Game 2 of the Eastern Conference Semifinals, Miami Arena.
Having learned a painful lesson from being overwhelmed by Boston's speed in the first game, the Miami Heat dropped all pretense from the very beginning of this game.
Pat Riley stood on the sidelines, his bespoke Armani suit buttoned tightly, his expression as cold and aloof as a lifeless sculpture.
As soon as the first quarter began, Tim Hardaway and Dan Majerle, without even looking at whether the ball went in, would immediately retreat to their own backcourt to defend as soon as they took a shot from the top of the key. Power forward Brian Grant also stopped lingering; the moment the ball left his hands, his massive frame had already turned around.
The Heat would rather completely forgo offensive rebounds and second-chance opportunities than give Boston even the slightest opening for a fast break.
Boston coach Rick Adelman stood on the sidelines, his brow furrowed in a deep frown.
This is not the Heat team from Game 1 who tried to compete with the Celtics in half-court sets. In Game 1, Pat Riley tried to drag the Celtics into a quagmire with pure physical play, but he backfired and was completely overwhelmed by Boston's depth in the paint. Tonight, Pat Riley clearly doesn't intend to fall into the same trap twice.
In the fourth minute of the first quarter, during a routine out-of-bounds dead ball play, Pat Riley suddenly walked expressionlessly toward the scorer's table.
The substitution signal immediately appeared on the big screen: Alonzo Mourning off, Brian Grant off; Isaac Austin and Keith Askins, two burly, black substitutes, wobbled onto the field.
Lin Qi stood in the shadows in front of the away team's bench, arms crossed, his gaze slightly darkening.
He knew all too well what Pat Riley was up to. The old fox was protecting Mourning and Grant's physical condition in advance.
The script for Boston's first win was to first use Mutombo and P.J. Brown to wear Mourning in half-court sets, and then bring in Garnett, Finley, and Price in the latter part of the first quarter to unleash a run-and-gun offensive frenzy, literally wearing down the Heat's 250-pound heavy big man. But tonight, just as the battle of attrition was about to begin, Pat Riley carefully hid Mourning on the bench like a precious treasure.
He'd rather let the substitutes be cannon fodder on the court for a few minutes than let Mourning, covered in sweat, run into Boston's fast-paced lineup.
This was an extremely simple, yet damnably precise and ruthless adjustment.
You want to wait until I'm exhausted before overtaking me? Sorry, I'm going to get off and enjoy the air conditioning.
With five minutes remaining in the first quarter, Boston's substitution window arrived as usual.
Kevin Garnett, Mark Price, Michael Finley, Chris Mullin, and Bo Outlaw appeared together.
Miami Heat mid-range shot bounced off the rim.
Garnett leaped high in the paint like a wild beast, his long arms sweeping over the heads of two Heat bench big men to snatch the defensive rebound.
"Run!!" Mark Price's voice echoed throughout the half of the field.
There was no need to pass to the point guard. Garnett landed on both feet, dribbled smoothly, and took long strides. His terrifyingly long legs created a gust of wind as he prepared to dribble and launch a counterattack.
However, this time, as soon as he stepped out of the three-point line, Miami Heat defensive stalwart Dan Majerle, reeking of sweat, rushed towards him.
Majerle didn't even glance at the ball, let alone reach for it. With a ferocious expression, he spread his arms wide, like a wrestler taking a slam, and firmly grabbed Garnett around the waist, using his weight to throw the young, skinny wolf to the ground.
"Beep--!!"
A piercing whistle rang out.
Garnett was forcefully blocked in the backcourt, and Boston's potential game-winning fast break was thwarted before it could even begin. The referee ran over and indicated that it was just a very ordinary defensive foul, and Boston inbounded the ball from the sideline.
Garnett got up from the floor, his signature big, round eyes wide, and he spread his hands in disbelief.
"Dude, this works?! This is wrestling!"
Mark Price sighed, walked over, patted the young man on the chest, and whispered reassuringly, "Calm down, Kevin."
The experts in the commentary booth also realized what was happening and shook their heads with wry smiles.
Looking at Garnett, who was lying on the ground looking frustrated, Lin Qi sneered inwardly.
In this era, the rules ultimately favor the meat grinder. Without the heavy penalties for offside fouls on fast breaks, without free throws and possessions handed to them, as long as the Heat haven't used up their regular foul quota tonight, they can use this legal wrestling to strangle Boston's engine.
Pat Riley turned the loopholes in the rules into the sharpest defensive weapon; if you want to speed things up, you have to take a surprise attack first.
For the next few minutes, Miami Arena witnessed one of the ugliest basketball games in the nation. The Miami Heat began to frantically use their fouls, fragmenting the game into pieces.
Just as Garnett grabbed the rebound, Tim Hardaway reached out like a thief and grabbed his arm tightly; Michael Finley was about to drive at full speed along the sideline when Keith Askins rammed into him like a truck; Mark Price tried to use his height advantage to pass the ball early, but Dan Majerle simply reached out and grabbed his jersey near midcourt.
Every foul was perfectly controlled, not a career-ending foul, but each one disrupted Boston's rhythm as they were about to pick up speed.
Whistle.
Serve the ball in from the sideline.
Boston regained control.
Another whistle.
Take the ball inbounds again.
The young Boston team, brimming with boundless energy, felt like they'd punched a bed of dense cotton. Garnett tried several times to force his way through, but the Miami Heat pulled him back down in the simplest, most ruthless way.
The first quarter ended with a dismal score of 18-16.
Boston leads by only 2 points.
The second quarter began with a rested Alonzo Mourning returning to the court.
As he stood up from the bench and ripped the towel off his shoulder, the entire stadium chanted his name. His breathing was even more even than before the game started, and a hungry glint shone in his beast-like eyes.
Meanwhile, Garnett was still on the court. After being tormented by several disgusting fouls at the end of the first quarter, the young man was clearly getting agitated.
Unable to run, rhythm broken, followed by a cold touch.
As soon as Mourning came on, the Miami Heat's tactics immediately became extremely monotonous and efficient—feeding the ball into the low post.
Bo Outlaw was positioned behind Mourning on the defensive end, veins bulging on his forehead, desperately trying to withstand the attack. But this time, Mourning didn't bother turning around. He slammed his broad shoulder backward, sensing the shift in the defender's center of gravity, and then suddenly pressed his lower body inward with force.
Just as Outlaw lost his balance and tilted slightly, Mourning twisted his body and sprang up, his arm muscles bulging, and with a beast-like roar, slammed the ball into the basket!
"Whistle!" The referee blew the whistle, two points were scored, but a penalty was added!
"Boom!!"
The Miami Gymnasium erupted in a frenzy. Pat Riley remained expressionless, standing on the sidelines with his arms crossed. He didn't care what the media might say about him tomorrow; he just wanted to drag the game back to the Heat's most familiar rhythm: half-court offense, low-post battles, whistles, and free throws.
Under such intense, suffocating defense, the young Garnett finally began to pay his dues.
After Brian Grant returned to the court, he was like a piece of chewing gum coated with superglue, sticking to Garnett everywhere. In the referee's blind spot, he kept making small, insidious moves.
When Garnett tried to establish position in the paint for the first time, Grant used brute force to push him out of his shooting comfort zone.
Upon receiving the ball a second time, before he could even make a move, Mourning's massive body had already pressed in from the side. Surrounded by him, Garnett could only hastily attempt a fadeaway jump shot from the spot, the basketball slamming against the front of the rim with a "thud" before bouncing out.
Midway through the third quarter, Garnett, who was exhausted and sweating profusely, finally lost his temper.
Facing Grant's one-on-one defense at the top of the key, he attempted to use his signature explosiveness as a forward to force a breakthrough with a sharp crossover. However, the experienced Grant was not fooled at all. He anticipated Garnett's impatience and took a half-step back.
Garnett, eager to shake off his defender, instinctively thrust his left elbow out as he drove to the basket.
The instant their bodies made contact, Grant, as if hit by a truck, dramatically fell backward to the ground.
"Beep--!!"
The referee's whistle was sharp and decisive, his finger pointing directly at the Celtics' half of the court. "Number 5, offensive foul!"
"What?! He faked the fall! He pulled me first!"
Garnett's eyes were red-rimmed. He suddenly turned his head and hysterically roared at the referee, spreading his arms wide.
Seeing the situation was turning sour, Mark Price scrambled over and grabbed the young man who was about to lose control. " Kevin! Shut up! Stop talking!"
But it was too late. This was Garnett's fourth personal foul of the night.
Adelman, his face ashen, walked straight to the scorer's table without hesitation. P.J. Brown stood up from the bench, Garnett was forcibly substituted.
He walked back to his seat, ripped off the towel a staff member handed him, and slammed it over his head.
In the first game, he used his unstoppable speed to make All-Star center Mourning bend over and stick out his tongue; but in tonight's second game, Mourning and Grant used their most experienced, toughest, and most exploitative use of the rules to send him back to the bench.
That's the cruelty of the playoffs: you think you've found the Answer, but overnight, your opponent has completely changed the game.
In the fourth quarter, the game completely fell into Pat Riley's script.
Every time Tim Hardaway dribbled the ball up half-court, it was like a sloth taking a stroll. He stood at the top of the key, coldly observing Boston's defensive positioning while watching the shot clock tick down second by second.
Fifteen seconds.
Ten seconds.
Eight seconds.
Hardaway would only start his attack when the Boston youths' defensive patience and focus were completely worn down to their weakest point, using Mourning's wall-like screen to suddenly drive into the paint.
Boston was not without a chance to resist.
Sam Cassell kept the score close with his signature pull-up mid-range jumper on offense, while Dikembe Mutombo repeatedly used his long arms to protect the defensive rebounds on defense.
What's frustrating is that every Heat possession takes more than twenty seconds. Even if they miss, Mourning and Grant will stand like two towering giants, using their bodies to block Mutombo and prevent the Celtics from getting possession of the ball and launching a fast break immediately.
At this stage, they don't even care about scoring a certain number of points; their only goal is to let the game die in silence.
With one minute and fifteen seconds left in the fourth quarter, the scoreboard at Miami Gymnasium flashed a glaring 81-78.
The Miami Heat were leading by 3 points, and Hardaway still had possession of the ball. All 10,000+ Miami fans in the arena had stood up, their cheers thunderous.
Hardaway stood near the center circle, slowly dribbling the ball until there were only 5 seconds left on the shot clock, when he suddenly used Mourning's body as a screen to break through with a low shoulder.
Mutombo was forced to step up and help defend in the paint.
Just as the older man shifted his weight, Hardaway displayed the vision of a top point guard, subtly flicking the ball behind his head in mid-air.
Mourning understood immediately and received the ball smoothly.
P.J. Brown desperately lunged at him from the side to block the shot. Mourning was already exhausted and pale, but the tough guy gritted his teeth and used his shoulder to block Brown's body contact, putting the ball on the basket before losing his balance.
The basketball bounced painfully twice on the Hoop.
On the third attempt, it finally wobbled and rolled in, under the breathless gaze of the entire audience.
83 to 78.
This near-suffocating pick-and-roll not only extinguished the Miami Heat's last breath for the night, but also completely extinguished Boston's last hope of a comeback.
The final whistle blew, and the score was 85-80.
The Miami Heat, playing on their home court, pulled off an extremely ugly, oppressive, and grueling game filled with fouls, physical battles, and grueling physical play, managing to tie the series 1-1.
Pat Riley stood in front of the home team's coaching bench, slowly turning his head to look at Boston's bench.
He then gave Lin Qi a provocative and cold victor's smile.