"Sorry, sorry! Not the face, please not the face!" Jake shouted as he scrambled around, trying to shield himself from the blows. In the grand lobby of the Hilton Hotel in downtown San Antonio, visitors who had come to check in or relax in the lounge were now holding up their phones, capturing the unusual scene unfolding before them. Popovich, his hair fully gray, marched forward with surprising speed, chasing after the disheveled Jake. Meanwhile, Buford stood off to the side, arms crossed, watching the spectacle unfold with no intention of stepping in. Even the hotel's security and the lobby manager looked on, uncertain whether to intervene or let the scene play out.
San Antonio, Texas's third-largest city, might not have much that stands out, but the ever-resilient Spurs were a point of pride. Recognizing Popovich instantly, the guests were now watching the legendary coach in an unexpected role—as a brawler. The target? Jake, the Kings' general manager, and one of the hottest figures in the league.
"RC, shouldn't we do something? I mean, this is a public place," whispered the lobby manager, turning to Buford.
"Stop him? Why don't you go ahead and stop him?" Buford replied, rolling his eyes. "With that look in Pop's eye, I'd get a few punches too if I tried."
"But people are filming this!"
"What's the big deal? He's gone viral before, and he's never been embarrassed. Why should I worry?" Buford replied casually.
Meanwhile, the commotion in the lobby was winding down. Popovich, having thoroughly exhausted himself, leaned on the counter for support, while Jake lay panting on the floor.
"All I did was offer Uncle Chip a higher salary. Did I deserve this beatdown?" Jake grumbled as he sat on the floor, trying to catch his breath.
"So, you think poaching my shooting coach is just fine, huh?" Popovich barked, shaking a fist in Jake's direction. "Do I need to give you another reminder?"
"No, no! I surrender! You'll be the death of me, old man!" Jake raised his hands, begging for mercy.
As previously mentioned, the Spurs' enduring success stemmed from the harmony between owner, general manager, and head coach. Chip Engelland, an esteemed shooting coach, was the unifying factor who kept everything running smoothly. His work transformed the shooting accuracy of league stars, from Steve Kerr and Grant Hill to Kawhi Leonard, who evolved from a defensive role to a mid-range shooting powerhouse thanks to Chip's guidance.
"What do you want me to do? Uncle Chip's already agreed to come with me, even if you go after me again," Jake said defiantly. Having come to San Antonio with Chip in mind, Jake wasn't leaving without him.
"Alright, alright," Buford finally intervened. "Let's not make more of a scene." He pulled Jake to his feet. "What you're doing isn't right, Jake. We're family. How could you poach one of our own?"
Jake shrugged, smiling. "I can't help it; he's the best shooting coach in the league. It's not like I'd poach just anyone!"
"Oh, I get it now," Popovich growled, glaring at both Jake and Buford. "You're both in on it, aren't you?"
"Why are you blaming me?" Buford protested. "This was all Jake! Anyway, the damage's done. So, how do you plan on compensating the boss here?"
In most leagues, poaching is part of the game, but the Spurs have long been famous for their unity. For Jake to make a move like this felt like a betrayal.
"Fine, I'll make sure he doesn't suffer. The old man barely let me talk before beating me up!" Jake replied, looking a bit put out.
The two old foxes and the young one huddled together in a whispering conference. After a few tense moments, Popovich pulled back, frowning at Jake.
"You're sure about this?"
"Would I lie to you?" Jake said, putting on his most sincere look.
"Alright! I'll trust you this one last time," Popovich muttered, waving a hand. "Now, get out of here before I change my mind!"
"Will do!" Jake grinned, slipping out of the lobby as quickly as he could, not wanting to tempt fate.
Just as Jake caught his breath, his phone buzzed. He answered, only to hear Steve Kerr's voice booming through the line.
"You're incredible! You really went ahead and poached Coach Chip!"
"Don't rub it in. I just got a beating from the old man," Jake replied, grumbling.
"It's already online. That's how I knew!" Kerr laughed. "You know, I wanted to bring in Coach Chip myself, but Pop shot me down and wouldn't talk to me for weeks after."
Switching gears, Kerr added, "What are you paying Chip? I'll raise it by five percent if you send him my way!"
"Not a chance!" Jake said quickly. "Another call's coming in, gotta go before you raise my blood pressure!"
He ended the call, noticing it was Peja on the other line.
"What's up?" he asked.
"Boss, I think I found the defensive coach you wanted," Peja said, watching the bustling streets. "He's not famous, though."
"Who is it?"
"I'm in Houston, and I just met one of their assistant coaches."
"What's his name?"
Peja quickly checked his notes. "Chris Finch!"