After the security door closed, the locker room fell into a deathly silence.
Only the heavy whirring of the central air conditioning unit filled the air.
Bang!
Sam Cassell slammed his plastic water bottle against the edge of the tactical board, the warm water mixing with the rosin powder on the locker room floor, leaving a sticky stain on the floor.
" Dikembe, you treated me like I wasn't there the whole first half!" Sam Cassell ripped the wet towel off his shoulder, veins bulging on his forehead, his voice practically spitting out through clenched teeth, "You wouldn't even show your face?"
Mutombo sat on the bench, slowly tearing off the bandage from his right arm. His dark skin was covered in dried sweat and white salt crystals, and his voice was like the grinding of stone. "I saw it, Sam. But as soon as I came out, Alonzo ( Mourning ) would just slam the ball straight into the basket. And Brian Grant, he got three offensive rebounds in the first half."
"So you just stood by and watched me get humiliated?" Sam Cassell sneered, taking a step closer. "That's Mourning! His screens are always lateral movements! The referee didn't call it, so you're just going to leave me to deal with both of them alone?"
"You're the starting point guard." Mutombo looked up, his somewhat cloudy eyes fixed on Sam Cassell. "Your job is to push your way through, not to expect the center to defend the three-point line."
"I'll fucking cover you!" Sam Cassell's temper was completely ignited. He shrugged and was about to rush forward when Eddie Jones grabbed him around the waist and slammed him against the locker.
Garnett sat in the far corner, his 20-year-old legs curled up, clutching his mouthguard, his knuckles a sickly pale white. He desperately wanted to yell, but the humiliation of being pinned outside the paint by Brian Grant in the first half, unable to even catch the ball, slammed into his chest like a blunt object.
He was devoured alive in the mud, and he didn't even have the right to speak.
Adelman stood in the doorway, coldly watching the infighting. A full half minute passed before he stepped forward and kicked the wet tactical board into the center of the room.
The metal tactical board slid across the floor with a piercing screech, silencing all the breathing in the locker room.
"Are you done arguing?"
No one spoke. Adelman walked to the center of the room, his voice low but incredibly imposing.
"You all think you're right, don't you?" He looked at Sam Cassell and Mutombo with a sneer, "But do you really think Pat Riley is just running a simple pick-and-roll with you?"
Adelman suddenly raised a finger and slammed it heavily on the tactical board.
" Pat Riley is the most cunning old fox in the entire league at exploiting loopholes! He's completely figured out the current 'anti-zone defense rules'!"
"Why did the Heat put those two shooters in the unguarded weak-side corner in the first half? That was Pat Riley using a diversionary tactic! According to the current ridiculous rules, Robert and Kevin have to go there to defend. If anyone dares to drop back into the paint to help, the referee will immediately call a 'violation of zone defense' on us! Pat Riley is using the rules as a weapon to forcibly move all our interior players away, creating one-on-one opportunities for Hardaway inside, deliberately letting Hardaway mess with Sam!"
Adelman's pen pointed at Mutombo.
"And you, Dikembe! You cowered inside, afraid of Mourning's alley-oop, but when you came out, you were afraid the referee would call a zone defense. And what happened? You just hovered around the edge of the paint like a wooden stake. Hardaway wanted that fraction of a second of hesitation from you! The longer you hesitated, the more open he got, and he just shot us through from the outside!"
"Look at their defense!" Adelman surveyed the entire court, his tone stern. " The Heat's defense is all about skirting the line! Grant and Mourning pounce on you, fake you out, disrupt your rhythm, and before the referees can react, they slip away like rabbits. They can pull off this kind of 'pseudo-zone defense,' and what do you do? You're all playing your own game, like idiots waiting to die in your own territories!"
The locker room was so quiet that only heavy breathing could be heard. Adelman's few straightforward words tore away the tactical fog that had been obscuring everyone's vision.
"Since our conventional defense is locked down by rigid rules, we'll change our formation in the second half."
Adelman pointed at Garnett: " Kevin, you're wrestling with that heavy tank Grant in the low post, using your weaknesses to exploit his strengths. In the second half, spread the floor on offense. Robert, you go to the corner. Kevin, you go out there to receive the ball beyond the three-point line and free-throw line, and completely stretch out that big guy Grant!"
"On defense, Sam, when Hardaway runs a pick-and-roll, don't try to squeeze through the screen. Just go around behind Mourning and guard the bottom lane, cutting off Hardaway's passing lane to Mourning. Eddie, use your height and long arms to pounce from the side and use your net to block Hardaway's shooting vision! We'll double-team him! Dikembe, you don't need to come out at all, just guard the basket. But you can't stop talking, you have to tell them where to defend! Communicate! Communicate! Communicate!"
Adelman slammed the Mark into the tactical case, turned, and pushed open the door.
"In Miami, talent is the cheapest thing. In the second half, stop playing your own game and trust your teammates. If you can't, you'll just embarrass yourself."
Outside the door, Lin Qi leaned against the cold wall, the cigarette between his fingers already half-burned.
At the start of the third quarter, the Heat remained unchanged. Pat Riley elegantly straightened his slicked-back hair and watched coldly from the opposite bench.
In the first round, Hardaway launched another attack from the top of the arc, Mourning provided cover.
Sam Cassell watched the wall of flesh hurtle towards him, and this time he was smarter; he didn't try to push through head-on. His eyes hardened, and he turned sideways, bypassing Mourning from behind, like a moving gate, blocking the passing lane between Hardaway and Mourning.
Hardaway, seeing that the inside pass couldn't get through, was about to stop and jump shoot when a huge black shadow loomed over him from the side. Eddie Jones, with his terrifying lateral speed, used his long arms to block all of Hardaway's shooting angles.
"Right side! Watch out for cuts from behind! Don't switch!" Mutombo's signature deep, husky voice boomed through the penalty area.
Without the slightest hesitation, Sam Cassell turned sharply the instant he heard the shout, forming a vicious double-team with Eddie Jones. Hardaway was forced to jump hastily during the ball control phase, attempting to flick the ball to the other side.
This time, however, Garnett rammed his entire chest into Brian Grant's shoulder!
Bang!
Grant was about to charge for the offensive rebound when Garnett suddenly headbutted him, catching him off guard. The basketball bounced off the rim and Mutombo, unaffected, leaped high and snatched the rebound with his long arms.
"Right! Get physical contact first! That's what defense is all about!" Thibodeau shouted excitedly on the sidelines, throwing off his suit jacket.
Garnett regained his balance on the floor, chewing hard on his mouthguard. He walked past Grant, his voice filled with pure rage. "I don't know how hard the floor is in Miami. But let me tell you, in the second half, you won't even get a single offensive rebound."
It was the Celtics' turn to attack. Sam Cassell dribbled the ball forward and raised his hand to make a gesture.
Mutombo stepped up, his 2.18-meter frame like a tightly closed iron gate, firmly blocking Hardaway behind him. Mourning dared not completely give up on Sam Cassell's mid-range shot and was forced to take a half-step outward.
Sam Cassell didn't shoot. In the instant the Heat's defense collapsed, he made a clean bounce pass, sending the ball to the left 45-degree angle outside the three-point line.
Garnett receives the ball.
Brian Grant scoffed and charged at Garnett with all his might. However, Garnett didn't stop and force his way in like he did in the first half. He got into position, his feet firmly planted outside the three-point line, and as Grant jumped, hung in the air, and his long arms drew a perfect arc through the air.
Swish! A three-pointer swished through the net! 55 to 46.
Garnett landed, spread his arms at Grant, and yelled trash talk, "Come on! Come on to the perimeter! Let's see if I can break your short legs with a drive!"
The next ten minutes of the second half turned into a disaster for the Heat. On offense, Garnett completely transformed into a 7-foot super guard. When Grant came out to defend, Garnett would use his quick crossover step to force his way into the mid-range; when Grant retreated, Garnett would punish his opponent with a three-pointer.
The Heat's once-proud "penalty" was torn apart by Garnett's spatial advantage.
On the defensive end, with Mutombo's frantic shouts from behind, Sam Cassell and Eddie Jones ' rotation defense was like a fully drawn hacksaw.
"To the right!" "Squeeze through!" "I'm behind, let him in!"
Every time Mutombo's thunderous shout rang out, Sam Cassell no longer hesitated. He began to fight tooth and nail with Hardaway on every screen, because he knew that behind him stood an insurmountable Mountain. Garnett became Grant's complete nightmare. Whenever Grant tried to grab an offensive rebound, Garnett would first use his body to block Grant, using even more aggressive physical play to completely stifle the Heat's second-chance points.
At the end of the third quarter, the score was 74-78, with the gap narrowed to just 4 points.