The day after Rick Pitino's press conference, the administrative area of FleetCenter was deathly silent.
This silence was different from the night they lost the Eastern Conference Finals, when everyone was seething with anger, and you could hear people slamming their clipboards and breathing heavily.
Now, everyone subconsciously walks with lighter steps.
In the very pragmatic world of professional sports, everyone can smell the bloodshed of a major purge.
At exactly nine o'clock in the morning, an internal memo, still smelling of ink, was delivered to Lin Qi's desk by the new head coach's secretary.
Two full pages of A4 paper, densely covered with names.
The first page is for the uniform team and the logistics team.
The list includes a scouting director, a senior video analyst, a salary specialist assistant, and even two young people from the data analysis department who have just graduated from Massachusetts Institute of Technology.
For the past two years, these are the same people who have followed Lin Qi, calling every team in the league day and night, and working tirelessly through the night to finalize every trade proposal...
They single-handedly transformed the Celtics from a laughingstock throughout the league into a team that reached the Eastern Conference Finals.
Looking at the familiar names on the list, Lin Qi couldn't help but feel something; it would be a lie to say he felt nothing.
The second page focuses on the player roster.
Mark Price, Chris Mullin, Sam Mitchell...
At the very bottom of these two pages of lists, Pitino left a cold, cursive comment in his signature English handwriting.
The current roster is too bloated and aging; it needs faster speed, stronger defensive aggression, youth, and absolute obedience to tactics.
Lin Qi leaned back in his chair, his long, slender fingers tapping lightly on the table, his gaze lingering on that line of text for a long time.
He took a deep breath and pressed the speakerphone button on the internal phone.
"Notify everyone on the list to bring all their work handover documents. Meet in conference room number three at 10:30 AM."
At 10:30, I pushed open the door to conference room number three, and the air inside felt as heavy as lead.
A dozen or so people crammed the small space to the brim. Some of them had already guessed the outcome from yesterday's live television broadcast.
Several young assistants from the uniform team sat in the last row, clutching thick briefcases tightly to their chests. The senior video editor, sitting in the middle, had red eyes. He had practically lived in the editing room throughout this series, meticulously recording every catch and every dribble and drive of Michael Jordan in the six games of the Eastern Conference Finals.
Lin Qi walked to the front of the conference table, placed his hands on the surface, and calmly scanned everyone with his gaze.
"I'll get straight to the point. I've called everyone here to say just one thing," Lin Qi said, his voice low but clear. "The team's building direction has undergone an irreversible shift. Coach Pitino will be bringing his coaching staff and Kentucky's support team. Those on the roster will be gradually bought out, traded, or relieved of their current positions over the next few weeks."
As soon as he finished speaking, the shoulders of the two young assistants in the back row visibly slumped.
"This has nothing to do with your work ability." Lin Qi straightened up, interrupting the growing sense of grievance and resentment in the air. "Over the past two or three seasons, the Boston Celtics have gone from being the laughingstock of the entire league to standing in front of Michael Jordan. I remember every single one of you who spent countless nights and worked tirelessly in the FleetCenter."
Upon hearing this, the videographer, whose eyes were bloodshot from working so hard, finally couldn't hold back and wiped his eyes violently.
Lin Qi turned to the side, took a stack of sealed white envelopes from his assistant, and neatly arranged them on the table.
"Here are recommendation letters for the general managers of other teams in the league, with my handwritten signature. Toronto Raptors, Vancouver Grizzlies, Los Angeles Clippers, Phoenix Suns, Dallas Mavericks... I've already spoken with the executives of these teams."
Lin Qi pushed the envelope forward. "For those who want to continue as professional scouts or video analysts, I'll personally escort you to your new positions. If anyone wants to return to college basketball, I'll also arrange connections to contact the NCAA's management. Boston will pay you every penny of your contract salary."
Those young people who had been keeping their heads down now slowly straightened their backs and looked up at the young president who had never caused them any loss in terms of profit in the past two years.
The group left one by one with their envelopes, with last season's head coach Rick Adelman staying behind.
The head coach, who had led the Celtics to the Eastern Conference Finals over the past two years, leaned back in his chair, watching Lin Qi carefully collect the empty teacups from the table.
Adelman's smile faded, and he shook his head somewhat helplessly.
"I've had some things bottled up inside for two years, and now that I'm packing my bags and leaving, I'll never have the chance to say them again. Lin, to be honest, working with you, I often felt that Boston didn't really need a head coach; you just needed a mouthpiece on the court."
Lin Qi raised his eyebrows but didn't interrupt him.
"The pre-game preparation plan you gave me was so detailed it scared me," Adelman sighed, a hint of complaint in his voice. "How to split the rotation time in the first three quarters, which point to attack in the last five minutes, even what the referee's calls should call a timeout... Sitting in the head coach's seat, most of the time I'm just executing your pre-prepared game plan."
He tapped his chest and let out a cold laugh.
"Outside, the media praises my decisive command and tactical management. But with you, I always feel like a puppet. However, Lin, now that Rick Pitino is here... he absolutely won't tolerate anyone interfering with his tactics. Good luck."
Lin Qi was silent for a few seconds, then bowed slightly. "I'm sorry, Rick. I prefer to minimize uncertainties."
"Alright, don't rush to apologize." Adelman waved his hand, stubbing out his cigarette in the paper cup. "I'm not here to settle scores. Two years ago, when you found me at home, I was a pathetic loser lying on the sofa, looking a bit dejected. And now?"
Adelman patted the front of his suit jacket, a hint of pride flashing in his eyes. "I've rediscovered my passion for basketball, and I've learned a lot working with you. I have offers from at least three teams now, so you don't need to worry about me."
Lin Qi laughed and handed it over, "You deserve it, Rick. You deserve a better opportunity in this league."
"Of course." Adelman reached out and shook hands firmly with Lin Qi, shaking his head with a smile. "Although you're a complete control freak as president... to be honest, Lynch, I've had a really great time working with you these past two years. It's one of the most precious memories of my career."
He let go of her hand, picked up his coat and draped it over his shoulder, then winked mischievously at Lin Qi as he walked to the door.
"See you again someday, Lin."
No sooner had Adelman left than veteran point guard Mark Price walked into the office.
The former All-Star point guard dressed very casually tonight, in simple dark clothes, carrying only a faded ordinary sports bag. His face was expressionless, just like an ordinary office worker who had just clocked out and was about to go home for the weekend.
Before Lin Qi could even greet him, he pulled out a chair, sat down, put his bag on the ground, and launched into a direct attack.
"I watched yesterday's press conference live."
Lin Qi made no attempt to hide it, taking out a prepared document from the drawer and gently sliding it in front of him.
"I'll send you to a truly competitive team that can make the playoffs. You'll still be a hot commodity for those strong teams that need veterans to stabilize the locker room."
Price glanced down at the words on the document, too lazy to even reach out, and simply shook his head self-deprecatingly.
"Lin, at my age, I no longer have any unrealistic obsession with winning the championship. For me, playing basketball is now purely a job to support my family. My wife is due to give birth in two months, our third child. The only reason I'm still willing to play and battle with those young guys is to earn a little more money for baby formula before I retire."
Lin Qi stared directly at Price, his gaze unusually serious.
"Then go out there and earn some extra money for baby formula for two more years. When you feel you can't run anymore and decide to take off your jersey, I hope you come back to Boston immediately. Go straight into the coaching staff or player development department and dedicate yourself to coaching the team's young point guards. The experience you have in your head about how to run pick-and-rolls and how to read the defense is more valuable to this team than any high draft pick."
Price was completely stunned.
He clearly hadn't expected Lin Qi to be able to see so far ahead, even when his own life was hanging by a thread. He stared at Lin Qi for a long time, then couldn't help but shake his head with a wry smile and point at Lin Qi.
"Lin, sometimes I really don't know whether to call you crazy or an incurable control freak. Right now, all the newspapers in America are saying that your time as president is almost up, and Pitino is waiting to take over everything. And you, this unlucky guy who could be ousted at any moment, are still thinking about finding the next generation of coaches for the Celtics?"
He sighed, picked up his sports bag from the ground, stood up, and patted Lin Qi on the shoulder heavily.
"Take my advice. Wait until you've secured your position before you talk to me about going back to Boston."
Next to enter was Sam Mitchell.
This seasoned veteran in his thirties didn't even sit down as soon as he walked in. He walked over to the wall with his hands behind his back and stared at the family photo from this season hanging there for a long time.
In the large photo frame, Kevin Garnett grins like a clueless fool, his long arm tightly wrapped around Mitchell's neck, almost choking the older man.
"Does Kevin know that Mark and I are going to be purged?" Mitchell finally turned around, his oily complexion completely gone.
"I haven't even had a chance to go to the hospital today," Lin Qi said, rubbing his temples wearily. "His broken nose was just reset today, and the team doctor is still watching over him."
"Then you'd better call him now..." Mitchell pulled out a chair, sat down, and tapped the table. "You know that kid's temper best. Knowing that we old guys are going to be kicked out, he'll definitely smash a hole in the hospital's plaster wall."
Lin Qi sighed, somewhat exasperated. "I'll try to appease him about this."
Mitchell breathed a sigh of relief and stood up to leave. But when his hand touched the doorknob, he paused and turned half his face to the side.
"Also, tell that kid not to cry in front of the media when the transfer news comes out."
Chris Mullin was the last to enter the president's office.
This top left-handed sharpshooter in the entire league appeared more relaxed than anyone else, even holding a cup of black coffee he had just taken from the tea room.
"Lin, should I match your current expression and pretend to look shocked and aggrieved?" Mu Lin took a sip of coffee and sat down.
Lin Qi smiled wryly, "It seems there's no secret left in this building that can be kept from you."
"Come on, Lin. I'm thirty-four this year. I've seen too much of this backstabbing and shady stuff in the league over the years." Mullin looked down at his knees and shrugged self-deprecatingly. "A coach who's used to using the stamina of twenty-year-olds to play forty minutes of full-court press in the NCAA has parachuted into Boston. When he flips through the roster and sees my legs—a pair of old, thirty-something legs that's been badly injured and even lateral movement is a struggle... obviously, I'm definitely not in his future plans."
There wasn't a trace of a smile on Lin Qi's face.
Mullin leaned back in his chair, looking out at the empty stands. "Alright, stop giving me that 'I owe you something' look. When I came to Boston last year, the entire American media was publishing articles saying that my 'left hand of God' was completely broken. Old, badly injured, slow—all the nasty words were plastered on my forehead. You gave me the contract, and you gave me a stage where I could fight Chicago to the bitter end."
"But your performance in the Eastern Conference Finals this year far exceeded my expectations," Lin Qi said.
"Those few rounds?" Mullin raised his eyebrows.
"Every round is."
Mullin looked down at the swirling black coffee in his cup, a rare hint of nostalgia flashing in his eyes. "I really enjoyed those games with Michael. Lin, there were moments when I truly felt like I was twenty-seven again."
He placed the coffee cup steadily on the table, looking directly at Lin Qi: "So, there's no need to apologize to me. You don't owe me anything."
Lin Qi took a deep breath. "I'll send you to the right place, a championship contender that truly deserves your shooting talent."
"I trust your judgment, Lin." Mulin stood up and straightened his well-tailored suit.
The door clicked shut.
The entire general manager's office finally returned to a silent stillness.
At 5:30 p. m., the setting sun bathed the glass windows of the FleetCenter Arena in a golden glow.
The secretary gently pushed open the door, her expression somewhat strange.
"Mr. Lin, we received a call from Indiana; it's using a private expedited line."
Lin Qi rubbed his throbbing temples. "Whose call was that?"
The secretary swallowed hard and whispered a name: " Larry Bird Larry Bird."