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Staples Center. Both teams were already out warming up.
Link's eyes drilled straight across the court, locked on the white guy laughing and jawing with his teammates.
The disgust on his face wasn't hidden one bit.
Bogut must have felt the stare. He stopped mid-sentence, his cocky grin freezing. Their eyes met for a split second.
Link's expression stayed flat. He calmly turned away.
Bogut frowned, straightened up like he was trying to look bigger, and slammed the ball hard against the floor.
"That kid's staring you down," Charlie Villanueva muttered.
"Who? The Asian dude?" Bogut snorted. "Just some lucky All-Star reserve who rode the vote train."
A couple of Bucks players chuckled under their breath.
On the other side of the court, Kobe was wrapping his ankle while talking to Link.
"Stay locked in on the game. Don't let outside noise mess with your rhythm."
"Got it," Link said, eyes already back on the court, voice calm.
Warm-ups ended. Game time.
The crowd at Staples wasn't sold out tonight—Milwaukee wasn't exactly a sexy Eastern Conference opponent.
Phil Jackson gave the final pre-game instructions.
"—Their offense runs through the perimeter, Michael Redd—"
"Inside, it's Andrew Bogut. Solid rim protector, good passer—"
The Zen Master paused and looked at Link. "Link, keep moving. Don't get tangled up with Ruben Patterson."
"Understood, Coach." Link nodded.
The players walked toward center court for the tip.
As the two lines passed each other in the tunnel, Link and Bogut brushed shoulders again.
Bogut tilted his chin up, shooting Link a sideways glare.
Link suddenly spoke—two clear syllables , loud enough for Bogut to hear:
"Bog-dog."
Bogut stopped dead, turning with a confused scowl.
He obviously had no clue what it meant, but the sound was aimed straight at him.
He even repeated it out loud, mimicking the tone.
"Bog… goo?"
Link looked at that puzzled, slightly stupid face and flashed a smile that could almost pass for friendly. He gave a small nod, like he was confirming, Yeah, that's you.
Then he kept walking to his spot without another word.
Bogut stood there, eyebrows knotted, mind spinning: What the hell was that?
"What'd that guy say to you?" Mo Williams asked, jogging up.
"No idea. Some weird shit." Bogut shook it off. "Whatever. Let's just play our game."
The ref trotted out with the ball. Tip-off.
No surprise—Bynum easily tipped it to Farmar.
Lakers first possession. After a few quick passes the ball swung to Link at the right-wing 45.
Ruben Patterson was on him, arms spread wide, stance low and physical. The guy had once bragged he was the "Kobe Stopper" back in Portland. Kobe had answered by dropping 40 on him every time they matched up after that.
Link didn't force anything on the first touch. A quick probe didn't open anything, so he lobbed it inside to Bynum.
Bynum backed down Bogut, bumped twice, but couldn't budge him.
Clock ticking.
Link faked a cut to the baseline corner. Patterson's feet shifted just enough.
Link dropped his hips, exploded off Odom's screen, and dove straight to the rim.
Bynum's pass was a little high but on time.
Link caught it, adjusted in mid-air, and laid it in clean.
Bogut was late rotating from under the basket. He smacked his hands together in frustration.
Lakers drew first blood, but the game wasn't going as smoothly as expected.
Michael Redd was hot. He drilled back-to-back threes off screens.
The score went back and forth. The pace felt sluggish.
For the rest of the first quarter Link mostly played off-ball, setting screens and moving the rock. No clean looks.
End of the first: Lakers 28, Bucks 25. Three-point lead.
Link wiped sweat with a towel, eyes flicking across to Bogut chugging water on the bench.
Second quarter. Lakers' bench unit checked in.
Link stayed out with Vujacic, Aaron McKie, Turiaf, and Walton.
Milwaukee brought their bench too, but Bogut stayed on the floor to run things.
The chance came fast.
Lakers possession. Link and Walton worked a quick hand-off at the top.
Instant switch.
Bogut was suddenly guarding Link.
Mismatch.
The Staples crowd let out a low, hungry buzz.
Bogut spread his long arms, low stance.
Link didn't hesitate for a second—even though the guy had him by five inches. He planted his left foot and exploded right.
No fancy moves. Bogut's feet couldn't keep up.
Link flew right by him and attacked the rim.
The help defender was too late. Link went up soft and dropped in a little left-hand layup.
Clean.
The arena erupted.
Bogut's face twisted.
Next trip down.
Bucks missed. Lakers grabbed the defensive board.
Link used a solid screen on the wing and found himself on Bogut again.
This time Bogut played off half a step, scared to get beat.
Link caught the ball beyond the arc, glanced down at the line, then at Bogut's tense face. The corner of his mouth twitched.
No jab, no pump. Straight-up pull-up.
Bogut lunged, but he was way too far. No real contest.
The ball spun high, perfect rainbow.
Swish.
Three!
"Nice shot, Link!" Jack Nicholson yelled from courtside, slapping hands with him as he ran back.
Bogut was breathing hard, looking pissed.
Even worse, a few fans in the stands started chanting, "He blew right by you like it was an empty highway!"
Transition. Bucks ball.
Bogut, fed up, backed down hard in the post and called for the ball.
He powered through Mihm, turned with a rough little hook, and scored.
Right after the bucket he roared at the rim and shot a glare at Link, like he was proving this was how big men play.
Link just gave him a flat look and jogged up the floor.
Lakers missed. Bucks pushed.
Mo Williams saw Bogut already leaking out ahead. Link was the only guy back.
Mo fired a perfect lob.
Bogut's eyes lit up—this was his moment. He sealed Link behind him, ready to catch and throw down a monster dunk to shut everyone up.
But the instant the ball touched his hands—
A pair of hands sliced between his arms like a scalpel.
Link.
WHACK!
He ripped the ball clean in the middle of Bogut's jump.
The ball bounced free.
Bogut's hands grabbed nothing but air. Momentum sent him stumbling on the landing.
He spun around just in time to see Link diving full stretch, saving the ball before it went out of bounds.
Lakers ball again.
"WOOOOO!!!" Staples Center exploded.
A little guard stripping a dunk from a 7-footer? The place lost its mind.
Bogut stood frozen, face cycling red to white.
He'd been one second away from posterizing the guy. Instead he got robbed.
The crowd's laughter and whistles cut deep.
"Back! Get back!" the Bucks coach screamed from the sideline.
The next few minutes belonged to the Lakers.
Link kept slicing through gaps, kicking out for easy assists.
The lead ballooned.
Final possession before halftime. Lakers slowed it down.
Link called for the ball and isolated against Patterson.
Six seconds left.
He attacked, teammates set the screen.
Bogut switched over again.
Link pulled up from one step behind the three-point line—
Right in Bogut's face.
Swish.
The halftime buzzer sounded.
Scoreboard: Lakers 58, Bucks 42. Sixteen-point lead.
The entire arena rose up, roaring.
Link's first-half line was ridiculous: 16 points, 3 assists, 2 rebounds, 1 steal.
Bogut: 6 points, 5 boards.
Players started heading toward the tunnel.
Bogut kept his head down, face dark enough to drip water.