Chris Paul Westphal ultimately agreed to come to Boston not because Lin Qi offered him an irresistible salary. What truly made him seriously consider it was a phone call from John Havlicek.
The Celtics legend didn't offer much advice over the phone, only saying, " Chris Paul, come back and take a look. The Celtics are just one step away from winning, and you can help them out."
Westphal remained silent for a long time on the other end of the phone.
Kevin Garnett was at the center of a media storm across the United States. For an offensive maestro who had just been fired from Phoenix and desperately needed to prove himself again, nothing was more tempting than a rough gem that had never been truly polished.
It wasn't simply about repaying old favors; it was an opportunity, a chance to fully realize his free-for-all offensive philosophy on such a groundbreaking unicorn.
A few days later, Westphal arrived as scheduled, stepping through the lingering February snow in Boston.
Instead of going to the training facility or the general manager's office first, he went to the FleetCenter alone.
This new arena, which opened just a year ago, doesn't yet have the same bustling atmosphere and sweaty vibe as the old Boston Garden. But the championship banners and retired numbers that symbolize glory have already been moved from the old Garden and are now hanging high above the dome.
Westphal sat in the empty stands for a long time, looking up at those familiar numbers.
Twenty-five years ago, he was selected tenth overall in the first round by the Celtics; twenty-two years ago, he was ruthlessly traded to Phoenix. During his years in Boston, he was just a substitute, and was even criticized by the management for "only being good at offense and not disciplined." The true glory of his professional career and the fruitful results of his coaching career all remained on the soil of Phoenix.
To be honest, he didn't feel a deep sense of belonging to this green jersey. But looking at the legendary banner on the dome, he was thinking about something else: the offensive philosophy he had believed in all his life, which was criticized by outsiders as "showy but impractical and unable to win championships," might finally be proven in this city and in this twenty-year-old.
Lin Qi stood at the entrance of the stadium, watching the middle-aged man sitting motionless in the stands from afar, without going up to disturb him.
The team was initially puzzled by the arrival of this "special advisor." However, the first to take the initiative and get to know him was head coach Rick Adelman.
" Chris Paul," Adelman approached Westphal before formal training, his attitude very frank, "You'll be in charge of developing Kevin's individual offense; you decide how to train him."
Then, Adelman shifted his focus, clearly outlining the head coach's boundaries and limits. "But I need to make sure that what you teach him can be seamlessly integrated into the team's overall tactics."
Westphal laughed.
"Don't worry, Rick." He patted his old rival on the shoulder. "This is your team, I'm not here to steal the wheel. I'm here to add some... something interesting to this kid."
"How so?" Adelman raised an eyebrow.
"I don't like to make every passing and running route as rigid as a textbook." Westphal organized his thoughts. "A good attack needs a framework, but it also needs to give players room to choose, and then let the truly intelligent players make their own decisions. If I had to use an analogy... many coaches are like classical conductors, following every note to the staff, step by step. But I prefer more of a Utah Jazz- like improvisation."
Adelman paused for a moment, then smiled knowingly. He understood.
His Princeton system is that meticulously crafted polyphonic score, while Westphal wanted to give Garnett an improvisational soul that could dance freely on that score.
"This job," Adelman nodded, "Is really only something you can do."
In their first individual lesson, Westphal didn't even let Garnett touch the ball. He simply moved a chair to the baseline and had Garnett do his usual off-the-ball runs and simulated drills on the court.
Garnett ran through the entire practice session with skepticism, practicing everything from posting up and backing down to face-up drives and pull-up jumpers. Westphal remained silent throughout, simply watching quietly.
Only after training ended did he stand up, walk up to Garnett, and ask the young man a question that left him stunned.
" Kevin, when you're backing down and forcing the ball in the low post, do you feel bad?"
Garnett froze on the spot.
"I see you've been forcing yourself to play like a traditional power forward," Westphal said slowly. "Using your body to push people in the low post and then forcing a shot. But have you considered whether you can actually handle Anthony Mason? Can you handle the bulk of Charles Oakley? Every time you try to go toe-to-toe with those real muscle giants in the low post, you look awkward, don't you?"
Garnett fell completely silent.
He recalled the frustrating feeling he had when he was playing against the New York Knicks on the road recently, and how Charles Oakley his steel-like frame to completely dominate him in the low post, leaving him utterly helpless and even questioning his own existence. This deep-seated sense of defeat was ripped open by a single sentence from the old man in front of him.
"Then how should I play?" Garnett took a deep breath, his tone carrying for the first time a humble and respectful tone.
"You definitely need to practice your low-post skills, but that shouldn't be your everything."
Westphal turned around and walked step by step from the baseline to the high position near the free throw line.
"Come here, stand here." He beckoned.
Garnett immediately strode over.
"You know I coached Charles Barkley, right?" Westphal looked directly at Garnett.
Garnett certainly knew that Barkley was his idol.
Garnett's eyes lit up, and he quickly nodded.
"Many people's impression of Barkley is that he used his butt to brute force his way through opponents in the low post. If he only played like that, he would never have made it to the NBA Finals."
"When I took over the Suns, my core strategy was to completely clear out the low post. I asked Mark West and his blue-collar big men to all stretch out, turning the paint into a blank canvas, and then move Charles to the top of the key and the free-throw line."
Westphal pointed to the floor beneath his feet and stomped on it heavily.
" Charles' most terrifying quality is his 'triple threat' when he's in this position facing the basket. At this distance, if those clumsy big men dare to stick to him too closely, Charles can easily blow past them with a crossover or a quick step-back; but if the opponent gives him a wide berth, his unpredictable yet deadly jump shot can be the death knell for the defender."
"This is the secret to Phoenix's 62 wins and league-leading 113 points per game in 1993."
Westphal stared at Garnett, his voice low but carrying immense weight.
" Charles is only 6'6" (1.98 meters), and with that short, stocky build, he can still tear apart the defenses of the entire league when facing the basket. And you, Kevin? You're half a head taller than him, with the same guard agility and an even more exaggerated stride. You're seven feet tall, why do you want to cramm yourself into that mile-long low-post melee like an antique?"
"You need to step up and face the basket. Here, you need to observe the opponent's defense and your teammates' movements."
Garnett's breathing suddenly became rapid.
He instantly recalled the second half of the Christmas Day game against the Lakers, when Adelman tried to push him to the high post... That was the smoothest, most fluid stretch of his entire season. His jab steps against the basket, his powerful drives and straight-arm mid-range jumpers...
It turned out that it wasn't a tactical accident. It was exactly the path his idol had taken, and the true form of competition he should have.
However, Westphal's next words were like a bucket of cold water poured over him.
"But Kevin, freedom doesn't mean recklessness." The old coach's expression suddenly turned serious. " Utah Jazz sounds like free improvisation, but the premise of improvisation is that the musician has ingrained all the basic skills and music theory into their very being. If someone who doesn't understand music theory is playing randomly on stage, that's not Utah Jazz, that's noise."
"You want to dominate the high post? Then you need to show the ability to completely tear apart the defense." Westphal was merciless, each word hitting the nail on the head. "Your face-up jab step isn't solid enough; it doesn't fool anyone. Your first step when driving with the ball is too long and not clean enough, making it easy for the referee to call a traveling. And your mid-range shot in crucial moments still has a slightly unsteady hand position. These are the things you need to work on."
"In the days to come, I will break down and analyze every detail of these singles and reading techniques, feeding them to you one by one. When you can perform these actions without conscious thought... you will be able to improvise freely against any defense."
Garnett looked at the sharp-eyed old man before him, clenched his fists heavily, and nodded. For the first time, those eyes, usually filled with rage and ferocity, were completely illuminated by a clear sense of direction.
During the subsequent regular season, a new and familiar sight appeared in the FleetCenter's internal training facility.
Every day after the team's full practice, this renowned coach, who had led the team to the NBA Finals, would stay behind alone with the twenty-year-old All-Star. Westphal rarely yelled; he was more like a patient and encouraging teacher, gradually imparting his unique skills.
He taught Garnett how to use his eyes and shoulder fakes to create a highly deceptive triple threat when receiving the ball at the free-throw line; he taught him how to use his terrifying stride to take the first unstoppable driving step; he taught him when to pass the ball to Garnett when he faked a handoff and turned, and when to force his way back to the basket and score himself.
"Look, that's Charles from back in the day." In the video room, Westphal dissected the Suns ' game footage frame by frame. "He'd receive the ball in this position, fake a move, the defender's weight shift, and he could just drive straight in..."
Sometimes Lin Qi would stand at the second-floor window of the training hall, watching this scene from afar.
An offensive mastermind who needs to prove himself to the world again, and a young cornerstone who is not yet fully formed and has unlimited potential. At this particular juncture in time, they perfectly became each other's antidote.
Adelman didn't simply hand Garnett over to a special advisor like a hands-off manager; on the contrary, his tactical follow-up was extremely rapid.
The face-up killer moves and one-on-one devastation that Westphal helped Garnett unleash in private lessons instantly became the key to activating Boston's overall tactics.
Because Garnett displayed incredible penetration and shooting threat when holding the ball at the high post, traditional power forwards defending him had to stay close and aggressive. And once the opponent closed in too aggressively, Adelman's Princeton offense was instantly brought to life.
When Garnett uses his eyes and triple threat to hold the defense in place, Sam Cassell will cut in from the corner with perfect understanding, Eddie will run along the baseline, and Mutombo will screen the opposing center on the weak side. Garnett doesn't even need to turn his head; he only needs to flick his wrist while driving to the basket to deliver a superb bounce pass.
One empowers individual soldiers with destructive capabilities, while the other forms the framework for a team.
Under the combined guidance of these two top coaches, the Celtics' high-post offensive system, centered around 20-year-old youngsters, finally began to unleash its astonishing power in the second half of the regular season.
This change was visible to the naked eye in subsequent matches.
All-Star Game, Garnett's playing style underwent a complete transformation. He further reduced his physical battles in the low post, while his proportion of high-post ball-handling, face-up play, and offensive dominance skyrocketed.
Boston's offense was completely revitalized. Sam Cassell and Eddie made relentless cuts to the flanks, Horry and Mullin lurked stealthily on the perimeter, and Garnett, positioned at the high post, perfectly combined his offensive threat with passing vision, utilizing his unparalleled height and long arms. His assists per game began to steadily climb.
When opponents are wary of his passing and have to rush to the high post to defend his shot, Garnett's increasingly reliable mid-range jumper and lethal face-up first step become a nightmare for defenders.
Those traditional power forwards who were used to using their weight and strength to defend in the paint found themselves painfully dragged out of their comfort zones by Garnett, having to chase down a seven-footer with guard speed and a mastery of the triple threat on the high post.
The physical wall in the paint that had battered him so badly during his rookie season is now being dismantled brick by brick by the coaching staff using high-post tactics.
After a game, Garnett delivered a performance that shocked the entire league.
24 points, 11 rebounds, and 11 assists.
In the mid-1990s, a time of intense physical play and slow-paced games, a 20-year-old power forward recording a triple-double was nothing short of a bombshell. What shocked the American media and commentators even more was that what drew everyone's attention was no longer his points and rebounds, but rather the double-digit number in his assists.
In the locker room after the game, reporters surrounded him with their cameras and microphones.
" Kevin, your playing style tonight is completely different from the past few months. Your high-post playmaking and face-up offense look like a point guard," a reporter exclaimed. "Who made you make this change?"
Garnett grinned, revealing his signature white teeth. He instinctively wanted to chime in with a few boasts, but a glance out of the corner of his eye caught sight of the players' tunnel... Chris Paul Westphal was quietly leaning against the wall, nodding slightly to him.
" Chris Paul and Rick have been telling me one thing... don't act like an idiot and just go to the paint and wrestle with people." The young man, facing the cameras, flashed his signature white teeth. "Basketball is played here," he said, sticking out his long index finger and jabbing his temple. "Once you understand the game, scoring and passing are as easy as breathing."
That evening, Lin Qi sat by the window in the general manager's office, looking at Garnett's data briefing in the newspaper.
He knew that he had made all the right moves.
Price was refining Nash, Westphal was liberating Garnett, Mutombo was maintaining the defensive floor, and Adelman was perfectly connecting all the talents with the Princeton offense. A team's true transformation often happens in those Late Night training sessions without spectators, in the tedious and monotonous repetition of disassembly.
Lin Qi put down the newspaper, lit a cigarette, and gazed out the window at the distant horizon...
The direction of Chicago.