February arrived, and the trade deadline drew near.
At 30-24, the Celtics sat safely inside the Eastern Conference playoff cutoff. Their middling position, neither high nor low, had front offices across the league sensing room to make a deal.
To most general managers of the conventional school, this new Boston team was an out-and-out anomaly. A hastily assembled roster of seriously injured veterans, undrafted players, and young rookies had somehow held its ground through the first half of the regular season. But they firmly believed that a team lacking playoff pedigree would inevitably be exposed once it entered the first round's bruising battles. Teams came circling, hoping to pick up a bargain before the deadline.
During the final week, the phone in Lin Qi's office barely stopped ringing, and his answer remained utterly firm: not for sale.
The first call's target: Dominique Wilkins.
The offer: a young rotation player who could contribute immediately, plus a second-round pick.
The general manager on the other end got straight to the point, his tone certain. "Lin Qi, let's be frank. Boston's roster this year can't contend for a championship. Keeping Wilkins there only wears him down in the regular season. Send him to us, and he can be the perfect closer on a team with playoff experience. This is a very sincere offer for your rebuild."
For a team turning over its roster, this was a textbook case of "selling veterans for assets." But Lin Qi rejected it outright. His underlying reason for refusing was not entirely that Wilkins was tactically irreplaceable.
"I'm not trading him because I need him still sitting on the Celtics' bench for our final game of this season." Lin Qi held the receiver, his voice calm. "This is the Old Boston Garden's final season. This arena, with all its history, needs a name that will make Boston fans willingly buy tickets and scream themselves hoarse. Dominique Wilkins is that man."
After hanging up, Lin Qi opened a drawer and glanced at the performance agreement stipulating that "arena attendance must return to the league's top ten." Every box-office surge Wilkins generated at the Garden helped him fulfill that agreement with Gaston. For that core commercial and ticket-selling value, he would not let him go even for two young rotation players.
The second call's target: Dino Radja.
The offer: a key rotation player, plus a future first-round pick.
This offer clearly carried more weight than the previous one. In the 1990s, an era that placed enormous emphasis on interior half-court play, a skilled big man who could reliably contribute 16 points and eight rebounds per game, with exquisite low-post footwork and midrange shooting, was an absolute rarity. Several strong playoff teams lacking ways to break through in the half court had long been coveting Radja.
But Lin Qi still firmly shook his head.
"Dino is what we rely on in our half-court offense," Lin Qi explained to the head scout beside him after hanging up, without any hesitation in his voice. "Think about it. What does our current core system rely on to win? Transition speed, threes, and stretching defenses in broken play. When it flows, we certainly can win, but this style has a fatal weakness: it isn't consistent enough. Once Sam Cassell and Wilkins get locked down by targeted defense and our perimeter shooters lose their touch, we'll regress into a chaotic outfit blindly running shuttles on the court. In the playoffs, a style without a tactical focal point like this will get schemed to death."
Lin Qi rapped hard on the desk. "Who steadies things then? It can only be Radja. Get him the ball in the low post and let him use his body and footwork to grind out two points inside and stop the bleeding. He's the only player in this lightweight lineup who can guarantee a reliable floor in half-court play. Whatever they offer, I'm not letting him go."
The third call's target: Sean Elliott.
The offer: several fringe players and salary-matching contracts.
This call came from a strong team long known for its shrewdness. Their calculations were clear: Elliott's potential kidney problems had left more than half the league's front offices wary. His trade to Houston last year had fallen through precisely because he failed his physical. In their eyes, this was the perfect opportunity to buy low on a wing who could face a health crisis at any moment.
"Lin Qi, Elliott really has played well in Boston this year. But medically speaking, that kidney of his is a ticking time bomb." The other man's voice carried a businessman's particular certainty. "While he can still get on the court and contribute something, we're willing to step up and take that risk off the Celtics' hands. As for the return, you understand that a player with potential health problems can't be valued at All-Star prices..."
Before the other man finished listing the players, Lin Qi hung up.
The head scout beside him froze for a moment. "Lin, you're not even going to hear all the names?"
"There's no need to hear any more." Lin Qi leaned back in his chair, expressionless. "When they look at Elliott, all they see is a seriously ill player who could break down at any moment. But in my tactical plans, he brings two irreplaceable assets."
Lin Qi raised one finger. "First, he's the perfect lubricant for this powder keg of a locker room. Sam Cassell and Dominique have nearly fallen out several times in practice, and every time, Elliott's emotional intelligence defused things between them. Over a long season, a player who can completely stabilize the team's internal atmosphere is more valuable than someone who can only score 20 points a game."
He immediately raised a second finger. "Second, he's our ultimate insurance on the wing for the playoffs. Eddie Jones is still a first-year rookie, after all, and there's no telling when Dominique's body will start flashing warning lights. If either of them runs into trouble during a playoff series, Elliott can step into the starting lineup at any time and provide All-Star-level production on both ends."
The trade deadline bell rang, and amid the clamor of the trade market, the Boston Celtics stood pat without making a single move.
To outside media outlets and columnists, this was another amateurish move by Lin Qi, squandering a golden opportunity to cash out at the peak of his players' value and acquire future draft picks. But Lin Qi understood better than anyone that every player he had stockpiled this season was not a chip to flip in a business deal, but a perfectly fitted tactical puzzle piece, custom-made to address the new rules.
Wilkins provided drawing power at the box office and the ability to manufacture clutch baskets under intense pressure. Radja guaranteed a reliable floor for breaking down half-court defenses. Elliott stabilized the locker-room atmosphere and the depth of the wing rotation. Without any one piece of this roster, the goals of reaching the playoffs and fulfilling the performance agreement this season would be impossible to achieve.
As for the more distant future...
He still held those two draft picks. One was his own, and the other was a future first-rounder from the Clippers. Those draft assets were reserved for the summer. In Lin Qi's memories and setup, they were reserved for that lanky kid named Kevin Garnett, who was still playing high school basketball in Chicago at this very moment.
In the Celtics' team-building blueprint, he would be the cornerstone they were determined to secure.
Those were even assets being prepared for that still crazier summer two years later.
Yet only days after the deadline turmoil subsided, a bombshell exploded out of Chicago like a nuclear blast, instantly swallowing every trade rumor in the league.
That terrifying man who had once retired to play baseball, who had made the entire basketball world tremble.
He was coming back.