu shouted, his eyes fierce as he looked at Payton. “Next time, throw the alley-oop even higher!”

“I jump higher than that Bismack guy!”

With that, Wu remained on the floor, a rare smile breaking across his face.

“You troublemaker!”

Clearly, Wu’s words meant he was fine. Payton laughed, and with Ibaka, helped Wu to his feet.

At the line, Wu made one of two free throws, scoring his first point of the game.

“Michael Wu’s second shot is good, adding another point for the home team. It’s only one, but his actions might signify something more.”

As Wu retreated on defense, the commentator added his perspective: “Frank Vogel has called in Michael Wu, whose minutes are usually scarce, perhaps to attack the Utah Jazz’s interior.”

“He’s Orlando’s tenth man—and he’s taking on the Salt Lake City’s defensive pillar!”