In mid-December, the Boston Celtics will face the Miami Heat.
Two days before the game, the thick curtains were drawn in the video room in Boston.
Head coach Rick Adelman and assistant coach Tom Thibodeau both appeared somewhat bluish under the cool fluorescent lighting.
In the video, the Miami Heat, wearing black and red jerseys, are locked in a fierce battle with the New York Knicks.
Lin Qi, with an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, was shrouded in the shadows of the last row, his legs crossed and propped up on the long table, his fingertips idly rubbing his temples.
" Pat Riley has turned this team into thugs." Adelman pressed the rewind button; on the screen, Alonzo Mourning was seen slamming into his opponent in the paint. "This isn't basketball, it's an illegal boxing match."
Lin Qi's gaze fell on the Heat's interior. There, besides "Kidney Warrior" Alonzo Mourning, was another burly figure with dreadlocks, frantically charging for rebounds under the basket— Brian Grant.
"Interesting," Lin Qi said softly.
In the original timeline, Brian Grant was Pat Riley's "ultimate regret," a player he longed for but could never obtain. It wasn't until the summer of 2000 that Pat Riley reluctantly parted with key players like P.J. Brown and Jamal Mashburn in a major trade involving four teams, finally bringing this beast from Portland to Miami.
However, Lin Qi's decision to poach P.J. Brown in 1994 ironically benefited Pat Riley, allowing him to assemble his dream "double-center meat grinder" in Miami four years ahead of schedule.
On the screen, Grant flew sideways and smashed the ball into the basket.
Offensive rebounds, second-chance points, suicidal help defense. The Heat's dirty work and hard labor seem like a kind of high-class entertainment to this dreadlocked hulking man. Even more deadly are the Heat's forwards. If you dare to walk past them, you're bound to have a bruise on your body.
In the video, Tim Hardaway, using Mourning's screen, pulls up for a jump shot, which goes in cleanly.
In the next possession, from the exact same position, Hardaway made a low bounce pass, Mourning finished with a powerful dunk.
In the next possession, the defensive power forward went to cover Mourning, and Grant on the weak side drove into the paint like a runaway bulldozer, grabbing the offensive rebound over three players and converting it into a three-point play.
Two days later, at the Miami Gymnasium.
The noise from 20,000 home fans was enough to almost lift the roof off the stadium.
In the first round, Garnett had just positioned himself high on the right side at a 45-degree angle when Brian Grant closed in.
Defenders of this era would typically leave half a step to defend against Garnett's drives. But Grant used his low center of gravity to directly block Garnett's lower body, his thick forearm like an iron bar across Garnett's waist and hips, while his other hand braced against Garnett's side waist.
This is a standard 90s badminton move, using lower body power to completely destroy the opponent's "triple threat" space, preventing them from even making a probing step.
"Come on, Boston's third overall pick," Grant chewed on his dental pad, each word carrying a brutal, oppressive force. "Let me see if the high-draft ribs have harder bones than the others."
Garnett executed a sudden reverse spin, slamming the ball down with his right hand. With his historically long strides, he forcefully brushed past Grant's outside. It was so fast that even Pat Riley on the sidelines raised an eyebrow slightly.
However, Grant had no intention of shutting him down in the first step. The instant Garnett accelerated, Grant expertly shifted half a step to the side, slamming his broad shoulder and the side of his thigh against Garnett... This was the defensive standard tacitly approved by referees in the 90s.
Garnett's explosive power before his jump was largely neutralized by this concealed collision. In that one-hundredth of a second of hesitation, Alonzo Mourning on the weak side had already swooped in to cover him, like an impenetrable iron cage looming over him.
Snap!
The basketball was slapped by Mourning at its highest point and landed in the third row of the stands. Garnett lost his balance in mid-air and crashed heavily onto the cold floor.
Grant didn't even glance at Garnett on the ground. He pounded his chest and spat at the Celtics ' bench.
Welcome to Miami. The floors here are harder than in Boston.
Garnett got up from the floor, chewing hard on his mouthguard, the veins on his neck bulging with extreme humiliation.
For the next five minutes, the high post became Garnett's meat grinder.
When he tried to drive to the basket, Grant would knee him in the outside of his thigh; when he tried to cut off the ball, Grant's elbow would always be across his ribs. With every collision, Garnett's body, which had not yet fully developed its physical strength, was at a disadvantage.
His offensive moves began to distort, and he reached out for the ball more and more frequently, desperately wanting to regain the lead with a powerful dunk. But the more anxious he became, the more obvious his technical intentions became.
The Heat were luring him into a trap, deliberately letting him fall into an inefficient one-on-one situation.
Deep inside the penalty area, the battle between Mutombo and Mourning had also reached a fever pitch.
Every time Mourning tried to establish position in the low post, he would slam his bald head into Mutombo's chest, letting out a beast-like growl. Mutombo, however, wouldn't give an inch, constantly responding with concealed iron elbows in the forearm-to-arm confrontation.
The first quarter ended amidst these almost suffocating sounds of muscle-on-muscle collisions, with the Celtics scoring only sixteen points in the quarter.
In the second quarter, Tim Hardaway began to frequently call out Sam Cassell at the top of the key.
Hardaway possesses the most lethal first step in the entire league. With Mourning's high-quality screens, Hardaway repeatedly left Sam Cassell behind. Every time Sam Cassell tried to get around the screen, he would crash solidly into Mourning's screen that crossed his body, leaving his ribs aching.
For the first time, Mutombo chose to stay deep in the penalty area and "camp out" to defend. Hardaway stopped abruptly just before the free-throw line and calmly sank a mid-range shot into the open space.
The second time, Mutombo, under Mutombo's direction, took a slight step forward, attempting to disrupt the shot. Hardaway, however, lowered his center of gravity and delivered a low, bounce pass with a reverse joint, directly between Mutombo's legs. Mourning, understanding perfectly, followed up and finished with a thunderous dunk over Mutombo, drawing a foul in the process.
The third time, Sam Cassell went all out and tried to force his way through, but his knee landed squarely on Mourning's bone. Hardaway keenly seized this fraction of a second opening, took a long step back to the three-point line, and swiftly brought down the ball.
Swish!
Sam Cassell stood with his hands on his hips, panting heavily. What frustrated him even more was that whenever he was caught by a screen and hoped that the shot-blocking king behind him could come up and help him with a high post play, there was always only silence in the paint behind him.
During another defensive rotation, Sam Cassell finally couldn't hold back any longer, yelling at Mutombo as he retreated.
" Dikembe! Are you all that tall just to sit in there and watch the show? Come out here! Tim's shooting from the outside is going to pierce me!"
Mutombo glanced coldly down at the short point guard and responded in his signature deep, husky voice.
"The basket is my responsibility, and you, Sam, you're the starting point guard, so you should squeeze through that damn screen yourself."
Sam Cassell laughed in exasperation, his retreating steps slowing by a beat. "Oh! So you're saying it's all my fault for poor defense? Why didn't you say you were the one defending well when you were wagging your finger inside?"
Mutombo didn't respond; he simply turned away, his broad back to Sam Cassell.
This tactical disconnect is more fatal than a physical fight. At that moment, they both firmly believed they were doing the right thing, and that the other was a coward unwilling to take responsibility.
On the sidelines, Coach Adelman had his right hand raised to his chest, ready to ask the referee for a timeout.
Thibodeau leaned close to his ear urgently. " Rick, we have to adjust our strategy. Next round, have Kevin go high to delay Hardaway, using his speed to keep Dikembe on the baseline, and rotate on the weak side..."
Just as Adelman was about to call the whistle, a hand with distinct knuckles suddenly reached out from behind and placed it on his shoulder.
"Don't call a timeout."
Lin Qi had stood up from the second row of the bench at some point. His suit jacket was neatly buttoned, and his face showed no emotion, as calm as if he were watching a silent play that had nothing to do with him.
"Not calling?" Adelman turned around, his eyes full of confusion. " Rick, they've started playing one-on-one on the court out of spite. If this continues, they'll be out by halftime."
"Let them solve the problem themselves, trust them." Lin Qi looked at the three people on the field, each gritting their teeth, his eyes as cold as a blade.
Adelman looked into Lin Qi's unwavering eyes, hesitated for half a second, and finally lowered his raised hand.
The final attack of the first half.
Hardaway once again used Mourning's human wall to keep Sam Cassell on the outside.
This time, Mutombo, sandwiched between the free-throw line and the three-second zone, had his left foot half a step forward, a posture of preparing to move up and delay; but his right foot was on the floor, an instinctive preparation to retreat into the paint at any moment.
It was that half-step hesitation.
Hardaway flashed that predator-like ruthless grin beyond the three-point line. He even had ample time to adjust the ball's trajectory before calmly taking his jump.
A buzzer-beating three-pointer, and it's in again.
The Heat finished the first half with a 15-point lead, 48-33, amidst jeers from the crowd.
A piercing buzzing sound rang out. Sam Cassell spread his hands, his reproach almost tangible. The African Mountain's face was gloomy. He walked silently toward the players' tunnel. The two brushed past each other, their shoulders colliding violently.
Garnett walked at the very back, violently ripping off his braces and spitting out a mouthful of saliva. His large eyes were filled with confusion and anger, but looking at the two resolute figures, he could only clench his fists until they cracked.
On the sidelines, Pat Riley elegantly adjusted his slicked-back hair, crossed his arms, and gave a cold smile.
At the entrance to the players' tunnel, Lin Qi stood there like a stone statue.
Sam Cassell walked past him, exuding a chilling aura of hostility.
Mutombo's massive body walked past him, accompanied by heavy breathing.
Garnett was the last to walk over, sweat beading on his neck and blazing anger in his eyes.
Lin Qi didn't say anything or offer any comfort. He simply turned to the side and coldly watched the three guys, each with their own agendas, slip into the locker room one after the other.
"Bang!"
The security door slammed shut in front of Lin Qi, and the sound of a water glass shattering came from inside.
Lin Qi stood in the empty corridor, looked down and took out a lighter, finally lighting the cigarette that had been in his mouth for half a game.
He knew better than anyone that unless a ruthless character like Pat Riley completely shattered their hopes, they would never become brothers who could live and die together.
This is the trench that Miami dug for them.
Whether these people intend to die inside or learn to trust each other remains to be seen in the second half.