"Don't give them any space to accelerate! As soon as that number 5 ( Garnett ) gets the ball, take him down in the center circle!" Pat Riley's deep voice rang out in front of the Heat's bench, revealing a ruthless and iron-fisted edge.
After the timeout, the Heat's defensive actions were completely upgraded.
From the latter half of the second quarter to the middle of the third quarter, piercing whistles began to sound continuously on the court.
Garnett grabbed another defensive rebound in the backcourt. He had just taken his first step and hadn't even had time to show his terrifying speed when Brian Grant, who couldn't get back on defense in time, didn't even look at the ball. Instead, he stepped forward, stretched out his thick arm, and used an almost wrestling tackle to grab Garnett around the waist and hold him tightly!
"Beep--!!"
The referee's whistle blew sharply, and the entire arena erupted in boos. Garnett was thrown off balance by the immense force and crashed heavily onto the wooden floor, sliding two meters away. Grant didn't even glance at Garnett on the ground; he simply raised his hand to the referee to indicate that he had fouled, then turned back and stared at the Boston Celtics ' bench with a bloodthirsty look.
Pat Riley straightened his suit and crossed his arms. Since his stamina couldn't keep up with their speed, he would use regular fouls to slow them down. The effect wasn't important; what he wanted was for those Celtics players to instinctively associate every acceleration, every jump, every unsuspecting charge into the paint with the excruciating pain of crashing to the floor.
The next half of the game turned into a long and grueling scramble. The referee's whistle was rarely heard, and both teams' rhythms were completely disrupted by the Heat's ubiquitous elbows, pulls, and center-court tackles. Whenever Price tried to pass the ball, Hardaway would directly chest him down; Mourning would relentlessly grapple with Bo Outlaw even if he couldn't receive the ball in the low post.
Under this intense mental and physical pressure, the Boston youths' shooting touch began to be severely affected. Both teams could barely move on the court, and the air was filled with heavy breathing.
Through this almost self-destructive, desperate struggle, the Heat managed to chip away at the lead from 16 points to just 8.
"Their starters are already in foul trouble, but they're trading their lives for time." Adelman was getting impatient on the sidelines. The Heat's bench players, like Askins, had no tactical tasks when they came on. Whenever they saw Garnett or Finley accelerate, they would slap them down with an extremely vicious regular foul.
Garnett has fallen four times tonight. Although he scored a lot of points through free throws, the arrogance in the eyes of this 20-year-old has disappeared with each hard landing. In its place is a kind of anger and aggression, and his movements have begun to become distorted.
Lin Qi remained in the shadows, watching Alonzo Mourning on the court, his hands on his knees, his lips already pale. Mourning already had four fouls, but every time he tried to position himself in the low post, it was as if he wanted to take his opponent down with him.
"That's about it." Lin Qi turned to Adelman and whispered, " Pat Riley figured the referee wouldn't dare send off all his starters in the first game, but Mourning's legs are starting to tremble. Bring the starters on. Since they want to die in this quagmire, let's pour cement on them."
In the eighth minute of the third quarter, Boston made another five-in-five-out substitution.
When Dikembe Mutombo, P.J. Brown, Sam Cassell, Eddie Jones, and Robert Horry stepped back onto the floor, it felt as if the air inside the Miami Gymnasium had been sucked out.
Boston changed their strategy. They no longer tried to overwhelm their opponents with speed, but instead switched to the toughest and most solid half-court defense.
Sam Cassell dribbled past half-court, his face expressionless, and with his signature move of using his rear to block Tim Hardaway, began to dominate the perimeter and run down the clock. Twenty seconds, fifteen seconds, ten seconds. Boston was using the Heat's most effective tactics to torment the Heat's nerves.
With six seconds left on the shot clock, the ball was passed to the low post. P.J. Brown received the ball and, facing Brian Grant who was already struggling to keep up with him, forcefully drove in with his shoulder.
Grant tried to disrupt P.J. Brown's balance with a sneaky elbow and a pull, but Brown's legs were already leaden from the back-and-forth runs in the first half. Brown keenly found space in the confrontation and landed a solid turnaround jump shot.
"Whoosh!"
The two points were easily secured, bringing the point difference back to 10.
Looking back, the Heat's offense became nothing more than a desperate struggle of willpower. Hardaway tried to break through the defense with screens, but Eddie Jones of the Second Team was like an inescapable plaster, relentlessly pushing past every screen with his chest and blocking Hardaway's path. Hardaway's crossovers were no longer sharp, and he nearly turned the ball over twice in a row, ultimately having to awkwardly pass the ball to Mourning in the paint.
The moment Mourning received the ball, Mutombo's massive body was already close behind.
This was a pure war of attrition. Mourning used all his strength to push in twice, but found that the giant black man behind him did not budge. Helpless, Mourning could only forcefully flip over and hook his hand, but at the moment he jumped, due to extreme exhaustion, his jumping height was a full ten centimeters shorter than usual.
"Smack!!!"
Mutombo barely jumped; he simply used his terrifying wingspan and precise anticipation to swat the ball out of bounds in mid-air.
The entire audience gasped in surprise.
After landing, Mutombo stood in front of Mourning, coldly shaking his signature index finger. Mourning almost lost his balance when Mourning landed, his hands on his knees, gasping for breath, a hint of helplessness flashing in his eyes for the first time.
The fourth quarter completely devolved into a spot-up drill for Boston. As the Heat's seven-man rotation teetered on the brink of collapse, Boston's starting five began employing textbook-perfect half-court defense, effectively sealing the game's outcome. Sam Cassell punished the Heat's unstoppable interior defense with repeated mid-range pull-up jumpers from the top of the key; Eddie Jones, meanwhile, secured consecutive steals on the perimeter.
The final whistle blew, and the score was 92-78.
Boston secured a stunning, brutal, yet highly efficient victory in Miami, opening the series with a win that was both ugly and brutal.
As he left the court, the Miami Gymnasium was deathly silent. Alonzo Mourning walked back to the player tunnel on trembling legs, too exhausted to even lift his head as he passed the Boston bench.
On the sidelines, Pat Riley stood motionless. His Armani suit was wrinkled and his signature slicked-back hair was completely disheveled, with a few strands falling across his forehead, making him look somewhat disheveled under the glaring overhead lights. He stared intently at the scoreboard, his lips pressed into a pale line.
Lin Qi emerged from the shadows of the locker room corridor and straightened his jacket. As he brushed past the arrogant and ruthless tyrant, Lin Qi merely glanced at him before striding towards the brightly lit away team's locker room.