Snoopy's stubborn obsession made Kevin Love and Russell Westbrook knit their brows.
Poster dunks were rare miracles, sometimes you'd go an entire game without seeing one.
But now, Snoopy was openly declaring he would dunk over both Lopez brothers in the same night.
Russell groaned. The problem was obvious: Snoopy didn't have a reliable dribble-drive game. His dunks usually came off lobs, and those were tough setups that required perfect timing and teamwork.
"Alright, Snoopy, later, I'll throw you some high lobs. Even if it costs me some assists, even if I rack up turnovers, even if it hurts my draft stock," Russell said with almost solemn gravity, locking eyes with him. "Because we're brothers."
The intensity in his voice even moved himself.
Kevin Love quickly added: "I'll help pull defenders away, and I'll feed you the ball too."
Snoopy stared at them, so full of loyalty, so eager to help, that he found them childish yet couldn't stop himself from being touched.
"But, I don't need you to pass it to me. Wouldn't it be better if I just ripped a rebound out of the air and dunked it straight over them?"
He tilted his head earnestly. "If I broke the flow of the game just to chase my own dunk, wouldn't that be shameful?"
He added calmly, "In economics, that's called self-serving behavior, it inflates opportunity cost and undermines collective benefit."
Russell clutched his head. He could not stand Snoopy applying economic theory to basketball. "Alright, screw opportunity cost! I'll just take more threes!"
Snoopy burst out laughing. "Given your three-point percentage, that actually reduces opportunity cost very quickly."
Whistle!
The whistle blew.
The second half began.
Stanford made no substitutions. Their staff had run out of cards to play. Their whole team revolved around the Lopez brothers, and now, even that core was collapsing.
Snoopy had them chained up. Luc Mbah a Moute had two blocks and four boards in just ten minutes. Love already had seven rebounds.
Bang!
Brook Lopez's fadeaway clanged as Mbah a Moute's hand darted across his vision.
Meanwhile, Snoopy muscled his base, making Brook's footing miserable, while Luc Mbah a Moute hovered, flashing defensive alarms.
"Snoopy's become a stout defender," analyst Chad Ford observed. "On defense, he bodies Brook. On offense, he shoves Robin right out of the paint…"
But Ford's brows suddenly furrowed. "Wait, this time he's not boxing out. Is he, going to attack?"
Right then, Russell pulled up for a sudden three from the arc.
His boosted athleticism made even his jumper explosive. His release was lightning quick, his leap fierce. But his arc was too flat.
Clang! A miss.
The rebound rocketed high. Robin Lopez darted under the rim, unguarded, and leapt to secure it.
The Lopez twins' Achilles' heel had always been rebounding position. They weren't great at boxing out. Frontcourt boards were often lucky breaks for them.
But this was supposed to be an easy defensive board.
Except… out of the corner of Robin's eye, a shadow burst upward.
He didn't even have time to turn his head.
Darkness swallowed him as a giant hand snatched the ball midair, and then, in one brutal motion, spiked it through the hoop.
BOOM!
The dunk rattled the rim, and Robin staggered forward, shoved by sheer force from behind. It took two stumbling steps before he regained balance.
He looked up. Snoopy was hanging from the rim, radiating raw power.
The arena detonated.
"Snoopy! Snoopy! Snoopy!"
The chants were louder than ever, a storm.
Robin caught sight of scouts grinning wide, Suns GM Steve Kerr even clapping on his feet.
Shame burned his face. I can't believe I let that short monkey turn me into his stepping stone.
Snoopy dropped lightly to the floor, composed as ever. He waved politely to the crowd, a gentleman executioner, calm and elegant, even after delivering a death sentence.
"Thank you for your cooperation tonight," he said with a smile toward Robin. "You've just brought me a step closer to the NBA."
Robin's ears rang. That "thank you" cut deeper than a thousand curses.
"Snoopy reads the game beautifully. That's his real strength," Chad Ford tapped his temple and quipped to Bill Walton, "If you ever coach UCLA, your first draft should be from Anderson's economics department. Imagine all those 140 IQ kids running plays."
Walton chuckled knowingly.
Meanwhile, Jordan was whispering with Whitfield again. This time, it wasn't whether to sign Snoopy, but how much. Whitfield thought $100,000 a year in endorsements would make the kid dance with joy. Jordan shook his head. "At least $200,000. He's worth that."
The two debated money as UCLA's lead ballooned.
But Snoopy grew restless. The clock ticked, the gap widened. He feared Stanford would fold and bench their stars before he finished his mission.
When the lead hit eighteen, Stanford's coach finally stood, ready to sub.
Snoopy could wait no longer.
He marched up, took the ball straight from Russell's hands, and crooked a finger at Brook Lopez.
"I'm really sorry," he declared, voice steady but eyes blazing. "I'm worried you'll be benched before I get the chance. So this possession, let's go one-on-one."
The words exploded across the jumbotron.
Every soul in the arena leapt to their feet.
The duel was on.