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Pat*eon : belamy20
The Lakers came out for the second half with the same focused energy.
The Bucks hadn't quit yet. They made an adjustment, sliding Ersan İlyasova to the four and rolling out a true one-big, four-out shooting lineup. Their spacing looked dangerous.
Right away, Mo Williams caught the ball on the wing, rose up, and knocked down a tough, off-balance pull-up jumper from the elbow. The kind of shot that keeps a team alive.
The Lakers answered immediately.
Link curled hard off a screen and caught the ball clean at the left elbow. Since the start of December, he had been absolutely unconscious from that spot—48.7 percent, elite mid-range territory.
Bogut saw the catch and charged over like a freight train, long arms waving, trying to use his 7-foot frame to intimidate.
Link didn't flinch.
He sold a picture-perfect pump fake, eyes locked on the rim.
Bogut bit hard, launching straight up with both feet off the ground.
The second Bogut was in the air, Link calmly dribbled one quick step to the side, creating clean space. Then he rose smoothly and let it fly.
The ball sailed high over Bogut's outstretched hand, tracing a perfect arc before dropping through the net with a crisp swish.
"Good ball, Prophet Lin!" the home announcer shouted over the cheers. "Beautiful fake, perfect rhythm!"
As Link jogged back on defense, he passed right by a visibly frustrated Bogut and gave him a casual shrug, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Bogut's face turned even darker. He muttered something sharp in Australian slang under his breath.
The Lakers bench had started to notice the extra edge Link was bringing whenever Bogut switched onto him.
During the next dead ball, Kobe walked over, wiping sweat from his forehead.
"You going after him?" Kobe asked quietly, eyes sharp.
Link put on his most innocent face. "Coach told me to use my quickness and movement. He just keeps switching onto me, that's all."
Kobe stared at him for a long second, then gave a small nod and walked away without another word. He knew exactly what was happening.
The game settled into a gritty tug-of-war. The lead hovered around ten points for most of the third quarter.
With 6:45 left in the period, Phil Jackson began pulling the starters one by one.
Kobe stayed in to run the second unit. That had become standard for the Lakers lately—Kobe and Link splitting the bridge minutes.
Tonight Kobe wasn't forcing shots. His teammates' shots were falling, so he focused on playmaking. He sat at 11 points and 5 assists midway through the third.
But he clearly didn't want to waste any more time on this Milwaukee team.
He wanted to bury them right here.
First possession with the second unit: Kobe cleared the strong side and went to work himself.
He attacked right, gave Michael Redd a solid bump, spun baseline, flipped the ball to his left hand, took a half-step back, and rose into a silky fadeaway jumper from the baseline.
Swish.
Clean. Effortless. Redd had decent position but couldn't contest it.
On the very next trip, Kobe locked in on defense. He hounded Mo Williams like a shadow and forced a backcourt violation.
The Staples Center crowd erupted.
Still Lakers ball.
Kobe went right back at it.
This time he faced Ruben Patterson on the right wing.
A few quick jab steps with a high dribble to make Patterson relax—then boom. Kobe dropped his shoulder hard, exploded past him with that signature stutter-step rhythm, and left Patterson planted in cement.
He attacked the baseline, met the rotating help defender in mid-air, switched hands, and finished with a smooth left-handed layup.
Pure poetry.
The entire Lakers bench jumped to their feet, yelling and slapping hands.
Over the next several minutes, Kobe caught absolute fire. He poured in 13 points in the quarter alone.
Milwaukee's offense started to stall. Bogut's post-ups were repeatedly contested and altered. Late in the third he was pulled from the game, face tight with frustration. He sat on the bench with a towel completely covering his head.
By the end of the third quarter, the Lakers' lead had ballooned to 18 points.
The fourth quarter was academic. The Bucks basically waved the white flag. Sitting 12th in the East with almost no realistic playoff path left, Milwaukee's front office had already shifted into tank mode. 2007 was a stacked draft year—Oden and Durant were locked into the top two picks, and guys like Al Horford and Mike Conley were solid prospects too. Every loss helped.
Link checked in for two token minutes at the start of the fourth, knocked down a quick corner three, then came right back out. He spent the rest of the quarter on the bench, laughing and joking with Sasha Vujacic while the garbage-time subs ran out the clock.
Final score: Lakers 112, Bucks 88.
A comfortable home victory.
After the buzzer, both teams met at midcourt for the handshake line.
Link went down the Bucks roster, dapping or hugging each guy. When he reached Bogut, the big Australian barely extended his hand—purely going through the motions, eyes flat.
Right as Bogut started to pull away, Link gripped his hand a little tighter and flashed a smooth, slightly wicked smile.
"Good game, Bogou."
Bogut blinked, clearly thrown by the pronunciation. It sounded a little like a shortened, weird version of his own last name.
He figured it was just the guy having trouble with English.
"Yeah… good game," Bogut muttered, then repeated the word himself like he was testing how it sounded. "Bogou?"
Link's smile grew wider. He nodded enthusiastically. "Yeah, yeah. That's the way to say Bogut."
"Oh, really?" Bogut actually looked a little pleased, almost flattered. "Bogou… Bogou…" He practiced it a couple more times under his breath, nodding like he thought it was kind of cool.
Link kept nodding, completely serious. "Exactly like that."
Then he let go of Bogut's hand, turned, and walked straight into the celebrating Lakers huddle without another word.
Bogut stood there for a second, shrugged it off, and headed toward the visitor's tunnel. He just wanted to get off this court and put the frustrating night behind him.
Back in the Lakers locker room, the mood was light and loose.
"Hey Lamar, that lob you threw almost took my head off," Jordan Farmar laughed while peeling off his soaked jersey. "Lucky Bogut reacted half a second slow."
Odom grinned wide. "Bro, you gotta work on that vertical jump."
Luke Walton, still wiping sweat from his face, looked over at Link. "Yo, Link—what'd you say to Bogut during the handshake? Dude looked weird as hell."
Link shrugged casually, a small smirk playing on his lips. "Nothing much. Just taught him a simple word. Friendly post-game exchange, you know?"
"?" Odom raised an eyebrow, curious. "What word?"
Link smiled innocently. "Just a little pet name. He'll figure it out eventually."
The room went quiet for half a beat as everyone stared at him.
Then it erupted in loud, genuine laughter.
"Damn, Link," Vujacic shook his head, grinning ear to ear. "I didn't know you had it in you like that."
"I like it," Walton laughed. "Dude was throwing little cheap shots and elbows all night. He earned every bit of it."
"Don't tell anybody outside this room," Link said, still smiling as he unlaced his shoes. "Next time we play them, I'm calling him Bogou again."
The locker room filled with more laughter and playful trash talk as the players started heading for the showers, the victory feeling even sweeter with that final little touch.
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