For his size, Snoopy still looked slow. But compared to the Lopez twins? He was a step faster.
Brook Lopez caught the ball twelve feet out, squared up, then barreled forward with giant strides, his way of masking that lack of quickness.
Snoopy backpedaled steadily. He didn't press tight. Instead, he traded space for time.
If Lopez pulled up, Snoopy would struggle to contest.
But Lopez wasn't thinking pull-up. He wanted blood. He wanted a dunk on this runt's head to wipe away his shame.
Inside the charge circle, Lopez hop-stepped hard, body crashing forward, then exploded upward, both hands ready to smash it down.
Smart move. He sealed off Snoopy's leaping lane, got closer to the rim. Textbook.
Except, he forgot one thing.
Snoopy wasn't ordinary. His vertical wasn't about a run-up. His standing jump was deadlier. He didn't need space. Just a quick coil of his legs, then boom, straight into the air.
As Brook Lopez's hands gripped the ball barely four inches from the rim, a massive palm materialized from nowhere, SMACK!
Force like a hammer drove down through the ball, ripping it from Lopez's hands and spiking it to the floor, BANG! The ball ricocheted high.
Snoopy landed, snatched it clean, and in one smooth motion whipped a long pass to the streaking Russell Westbrook.
Westbrook shot off like a thunderbolt. In a blink, he delivered a violent hammer dunk, sending Pauley Pavilion into another eruption.
Two blocks. One assist. One dunk.
The Bruins' defense-to-offense fireworks had the entire arena shaking.
Through the roar, Snoopy caught it, fans chanting his name, one voice after another swelling together:
"Snoopy! Snoopy! Snoopy!"
He waved, smiling, and the crowd roared louder.
"See that? He's a natural showman." Michael Jordan nudged his VP, Fred Whitfield. "And with the entertainment market behind him, signing him's a no-brainer."
Whitfield hesitated, impressed but cautious. "But if he doesn't make the NBA, the deal's worthless."
Jordan gestured at the front row. "Look, Vandeweghe and Steve Kerr are on their feet applauding. You think that's for Westbrook? Please. They know."
Then, wistfully, Jordan added, "If Charlotte let me run this draft, I'd gamble a first-rounder on him myself. That's the thing with gambling, the bigger the bet, the bigger the win."
Whitfield winced. Everyone knew Michael was a gambler at heart. If he got serious, he might actually storm back to Charlotte, form a draft committee, and call Snoopy's name in the lottery. Totally in character for a romantic risk-taker like him.
Play resumed.
Brook Lopez again posted up Snoopy. This time he spun free and lofted a hook, but his rhythm was rushed, always looking over his shoulder for Mbah a Moute to come swatting again. The shot clanged.
Kevin Love collected the easy rebound.
On the other end, Snoopy stood at the top of the key. His two forwards spaced wide to the forty-five degree marks, both able shooters.
Stanford coach Billy King barked from the sideline: "Zone! Zone!"
As Westbrook slashed lightning-quick into the lane, Robin Lopez scrambled back. Westbrook flipped the ball behind him, right into Snoopy's hands.
Jones pressed tight, reaching for the steal.
Stanford's scouting report was clear: Snoopy had never dribbled in game film. King had bet it all, force him to dribble, force mistakes.
But Snoopy shattered the assumption.
POUND!
His first bounce ripped the crowd's breath away, a sharp cross in traffic, threading the ball left-to-right between Jones' legs and body. At the same instant, Snoopy stepped past with his right foot, cleanly slicing through the defense.
Ever since that night leaving Jennifer's hotel suite, he'd discovered it: the ability to handle the ball forward. He still wasn't blazing fast, but to strip him? Impossible, unless you fouled hard enough to topple him.
Jones didn't have that power.
Snoopy carved him up effortlessly.
Jones chased, flailing. But Snoopy was calm, like a beast-tamer toying with his prey. His fingers danced, total control, the ball obeying like an extension of his will.
"My God! I thought Snoopy was a mini-center… but he's got point guard-level handles!!"
Draft expert Chad Ford shouted from the commentary desk.
Fans at home were just as stunned. In the arena, gasps and screams rang out.
Up till now, Snoopy was boards and blocks. Suddenly, he unveiled silky dribbling like a guard.
Then, without warning, Snoopy spun and lobbed the ball high into the paint.
The crowd hadn't yet processed it when Brian Wright, lurking in the corner, cut like lightning. He soared, timing perfect, BOOM!
A thunderous slam exploded behind Robin Lopez's head.
At midcourt, Steve Kerr clutched his skull. A single name flashed through his mind:
Boris Diaw.