As the 1996-1997 season was drawing to a close...
In the Celtics' incredibly deep rotation, there's one player who has been practically invisible this season.
Ben Wallace.
Late Night during the 1996 NBA Draft, when his name was announced as the 58th pick, the commentators on the nationally televised broadcast couldn't even find his profile card, only managing to say at the end, " The Celtics selected a short center, probably to make up the numbers for the Summer League."
The last pick in the second round, a non-guaranteed minimum salary player, is a "temporary" player who can be unconditionally cut by the team at any time.
For more than a year, he sat at the very end of the Boston bench, in the towering shadow of Mutombo. Among a group of giants around 2.11 meters tall, this tall man, who was barely 2.06 meters with shoes on and whose upper body was as broad as a double iron gate, seemed out of place.
He didn't get regular playing time. In Rick Adelman's elegant and refined Princeton offense, Big Ben's offensive skills were as rough as pebbles on a Richmond farm, even his free throws were ridiculously stiff. The media never mentioned him, and his teammates rarely passed him the ball outside of defensive drills. In the eyes of Boston's discerning commentators, he was just a sideline that Lin Qi picked up casually on that crazy draft night, amidst everyone's incomprehension.
But no one knows what kind of hunger drove this taciturn guy to work so hard in the weight room at Boston Garden Arena after the lights were turned off Late Night.
A 140-kilogram barbell bobbed up and down in the darkness. Above Big Ben's head, a roster torn from the draft night newspaper was crookedly taped with white medical tape.
Allen Iverson, Marcus Camby, Ray Allen, Kobe Brian... fifty-eight names, listed in order.
With each press of the barbell, Big Ben's bloodshot eyes would pierce through the cold steel pipe and land on one name. From childhood to adulthood, while those prodigies were under the spotlight and receiving national attention, Big Ben was sitting under the shade of a tree in Alabama, cutting hair for his neighbors to save up $50 for training camp tickets; while those first-round picks were partying in nightclubs with million-dollar contracts, he could only save money by cutting strips of tattered clothes and wrapping them around his calves to prevent cramps.
His muscles were tearing, lactic acid was piling up wildly, his arms began to tremble violently, and his bellows-like breathing echoed in the empty room.
You chose genius, you chose height.
Big Ben was dissatisfied.
At this moment, Lin Qi sat on the sidelines, his gaze sweeping across the locker room passageway.
The physical battle against the Miami Heat has entered the third quarter, and Boston's paint is enduring unimaginable damage.
Aaron Mourning, a tough, unstoppable force like a mad bull, wreaked havoc in the Boston Celtics ' paint tonight. Mutombo, under the relentless attacks of Mourning and Tim Hardaway, has already committed his fourth personal foul and has been forced to the bench by Adelman.
"PJ, push up! Don't let him get to the deep end so easily!" Adelman roared from the sidelines, his voice completely hoarse.
However, after a few rounds, PJ Brown's chest was throbbing from Mourning's vicious elbows and back-to-the-basket tackles, and the Celtics ' interior defense began to crumble like paper. Mourning once again received the ball in the low post, forced a turn and slammed it home, not only scoring but also drawing a defensive foul from PJ Brown.
After landing, Mourning let out a long howl and pounded his chest wildly towards the Boston stands.
Boston Garden Arena was deathly silent.
Adelman anxiously scribbled on the whiteboard, his finger hovering between the names of several big men on the bench, hesitant. In the standard playbook, against a monster like Mourning, substituting any soft player would be tantamount to suicide.
Just as Adelman was about to take a gamble and call up the substitute center, a hand suddenly reached out and pressed down on his clipboard.
Adelman paused, then turned his head.
Lin Qi had stepped down from the general manager's seat at some point, his face calm, but his finger pointed straight at the back of the bench, at Big Ben, who was still in his training uniform.
"Lin?" Adelman frowned. "He doesn't have much offensive ability. When he's on the court, it's like we're playing four against five. We can't create any space on offense at all."
" Rick, are you still thinking about this?" Lin Qi looked into Adelman's eyes, his voice deep and powerful. "We don't need flashy offense right now; we need someone who can go up there and wrestle with Mourning, someone who can fight for rebounds. I drafted him 58th overall, not so he could just sit here and watch."
Adelman followed Lin Qi's finger and looked in that direction.
Ben Wallace sat there, his ankles wrapped in thick bandages, his eyes, hidden in the shadows, fixed on Aaron Mourning, who was wreaking havoc on the field, like a hungry wolf.
Adelman gritted his teeth and abruptly folded up his tactical board. "Ben! Go up there and hold off that number 33!"
Big Ben's body jolted violently.
Without a word, he roughly ripped off his training clothes, the buttons popping off the floor with a crisp bounce. He had waited almost a whole season for this moment.
The moment Big Ben stepped onto the court, Mourning merely glanced indifferently at the 58th pick, who was half a head shorter than him, with a hint of disdainful sneer on his lips.
In the first possession, the Miami Heat cleared the left low post, Mourning boxed out and called for the ball.
With a single grab, the basketball lobbed into the paint like a cannonball.
He caught the ball without any probing, merely turning his head slightly and coldly sweeping his hawk-like eyes over Ben Wallace behind him. The two muscular giants collided.
dwarf.
Without even giving him a second glance, Mourning lowered his waist, swung his arms, and his terrifying, granite-like muscles instantly bulged, carrying a 260-pound weight as he slammed backward!
Bang!
The dull thud of flesh colliding made the floor on the sidelines tremble.
But the torso behind Mourning remained completely still.
Mourning's eyelids twitched violently.
That's something.
The violent instincts within this Heat- blooded, tough guy were instantly ignited. He let out a deep, beastly roar, his core strength exploding outwards. Using the momentum of the rebound, he rose up again and slammed back with an even more ferocious and unreasonable force!
BOOM!
The dull thud was like two Chicago Bulls colliding head-on on a highway.
Ben Wallace's legs were driven into the floor like steel nails, his chest taking the full force of Mourning's iron elbow and pectoral muscle attack head-on. His entire body of dark muscles trembled violently, but his big feet didn't budge an inch!
On the contrary, Mourning was so shocked by the reaction force that her whole body went numb, and she almost lost her footing.
What the hell is this monster?!
On the sidelines, Thibodeau jumped to his feet, his eyes fixed on the field, breathing heavily.
On the court, Mourning was completely enraged.
A seasoned All-Star center, unable to even move a short player in the paint?
"Get out of my way!"
Mourning, Mourning forcefully turned his massive body towards the center, using his elbow to clear a path, attempting to dominate the penalty area. Just as he raised the ball, Ben Wallace's large, rough hands loomed over him like a dark cloud.
There were no fancy covers, no clean cuts.
It was pure, brutal physical strangulation.
Big Ben Wallace pressed his hands firmly against the basketball, the veins on his arms bulging like earthworms, twisting Mourning's already-jumping shot angle three inches off mid-air!
Clang!
The basketball bounced off the front edge of the rim and flew out.
The FleetCenter Arena fell into an eerie silence for a second, then erupted in a suppressed gasp.
We held on!
That unwanted second-round pick, relying solely on his reckless physique, managed to hold off Miami's most ferocious beast!
Offense and defense transition, the Celtics advance.
Finley received the ball in the corner, forced a shot against the defense, and the three-pointer bounced high off the back of the rim.
It's a long backboard.
Under the basket, Mourning and Brian Grant simultaneously dropped back to box out. The two were extremely aggressive in the paint, using their bodies to lock down the position and leaving Big Ben no space to grab offensive rebounds.
His shoulder was blocked, his vision was obstructed, and even his space to jump was completely shut down.
give up?
These two words are not in Big Ben's dictionary.
"Rise!"
He let out a low growl and leaped into the air. On his first jump, he only touched the basketball with his fingertips.
Mourning was overjoyed and stretched out his long arms to claim the defensive rebound, which seemed a sure thing.
But the moment Big Ben landed, his knees didn't even have time to cushion the impact; like a steel spring compressed to its limit, he bounced off the ground a second time!
Mourning, in a fit of rage, braced his thick arm around Big Ben's neck in mid-air, attempting to forcefully press him down. Big Ben was pulled so hard in mid-air that he lost his balance, and the ball slipped from his fingers once again.
The ball bounced again.
"Mine!" Mourning roared, about to land but leaping up again.
But Big Ben had already landed, and he jumped up for the third time!
He didn't jump as high Mourning, nor was his positioning as accurate.
But his bullet speed was faster than anyone else's!
He literally ripped the ball off between the two massive arms!
The moment he landed, Mourning's body slammed into his side, Big Ben staggered three steps, but the ball was still held tightly in his arms!
The referee didn't blow his whistle.
Big Ben didn't even intend to wait for the whistle. He didn't even stand properly, twisted his waist and abdomen, and flung the ball to the outside a second before falling to the ground.
Price receives the ball, is open, jumps, and shoots.
Swish!
Three-pointer goes in!
boom--!
FleetCenter Arena completely erupted!
Sam Cassell was the first to jump up from the bench, waving a towel like a helicopter propeller and roaring, "This is it! This is the fucking one! Kill them!"
Big Ben didn't celebrate, he didn't even laugh.
He simply hunched over, hands on his knees, panting heavily. His beast-like eyes were fixed on Mourning, who was a hundred times more valuable and ten thousand times more famous than him.
That gaze was so cold it sent chills down your spine.
This ball is mine.
I'm going to try and steal the next ball.
The Miami Heat got desperate.
For the formidable Miami Heat to be thrashed in the paint by a late second-round pick is an utter disgrace.
In the next round, they changed their tactics.
Mourning personally moved to a high position to screen the defender, and Tim Hardaway, using the screen, darted straight into the right side of the penalty area like a sharp knife.
With Mutombo out, the Celtics finally showed a weakness under the basket.
Hardaway rushed into the paint, only to find the basket completely empty.
He took a step, jumped, and glided to make a layup!
The ball was extremely fast, and Ben Wallace, who was originally pulled to the weak side, would have had no chance of catching up with it under normal defensive rotations.
But Big Ben had no intention of using normal footwork.
He didn't slide, he didn't adjust.
He lunged at it.
He was sent flying through the air as if a heavy truck had slammed into him from behind, carrying a sense of mutual destruction as he slammed sideways towards Hardaway!
Just as Hardaway's ball left his hand, a huge black shadow suddenly flew horizontally into his field of vision.
Snap!
With a loud bang, the basketball was slapped away by Big Ben Wallace and sent hurtling towards the stands like a meteor.
But Big Ben Affleck's body, which was flying horizontally in mid-air, was completely beyond recovery.
Bang!
He crashed into the group of photographers at the baseline like a heavy cannonball.
In an instant, people and horses tumbled over. The sounds of plastic chairs shattering and telephoto lenses crashing to the floor filled the air.
The entire audience stood up instantly.
No one cheered.
Because this goal was no longer a matter of whether it was beautiful or not.
All anyone could think of was...
This is... playing with fire.
This late second round, he's risking his career and his health to defend!
The reporters on the ground floor panicked, and some quickly reached out to pull him back.
"Get out of here."
Big Ben pushed away the outstretched hand and shakily got to his feet.
His elbow pad was torn apart in the impact and hung on his elbow. His black shoulder was covered in dirt from the floor, and his mouth was cut by a camera lens, from which blood instantly seeped out.
He raised the back of his short, stubby hand, expressionlessly wiping away the bloodstains without even glancing at them.
Then, he turned around, limping but with unwavering determination, and walked back to the three-second zone step by step.
Standing under the basket, Mourning stared at Big Ben's retreating figure. For a moment, the anger in his eyes subsided, replaced by genuine shock. Mourning himself was a madman, but he discovered that this short guy in front of him was even mader.
On the bench, Mutombo, who had been watching with his arms crossed and a cold eye, slowly stood up.
He grinned widely, stretched out his huge hands, and began to clap vigorously.
one time.
Two times.
Then, as if infected by some kind of plague, one by one, all the Celtics' bench players stood up and applauded wildly!
A gasp of disbelief erupted throughout Boston Garden Arena.
The next seven minutes turned into a nightmare for the Miami Heat in the paint. Big Ben made absolutely no tactical moves on the court; he was like a steelworker doing the dirty work on an assembly line, paid by the piece.
Mourning tried to overpower him with sheer force, Big Ben used the close-quarters combat techniques he learned at Charles Oakley's training camp, employing near-foul, concealed low bumps to completely throw Mourning off balance; when the Heat's guards attempted to drive for a putback, Big Ben repeatedly knocked them to the ground with reckless physical contact in mid-air. The referee's whistle blew frequently, but the ruthlessness he displayed, honed from nothing, made every Miami Heat's hands tremble when they received the ball.
Big Ben's personality is the complete opposite of Garnett's.
There was no angry roaring or pounding of the chest, no staged performance directed at the audience.
Every time he grabbed a rebound, Big Ben would simply turn and sprint away with a blank expression.
The final buzzer sounded, and the score was set. Despite Mutombo being in foul trouble, the Celtics held on to their home court thanks to the meat grinder that the 58th-ranked rookie created in the paint.
In the locker room, a barrage of cameras and countless reporters frantically surrounded Sam Cassell and the key players who had scored a high number of points. Big Ben's locker was in the most secluded corner, and not a single reporter came to disturb him.
Lin Qi's gaze fell on Big Ben's thick arms, which were trembling slightly from exertion, and then swept over the Celtics' number 12 jersey, soaked with sweat.
In that instant, a thought suddenly flashed through Lin Qi's mind.
... This kid is still on a non-guaranteed contract that he could be unconditionally cut by the team at any time, and he seems to have forgotten about that.
On that crazy draft night in 1996, Lin Qi simply gave him the minimum non-guaranteed contract, following the usual practice for second-round picks. For the past few months, this silent, black giant had been patiently waiting like a ghost at the very end of the bench, until tonight, when he used his muscles to overwhelm Aaron Mourning, who was worth over ten million dollars.
Big Ben sat alone on the cheap little stool, his ankles soaked in an ice bucket, as he used his rough hands to untangle the sweat-soaked bandages. His shoulders and chest were covered in red marks from Mourning's elbows, and his outer thighs were also bruised. He wiped his face with a towel, bringing down a layer of white salt crystals left after the sweat had dried.
A pair of custom-made leather shoes stopped in front of him.
Big Ben looked up and saw Lin Qi standing in front of him, holding a formal contract that had just been printed from the management office.
Lin Qi smiled and said, "Starting tomorrow, your contract will be fully guaranteed."
Big Ben clutched the contract tightly, his rough fingers turning white from the force.
He didn't speak, but simply nodded solemnly to Lin Qi.