December 25, 1996. FleetCenter Arena, Boston.
There was no snow tonight, but the biting wind Charles River was almost enough to crack the wooden boardwalk. Inside the arena, however, the heat was intense enough to ignite the floor. Fourteen NBC broadcast vans, painted with bright red logos, surrounded the entire street outside, their thick black cables snaking across the road like pythons. The red lights atop the cameras flashed one after another, announcing the official start of this fiercely competitive Christmas national broadcast.
The 20,000 seats in the stands were already filled with a sea of green. NBC's close-up shot swept across the stands, finally settling meaningfully on the VIP seats behind the visiting team— Jerry West, the " The Godfather " of the Los Angeles Lakers, sat elegantly, his gaze sweeping over the entire arena like that of a hawk.
Lin Qi glanced at him from afar, their eyes briefly meeting in the air before they each nodded slightly in restraint.
He unbuttoned the top button of his bespoke suit and sat back down in the CEO's seat.
The moment the announcement of the away team's entry rang out in the speakers, the entire building seemed to be hit by a magnitude 7 earthquake. It was no ordinary booing, but a deafening roar, a tsunami of ancient hatred, squeezed from the very bones of the Boston.
"BEAT LA!"
"BEAT LA!"
Powerful and resounding, every word like a knife. This voice, forged in the protracted purple-green war between Larry Bird Larry Bird and Magic Johnson in the 1980s, is the city's most arrogant and naked declaration of war. And tonight, this shout is more intense than ever before, all because of that massive figure warming up in the halfway point.
Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal. He was like a black, thick, and hard mobile fortress; every dunk he made in the paint caused the backboard to groan under the strain.
Looking at the monster that Jerry West had shoved into Los Angeles with a record-breaking contract, completely changing the landscape of the entire league, Lin Qi couldn't help but recall the final rehearsals he and the coaching staff had done a few hours earlier in that smoke-filled pre-game video room...
At that moment, Lin Qi walked up to the whiteboard and drew a line under O'Neal's name.
"Don't let the Lakers' current fourth-place ranking in the Western Conference fool you; this team is ten times more dangerous than the Western Conference."
"Del Harris isn't a tactical genius, but he's a competent opportunist. His tactics aren't complicated; it's just about clearing the paint, letting David Wesley and Gugliotta spread out on the perimeter, and leaving the entire paint to Shaquille O'Neal to run."
Lin Qi sneered, " Del Harris is playing his cards right. He's betting we won't dare leave the perimeter open. That old guy has spent his whole life playing this trick of letting star players isolate and attack, but this year, he has the lowest-post isolation defense in the entire league against the strongest interior star."
Lin Qi pointed to the last name written, "And this 18-year-old high school student who just came from Philadelphia, Kobe. His one-on-one play has no tactical pattern; he just grabs the ball and goes for it. He's an X-factor who could explode at any moment. But right now, we must focus all our energy on that more pressing monster."
He curled his fingers and tapped the penalty area line on the whiteboard. "The most troublesome thing is the standard for judging defense."
Adelman crossed his arms, his face grim. "Illegal defensive rule."
"Right." Lin Qi nodded. "As long as the perimeter is spread out, if our weak side dares to take even one more step into the paint, the referees will immediately blow the whistle. This means we can't establish a defensive delay before O'Neal gets into position. Harris is forcing us to take the two poison pills he's set up. Tonight, we have to swallow one."
Lin Qi held up two fingers, his gaze sweeping across Adelman and Thibodeau's faces.
"The first poison pill. Let Dikembe ( Mutombo ) guard Shaq one-on-one in the low post, hold off O'Neal's waist, and never let him turn around. But Dikembe is thirty years old, while Shaquille O'Neal is at his prime at twenty-four. If we wear him down with one-on-one defense, by the fourth quarter when Dikembe's stamina collapses, our entire interior defense will be completely paralyzed."
"What if we double-team him on the strong side?" Assistant coach Thibodeau frowned, his voice hoarse. "As soon as the ball touches the ground, use the forwards' wingspan to cut off his passing lanes and force him to pass the ball out."
"This is the second poison." Lin Qi shook his head decisively. " O'Neal's passing speed this year is faster than during his Magic days. As long as you double-team him, he can immediately snatch the ball out from between the defenders. Gugliotta's mid-range jumper and Wesley's three-pointer will be able to penetrate the entire league. If we let them get into a shooting rhythm from the outside, tonight will be a massacre."
The deathly silence in the video room at that moment, and the frenzied shouts of 20,000 people in the stadium at this moment, strangely overlapped in Lin Qi's mind.
One-on-one defense will get you devoured by the inside players, and double-teaming will get you shot through by the outside players.
There was nothing fancy about it; that's the sense of despair Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal exuded in 1996.
The opening whistle is about to blow, and tonight the Boston Celtics must solve this seemingly unsolvable problem under the spotlight of a nationally televised broadcast.
The referee blew his whistle, and the basketball was tossed high into the air. The game officially began.
In their very first game, the Lakers revealed the trump card they had been using to dominate the league.
David Wesley dribbled leisurely up the court, Gugliotta moved up to the free-throw line, Doug Christie lurked on the weak side at 45 degrees, and Kersey positioned himself in the corner. Meanwhile, on the left side of the penalty area, O'Neal's broad, wall-like back had already shut down Mutombo.
The collision between the Mountain and the tsunami happened in an instant.
With a flick of his wrist, Wesley delivered a perfectly executed high lob pass that sailed precisely over the defender's fingertips. O'Neal caught the ball firmly with one hand, his massive frame slumping backward with a resounding thud as their bodies collided!
That was the first back-to-the-basket move. Mutombo, the " African Mountain " who once made all the penetrators in the league tremble with fear, let out a muffled groan, as if he had been hit head-on by a speeding truck. His shoes screeched against the wooden floor, and he was forced back half a step.
Then came the second. Using the force of the rebound, O'Neal, like a nimble giant feline, smoothly twisted his body and leaped into the air! His huge black hands gripped the basketball and slammed it into the hoop before Mutombo's overwhelming block could reach it!
Bang--!
The timer behind the backboard shook violently, and the entire hydraulic backboard hummed and creaked as it spun a breathtaking arc under the immense impact.
0 to 2.
After landing, O'Neal deliberately walked past Mutombo, not even glancing at the All-Star center, but instead provocatively scanning the Celtics ' bench. This arrogant, behemoth-like attitude instantly doubled the boos from the entire Boston Garden.
This was more than just a two-pointer. It was O'Neal declaring to all the Celtics fans in the arena in the most brutal way: Tonight, your proud iron gate in the paint will be repeatedly trampled by me all night long.
Mutombo remained calm, clapped his hands, and repositioned himself. But the entire Boston crowd gasped. This was no ordinary center; this was a completely new species, a monster combining sheer size and speed.
Lin Qi sat on the sidelines, his fingers interlaced, his expression growing increasingly serious. He needed to let O'Neal play a few more games; he needed to see exactly how well Del Harris had mastered this system.
In the second possession, the Lakers repeated the same tactic. O'Neal spread his arms under the basket, blocking the position like a moving black wall.
This time, power forward Kevin Garnett couldn't sit still. His amazing wingspan and lateral quickness made him eager to move. He pushed off with his feet and tried to shrink back from the weak side, preparing to use his long arms to snatch the basketball from O'Neal's arms.
But as soon as he took his first step, he caught a glimpse of a figure out of the corner of his eye. Gugliotta was standing quietly near the free-throw line, his hands already in the position to catch the ball and shoot.
Garnett's forward-leaning body froze. In an instant, the twenty-year-old was caught in a huge mental struggle: if he went to help Mutombo, Gugliotta would be wide open; if he guarded Gugliotta, O'Neal behind him would smash the rim.
That brief moment of hesitation was keenly observed by O'Neal in the low post.
This seemingly clumsy, heavy-set guy has a basketball IQ as cunning as a fox. Instead of forcing a turn, he deftly twisted his body in mid-air and flicked the ball from under Mutombo's arm to the high post with one hand.
Gugliotta catches the ball, jumps, his hand form is perfect, and he flicks his wrist.
Swish!
The basketball swished through the net. As Gugliotta retreated on defense, he gave Garnett a mocking smile, "Kid, you can't guard me just by watching the game."
Garnett stood frozen, his long arms hanging limply at his sides. In frustration, he ripped at his jersey collar, his signature roar caught in his throat. For the first time in his life, he felt a pain he had never experienced before, a pain that was almost unbearable.
He found himself like a puppet being pulled in opposite directions by two horses. He wanted to manage everything, but he could only manage one.