Chapter 80: Placed on the Shelf?

Indiana, Bankers Life Fieldhouse, Indianapolis. At this moment, the fans were filing out of the arena, the ones in Pacers jerseys chatting and laughing among themselves. Clearly, the team’s comeback victory at home had put them in excellent spirits.

On the sidelines, Paul George, wearing number 13, was also smiling as he accepted a courtside interview. Having scored 29 points in the game, he answered the reporter’s questions with candor—though his responses remained general, offering little that warranted deeper probing.

The arena was filled with the joy of victory, but in stark contrast, the visiting team’s locker room was weighed down with gloom. The Orlando contingent wore dark expressions.

“Come on, guys, keep your heads up. It’s just a regular-season game, nothing more,” said Frank Vogel, the head coach, addressing his players as they sat in silence. Unlike previous losses, he was calm rather than stern. “Pack it up. It’s time to head back to Orlando.”

“Coach, this should have been your win, but my performance ruined everything,” Michael Wu was the first among the players to speak, feeling a profound sense of guilt. “You put me in to contain Paul George, but not only did I fail to stop him, I helped him find his rhythm…”

“And I couldn’t find a way to beat him on offense, either. My performance is why the team collapsed!” Michael’s remorse was genuine; before he stepped onto the court, the team had even been dominating their opponent. Coach Vogel certainly hadn’t put him in to lose.

Unfortunately, he had failed to live up to his coach’s expectations.

“Michael, this isn’t on you. If anyone’s responsible for this loss, it’s me,” said Bismack Biyombo, stepping forward after Michael finished. Though he’d been a steady presence in previous games, tonight his touch had deserted him. He grabbed nine rebounds but struggled to score.

“I couldn’t deliver the way I should have when I came off the bench. If I had, we wouldn’t have lost the lead.”

It was Biyombo’s series of missed layups in the third quarter that allowed the Pacers to seize the lead and control the game until the final buzzer. His willingness to own up to his mistakes was understandable.

With two reserves taking responsibility, the starters couldn’t remain silent. Gary Payton II, the starting point guard, was the first to step up, critiquing his own hesitation during several key plays. His admission sparked a chain reaction—Ibaka, Fournier, and others followed suit, each reflecting on their errors during the game.

“Coach Frank, you deserved this win. It was my poor showing that ruined—”

“No, no, Evan, you did just fine. Didn’t you make all your free throws?” Vogel interrupted with a smile, glancing around at his players, who were now rising one after another in self-examination. “Hey, guys, are you sure you’re not missing the point?”

“First of all, I’m pleased that everyone can recognize their shortcomings—it saves us a lot of time and means we can board the plane back to Orlando a little earlier.”

As he spoke, Vogel’s gaze lingered on Michael Wu. It had been his initial admission that set off this wave of honest self-reflection. Honestly, Vogel felt both affection and frustration toward Michael’s talkative nature.

The young man was often too outspoken in front of cameras, giving the media ample material to seize upon—a dangerous thing for any rookie. But within the team, Michael’s words often had unexpected, positive effects. Before this game, he’d fired everyone up, fueling the Magic’s explosive start in the first quarter. Now, his earnest apology had inspired the rest to reflect on their own performances—a result Vogel hadn’t anticipated.

“Michael, do you really think Paul George is just a minor player?” Vogel’s tone softened as he looked at Wu. “Young man, he’s an All-Star—a player who makes the All-NBA Team and All-Defensive Team.”

“If you could dominate him, I’d probably ask the front office to put you on the trading block and see what offers we’d get.”

“Coach Frank, I don’t want to be traded!” Michael replied, focused, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized Vogel was joking. “Wait, you’re teasing me, right?”

“Of course. At the moment, there isn’t a team outside Orlando that’s shown any interest in you,” Vogel said, clearly amused by Michael’s reaction. “But if you want to become a hot commodity on the trade market, you should know what you need to do.”

To become a coveted player in the trade market? The coach’s words were not meant literally; he didn’t truly want to put Michael up for trade. The real message was about what Michael should do next.

Michael understood perfectly—hard work.

So, at dawn in Orlando, the Magic’s training facility echoed with the relentless sound of shots clanging against the rim.

Shirtless, Michael Wu practiced his shooting, picking up a ball, driving to the baseline, dribbling back to his original spot, and firing again—repeating the cycle endlessly until Coach Vogel appeared beside him.

“Michael, you’re here early as always.”

Vogel waved off Michael’s intended greeting, signaling him to continue. “What kind of drill is this? I’m pretty sure I didn’t teach you that.”

“You’re right, Coach Frank, you didn’t,” Michael replied, leaping up for another shot. The ball traced a perfect arc and swished cleanly through the net. He bent his knees, grabbed another ball from the rack, and, dribbling hard, sprinted to the baseline. “This is a training routine I came up with myself.”

“There’s so much I still lack, and with limited time, I have to find the most efficient way to accelerate my progress.”

“So you combined dribbling and shooting?” Vogel nodded in approval at Michael’s innovation. “That’s clever, Michael. But basketball isn’t just about running shuttle drills with the ball.”

“Of course, Coach. But maybe you’d like to see another training method I’ve devised!”