บท 4: Chapter 4: I have a system
After Jake solemnly signed his name on the thick contract, he let out a deep sigh. Just moments ago, he had officially left the Spurs, becoming the youngest general manager in NBA history with the Kings. Across the table sat five individuals he knew would become fixtures in his new life. The short man in the center was Vivek Ranadivé, the team's owner, a seasoned Indian IT entrepreneur with eyes as sharp as a jackal's. His gaze seemed to assess everything in the room with quiet intensity.
Sitting beside him was the only woman in the room, his daughter, Ajali. Jake couldn't help but swallow hard when he glanced at her. As someone who had lived this moment before, Jake already knew her reputation. She had captivated the internet, often compared to the equally stunning daughter of the Bucks' owner. Ajali had inherited her father's Indian heritage, with a bright red bindi adorning her forehead. Her features, however, were more European, with a high nose bridge and sharp cheekbones that gave her a striking presence.
Jake thought to himself, It's good to be reborn. The people I used to only see in headlines are now sitting across from me.
Seated at the edge of the table was Mike Malone, the team's head coach, sporting a casual tracksuit and baseball cap. His eyes squinted slightly as he regarded Jake with interest. Malone was clearly curious about this young man who had ignited a media frenzy.
The headlines were relentless:
"Jake Becomes Youngest GM in NBA History."
"Desperation or Genius? Let's Take a Look at the Kings' Latest Move."
Many in the media ridiculed Jake's sudden rise, predicting a short-lived tenure filled with failure. The criticism was deafening, though a few voices from San Antonio and China tried to support him. Still, these were drowned out by the overwhelming skepticism.
Finally, at the far right of the table sat two Kings legends: Peja Stojaković and Vlade Divac. They were future partners in the task of reviving the Kings' broken franchise.
As Jake took a deep breath, ready to give his first address, a voice rang in his mind:
"System detected. Contract signed. Matching appropriate system…"
Ding! The strongest general manager system has been activated. Please check it immediately!
Jake froze for a second. A system? He had been reborn in this timeline, assuming it was simply by divine intervention. But now, the revelation of a system felt like an extra boost of power he hadn't expected. Well, this just got more interesting.
"Mr. Jake, are you okay?" Ajali's soft voice brought him back to reality. She blinked at him with curiosity, her large eyes scanning his face. There was something in her gaze that suggested she found him intriguing. Jake, after all, was a sharp-looking man, with angular cheekbones and a defined jawline—features that Ajali seemed to appreciate.
"Oh, sorry!" Jake quickly recovered. "I was just thinking about our next steps after signing the contract."
"Oh?" Vivek's gaze sharpened. "Mr. Jake, could you elaborate? I'm particularly interested in your strategy. After all, I took a big gamble bringing you on."
This boss isn't going to be easy to deal with, Jake thought, feeling the pressure of Vivek's intense gaze. Rumor had it that the owner was highly controlling and had a notorious temper. Those rumors were quickly proving to be true.
"The Kings are still in a rebuilding phase," Jake began carefully. "Although we secured the eighth pick this year, it's not enough to guarantee immediate success. My approach is to build patiently, acquiring new players over the next season, and aiming for the playoffs the following year."
It was a cautious, well-calculated plan—one that Jake believed was realistic given the team's current state. The Kings had finished 13th in the Western Conference the previous season. Rushing to make them a playoff team would be an uphill battle.
"No!" Ranadivé cut him off abruptly. "Anyone can aim low. If I wanted mediocrity, I could have hired anyone from the market. I brought you here because you're Popovich's disciple. The Kings must make the playoffs this year—no excuses!"
Jake's stomach clenched. This is impossible! Sure, he had learned under Popovich, but even the best manager couldn't turn this roster into a playoff team overnight.
However, as Jake spoke, he noticed that Coach Malone was nodding slightly, clearly agreeing with his original plan. Unlike Ranadivé, Malone had a deeper understanding of the team's actual capabilities. He knew that making the playoffs in the hyper-competitive Western Conference wasn't just difficult—it bordered on miraculous.
Jake took a deep breath. "Mr. Ranadivé, I'm a manager, not a magician. I don't have the power to turn stone into gold overnight. What I've learned from the Spurs is patience, strategy, and the importance of timing. Think of it like a crocodile."
"A crocodile?" Ranadivé raised an eyebrow, confused by the metaphor.
"Crocodiles can float in the water for hours, motionless like driftwood. But when their prey appears, they become the fastest, most lethal predator. They strike with precision, dragging their target into the water and finishing them off. Right now, we need to be like that crocodile—patient, waiting for the right moment to strike."
Jake's metaphor seemed to catch Ranadivé's attention. The owner's eyes glimmered. Known for his cold and calculating nature in the business world, Ranadivé admired the ruthlessness of predators like crocodiles. His lip curled slightly, indicating that Jake might have struck a chord.
"But I can assure you, the Kings' performance will improve this year, and who knows—maybe we'll even surprise you." Jake flashed a confident smile, delivering the sweet after the sting. This was classic Popovich, the art of giving people a small dose of hope after telling them hard truths. Jake knew he had to manage Vivek Ranadivé carefully. After all, the owner's ego demanded some flattery, even if the truth was hard to swallow. Everyone can paint an ambitious picture—whether or not we can deliver is another story entirely. But for now, paint it we shall.
As expected, Ranadivé's expression softened, his sharp eyes now glinting with interest. "You mentioned our eighth pick this year. Any thoughts on the draft strategy?"
Jake straightened up, his demeanor shifting into serious mode. The eighth pick in the 2014 draft was the Kings' most valuable asset, aside from their star, DeMarcus Cousins. This draft class was being heralded as the next golden generation, the likes of which hadn't been seen since 2003.
"What was the plan before I got here?" Jake asked.
"The main targets are Noah Vonleh, Elfrid Payton, and Nik Stauskas. Management is currently leaning towards Stauskas," Ranadivé replied.
Jake barely managed to suppress a groan. Classic Kings—always picking the wrong guy. Choosing Stauskas would condemn the Kings to another round of ridicule. Stauskas was a marginal player who would shine briefly in his rookie season, only to fade into irrelevance. A skinny European shooting guard with mediocre ball-handling skills and weak defensive capabilities—he was far from the savior they needed.
Sensing Jake's silent frustration, Coach Malone couldn't resist asking, "Allen, you seem to disagree. What's your take?"
"Just call me Jake," he nodded, then continued. "Look, the eighth pick is in an awkward spot. It's neither high enough to guarantee a superstar nor low enough to warrant a risky gamble like Stauskas. I've already analyzed this year's draft class, and my suggestion is simple."
Jake paused for effect. "We trade down with the No. 8 pick."
"Trade down?" Vlade Divac's eyebrows shot up in disbelief. As a European player, Divac had a soft spot for white shooters like Stauskas. He had been pushing hard for the Kings to draft him, convinced that Stauskas could be the next Peja Stojaković. The mere suggestion of passing on a player who reminded him of his legendary teammate rubbed him the wrong way.
Jake, however, was unfazed by Divac's growing hostility. "Look, we can't land one of the top prospects with the eighth pick. So, why not trade it for a lower pick and secure a future draft asset in the process?"
Divac's face twisted with frustration. "You want to throw away our best shot at a star for some future draft pick? What if the team sinks further?"
Jake didn't flinch. "I'm the general manager, Divac. It's my responsibility to protect this team's long-term interests, not chase after hollow dreams. Using a precious No. 8 pick on a skinny shooter like Stauskas would be a reckless waste of the team's assets."
Divac's face flushed with anger, his voice rising. "So, what? We take a worse pick and just give up? You want us to keep losing?"
Jake didn't back down. Popovich prepared me for this. Compared to him, Divac's tantrums are child's play. He met Divac's glare head-on. "I'm here to secure this team's future. My job is to build a foundation for long-term success, to increase revenue, and ensure we're competitive in the seasons to come. I'm not here to indulge in anyone's unrealistic fantasies. And let me be clear: as long as I'm in charge, Stauskas will not be our choice at No. 8."
"You—!" Divac began, clearly ready to lash out, but Ranadivé raised a hand, cutting him off.
While Jake's words had come across as bold, perhaps even a little confrontational, they struck a chord with Ranadivé. Jake understood the owner's true priority. Sure, performance on the court mattered, but Ranadivé's eyes gleamed brightest when the conversation turned to business—profits, growth, the bottom line. And Jake had just promised to safeguard that.
Ranadivé leaned back, his steely gaze softening into a satisfied smile. "I like where your head's at, Jake. Let's make sure we stay profitable, and the wins will follow."
Jake gave a slight nod, knowing he'd just earned himself more leeway. Now, let's see how this gamble plays out.
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