"Oden's checking in!"
The sharp-eyed assistant coach spotted Oden warming up and quietly alerted Kerr.
"I see him. I'm not blind," Kerr said through clenched teeth. "This is basically cheating. How am I supposed to deal with this?"
What really set Kerr off wasn't Oden's individual strength, but the Kings' ever-shifting tactical system.
When Jokić was on the floor, whether in the half court or in transition, the Kings ran textbook small-ball basketball. Even though Jokić wasn't fast, it didn't stop him from moving the ball quickly and sending teammates out on the break.
But once Oden and Gay—the bench duo—checked in, everything changed. These two were specialists at grinding through half-court possessions. No tricks, no frills—just possession after possession of slow, methodical play.
That style was especially deadly for a team trying to chase the score. Almost imperceptibly, it dragged them into a defensive trap, slowing their ball movement, reducing possessions, and tanking their efficiency.
Against the Warriors, the Kings' current bench lineup was a nightmare. Whether it was Oden powering inside or Gay calmly knocking down mid-range shots, the Warriors simply didn't have anyone who could reliably stop either of them.
Watching Whiteside bounce around the paint like a pogo stick as Oden repeatedly singled him out, Kerr felt the blood rush straight to his head.
"Stop jumping around out there! What is this, a high-jump competition?!"
Kerr finally snapped, roaring at Whiteside from the sideline.
Whiteside had a glaring flaw on defense. He didn't bite on fakes much, but he loved gambling—jumping early, before the offensive player even released the ball.
When it worked, it was a volleyball-style swat that made the highlight reels. But most of the time, he just got sent flying and watched the ball drop in uncontested.
And this was the Western Conference Finals. Every shot mattered. Naturally, Oden spammed fake after fake, doing everything he could to bait Whiteside on every single attempt.
"This shouldn't be happening…"
Watching Whiteside get toyed with, Kerr frowned deeply.
By all rights, Whiteside was the last player the Logo Man personally recommended to him before leaving the team. With Old Man West's legendary eye for talent, even if he tied a dog to the bench, Kerr would still praise its shiny coat.
So why had Whiteside been so mediocre ever since joining the team? No matter how much Kerr coached him, nothing seemed to change.
If Old Man West wasn't wrong, and the kid wasn't wrong… then the problem had to be me.
For the first time, Kerr seriously started doubting himself. Was he really that bad as a head coach? Was he incapable of developing players?
After all, up to this point, Kerr still hadn't proven anything to the league in terms of nurturing young talent.
This Warriors roster had been built by his predecessor, Mark Jackson. Kerr had simply taken over a max-level account by sheer luck.
"Is it really my fault?"
Watching Whiteside get targeted possession after possession, a sliver of doubt crept into Kerr's mind.
"This can't continue!"
At last, Kerr couldn't sit still any longer. If he let Oden and Gay keep grinding the game down like this, then even when the starters came back, it would be too late.
"Green, you're in!"
Kerr glanced at Green, still resting on the bench. "Get out there and speed things up. Push the tempo!"
"Got it!"
Draymond Green immediately understood the assignment. He jumped up and got ready to check in.
As Green pulled off his towel, Coach Malone revealed a sly, satisfied smile.
"Finally forced you out," he muttered.
Turning back to the bench, Malone called out, "Pascal! Get ready to check in for Rudy. You remember what I told you earlier, right?"
"I remember," Siakam replied with a nod. "Double the paint with Greg and wear Green down."
"Then get out there."
Malone gave Siakam a pat before sending him to the scorer's table.
With Durant—a true scoring monster—on the roster, Malone had quietly molded the team's other young wings toward defense-first roles during training.
Both Siakam and Anunoby were products of that approach.
The team didn't need them to shoot. If Durant went cold, there was Butler. And if things really went south, veteran Gay was always there as a safety net.
As a result, both Siakam and Anunoby were steadily developing into elite 3-and-D defensive anchors.
Seeing Siakam step onto the court, Draymond Green felt a vague sense of unease. He couldn't quite explain it—what threat could a rookie promoted this season really pose?
He found out soon enough.
Every time Green tried to orchestrate from the perimeter, Siakam used his freakish wingspan to get right in his space.
Even worse, Siakam's defensive instincts were far sharper than Green had expected. Time and again, he disrupted passing lanes—not quite stealing the ball, but making it incredibly hard for the Warriors' Green-centered offense to function.
Little by little, the Kings stretched the lead.
"This isn't working, Coach."
Curry, resting on the bench, finally stood up and spoke to Kerr.
"If this keeps up, even when Klay and I get back in, we won't be able to make up a hole this big."
His eyes locked onto Kerr, burning with urgency.
"Ah…"
Kerr let out a long sigh. He'd already seen through the Kings' plan. But it felt like Malone had set two bottles of poison in front of him—either choice was deadly.
"Get ready to go."
After a long hesitation, Kerr finally spoke. "No matter what, you guys have unlimited green lights from the perimeter. You have to bring the score back."
As the Splash Brothers checked in, Malone remained seated on the bench, calm and unmoved.
The deficit had already climbed past twenty points. Richardson was controlling the offense, while Siakam and Oden anchored the defense. Malone was perfectly happy to let the Splash Brothers fire away—because once Butler and Durant returned, it would be time to officially close out the game.