Chapter 3: Decision

Holding all kinds of high draft picks, the Kings repeatedly selected players who didn't pan out. In the league, the phrase "You operate like the Kings" became a notorious insult. This felt like pushing oneself into a fire pit! And who was the Kings' head coach now? Mike Malone—a rising star among league assistants. Although the past season was his first as head coach, he had years of experience and couldn't be dismissed lightly.

Seeing Jake's hesitation, Buford said, "Of course, I'm not asking you to be the head coach. Mike is doing a good job now, and there's no plan to change him anytime soon."

Jake felt a wave of relief wash over him. The last thing he wanted was to be blamed for the team's failures. Before he could relax, however, Buford's next sentence sent his heart racing.

"They want to invite you to be the general manager."

What?! I'm going to be a general manager? If being a head coach was a risk of taking the blame, then becoming the Kings' general manager felt like a death sentence for his career. So many GMs had come and gone in Sacramento, and none had left with their reputation intact.

"No way! I will definitely not go!" Jake's head shook vigorously, like a rattle, as he processed Buford's words. The old fox smiled knowingly, as if he had anticipated Jake's reaction.

"Don't rush to refuse; you should at least hear them out first."

Jake braced himself, sensing another round of Buford's motivational pep talk coming. After three years with the Spurs, he recognized this routine all too well.

"This invitation from the Kings surprised me," Buford continued, ignoring Jake's skeptical glare. "According to Popovich and me, the safest plan was to keep you here for a few more years and then let you go."

Both Popovich and Buford genuinely valued Jake. Despite his youth, he had proven himself capable and level-headed. This year's championship hero, Belinelli, was his recommendation. Jake had poured countless hours into studying video and stats, even scouring through every possible lead. His hard work had paid off; Belinelli seamlessly filled the Spurs' scoring gap after Gary Neal left, becoming essential to their championship run.

But Jake couldn't shake the feeling that he was still too young for a management role. Typically, at twenty-six, people like him learned the ropes from the league's veterans before taking the plunge. Listening to Buford's praise warmed Jake's heart, yet he felt a mix of pride and uncertainty.

"Do you know Vivek Ranadivé?" Buford asked, his gaze piercing.

"Vivek Ranadivé?" The name struck a chord in Jake's memory—he remembered the "Defend the Kings" movement. In 2014, when the Maloof brothers, the former Kings owners, faced financial issues, they tried to sell the team to a Seattle consortium led by Ballmer, who wanted to relocate the Kings. Ranadivé, then a minority owner of the Warriors, rallied the local Sacramento community to keep the team in its home city, ultimately succeeding.

"Since acquiring the Kings, Ranadivé has been eager to change their fortunes," Buford said, lighting another cigarette. "Generally, owners like him believe they're the smartest ones in the room. They think they can single-handedly revive the franchise." Buford snorted, "Stupid capitalist."

"What does this have to do with me?" Jake asked, his confusion mounting.

Buford flicked the ashes from his cigarette into an empty Coke can. "Because they want to reform, but few are willing to take over the mess of the Kings. They initially wanted to poach me, but I turned them down. So they set their sights on you."

Great, I'm just a scapegoat! Jake nearly cursed at Buford's words. If they couldn't lure the veteran, they'd try to take the rookie.

"Of course, I've looked into the salary and power they're offering. They're serious. Maybe they know you have a good reputation, or they just want a chance to win. Regardless, the proposal has been made." Buford stood, brushing off the ash that had fallen on him. "Both Popovich and I believe that although you're still young, you're capable of handling the league independently. We kept you around because we were reluctant to let you go. And while Sacramento may be scorned by managers, don't forget—"

"You are our student!"

With that, Buford left, leaving Jake standing in a daze.

Jake's heart raced. The Spurs had a unique team culture; they thrived on calmness and humility. In three years, he had never heard Buford speak with such confidence. He was a disciple of Popovich and Buford, the greatest coach and top manager in NBA history.

Should he accept the Kings' invitation? Deep down, he wanted to break free from their protection and prove himself. But now that the moment had come, he was engulfed in doubt.

"You're torn," Popovich said from across the room, lifting a glass of amber wine. He swirled it slowly before taking a long sip, the blush creeping up his wrinkled cheeks. "It's not your fault. At twenty-six, it's daunting to suddenly take over a disaster."

Popovich spoke softly, but his gaze remained fixed on Jake.

"Pop, I want to accept the challenge, but I don't want to do it impulsively. Running a team involves navigating drafts, venues, tickets, and sponsors. I worry I won't be able to handle it."

Jake took a sip from his own glass, voicing his doubts.

To his surprise, Popovich burst into laughter. "Jake, before this, I told Buford that if you go to Sacramento, the odds of success are fifty-fifty. But just because of what you said, I can guarantee you'll be an excellent team manager."

"A manager isn't like a coach. A coach works with an established team to find the best lineup. A manager must dig for talent, negotiate trades, and argue with other GMs—all for the team's benefit."

"I've seen many people come and go in this league. They enter for various reasons, often leaving in failure. Yet, those who thrive are those who align themselves with the team's interests and make sacrifices for success. And you already possess that quality."

"So you think I should accept the Kings' invitation?" Jake straightened, his heart pounding.

In a moment, he was sure he saw Popovich's eyes sharpen, transforming from hazy to crystal clear, like his focused intensity on the court. But just as quickly, he reverted to the familiar drunken demeanor.

"Kid, you need to understand: this is your world. We can only offer advice; the decision is yours."

With that, Popovich returned to savoring his wine, leaving Jake feeling frustrated.

This old fox was a master of disguise! Even when feigning drunkenness, he offered genuine insight. Jake clenched his fists, determination filling him.

"Pop, I've decided. I will become the general manager of the Kings. I will train the greatest players to challenge you!"

"Excellent!" Popovich beamed at his young disciple. "Go, make your mark in this league. San Antonio and the Spurs will be ready for your challenge!"

They shook hands firmly, sealing their shared ambition.

"Just don't keep me waiting too long; I'm not getting any younger." Popovich winked.

"Don't worry, my dear teacher," Jake replied, gripping his hand. "It won't be long!"