Early June 1994, Boston, the top-floor office of the Garden.
The air conditioning was blasting, but Lin Qi felt sweat gathering on his back.
The man sitting across from him was Paul Gaston, chairman of the Celtics' board and the man who truly called the shots.
This rich second-generation owner, who had taken over the team from his father, Don Gaston, had a nickname everyone in Boston's media circles knew: "Thanks Dad." The only thing this guy had done right in his entire life was being born into the right family.
And in the memories of Lin Qi, a transmigrator, that name came with another, more damning set of labels: stingy, shortsighted, and treating a storied franchise like an ATM.
Over the next decade, the Celtics would hit rock bottom under him, in a dark stretch of the team's history. That would last until 2002, when he sold the team, cashed out, and walked away.
"Lin, let me confirm this one more time."
Gaston leisurely opened a letter with a letter opener without even looking up.
"You're twenty-nine this year, and your résumé consists of a second-tier supervisory position in the scouting department. Arnold-Auerbach the Cardinal-recommended you, and I respect him. But I need you to repeat what you just said."
"I said," Lin Qi steadied his breathing, "please give me full decision-making authority over all basketball operations this summer. The draft, trades, free agency. Everything."
The letter opener stopped.
Gaston finally raised his head, wearing that polite yet contemptuous smile peculiar to rich men's sons.
"Do you know what shape this team is in? Larry Bird retired, McHale retired, Parish is forty-one, and Reggie Lewis..."
He paused, leaving unfinished the tragedy no one in Boston wanted to mention.
"We went 32-50 last season. The media says we're a sinking ship. And you, a second-tier scout, want to captain that ship?"
"No," Lin Qi said. "I want to be the captain who takes this ship back to the NBA Finals."
The office fell silent for three seconds. Then Gaston laughed aloud.
"Young man, I like your nerve. But basketball is basketball, and business is business."
He tossed the letter onto the desk. It was a sponsor's renewal letter, with an amount thirty percent lower than last year's.
"Do you know what that means? It means no one wants to pay for a lousy team. I have only one requirement for your basketball department: don't throw money around. Cut payroll wherever you can. Player salaries need to be lower than last season. Not a single lavish contract."
Here it comes.
This is the real Paul Gaston, Lin Qi thought.
Historically, it was precisely this "only the finances count" mindset that had cost the Celtics one chance after another to turn things around in the mid-to-late nineties.
The first step toward changing this team's fate wasn't finding a steal in the draft. It was prying open the wallet of the tightwad in front of him...
Or at least, first prying open his tight grip on the team's reins.
"Mr. Gaston, let's make a business deal, then." Lin Qi leaned forward. "A wager."
"Oh?" Gaston raised an eyebrow. He was a businessman; the word "wager" naturally appealed to him.
"Condition one: until next summer, I take full charge of basketball operations, and you don't interfere in any signing or trade. Condition two: I guarantee that next season's total team payroll won't exceed this year's. Not one extra cent."
"It sounds like you haven't offered me anything new."
"There's a third condition." Lin Qi raised a third finger. "Next season, the Celtics make the playoffs, and our home attendance returns to the league's top ten. If I meet both targets, you give me a five-year contract as president of basketball operations, along with final decision-making authority over all basketball matters throughout my tenure."
"And if you fail?"
"If I fail, I resign on the spot, take none of my salary for the season, and..." Lin Qi enunciated every word. "I will publicly admit that my personal failure ruined the team, and that it had nothing to do with the Gaston family."
That last sentence struck Gaston precisely where he was most vulnerable.
What this owner feared most in life wasn't losing games. It was the Boston media turning its fire on him afterward.
A young man volunteering to take the blame, without even getting paid? However he calculated it, this deal was no loss.
Gaston stared at Lin Qi for a long time, silently weighing the pros and cons.
"A thirty-two-win team makes the playoffs within a year, without spending an extra cent," he said slowly. "Lin, do you know what a killing field the Eastern Conference is right now? The Knicks just played in the NBA Finals, Orlando has O'Neal, and the Pacers have Miller. What are you going to win with?"
"Forgive me for keeping that confidential for now, sir." Lin Qi smiled. "Mr. Gaston, you're a businessman. You should understand this better than anyone... when the market misprices something, that's the time to buy low and sell high. I'm very good at that."
"You're 'good at it'?"
"Very good."
That utterly illogical yet unwavering confidence actually made Gaston waver.
He had met far too many smooth-talking executives in his life, but never a madman who dared wager his entire future.
He took a sheet of notepaper from a drawer, scribbled a few lines, signed it, and pushed it toward Lin Qi.
"Playoffs, top-ten attendance, no payroll increase. Three conditions. Miss even one, and you're out." Gaston extended his hand. "Deal?"
Lin Qi took that hand and shook it firmly. "Deal."
"One more thing, Mr. Gaston..." He stood, walked to the door, then turned back. "I suggest you order the champagne for next May's playoffs right now. Boston's wine merchants will be raising their prices by then."
The door closed. Gaston stared at the note for a while, then shook his head with a chuckle. "Madman."
What he didn't know was that after leaving the office, that madman leaned against the hallway wall and let out a long breath, his palms drenched in sweat.
In three weeks, on June 29, 1994, the NBA draft would take place.
The Boston Celtics held the ninth pick in the first round.
And in Lin Qi's memory, this year's draft pool held a name that the vast majority of teams would underestimate, yet who was capable of changing a team's fate.
Better still, right behind the Boston Celtics, with his eyes on that same range of picks, was the Los Angeles Lakers' "Logo Man," Jerry West.
Snatching meat from their archrival's mouth?
Lin Qi licked his lips.
Let Boston and Los Angeles's old feud begin anew with this draft.