On the last day of the regular season, Boston was hit by a cold, torrential downpour.
In the 1997-1998 season, the Boston Celtics finished the regular season with a record of 60 wins and 22 losses.
Second in the Eastern Conference.
This is an impressive achievement that should make the entire Boston hold its head high again.
The next morning, the local mainstream media went almost crazy. The Boston Globe devoted two whole pages to a bold headline. "The Dynasty Is Back?"
The local sports channel even worked overnight to produce a full three-minute highlight reel of the regular season games, which was played on a loop on large outdoor screens in major squares throughout the city.
The highlight reel was brilliantly edited: Gary Payton's signature tight, suffocating steal; Eddie Jones' lightning-fast fast break dunk after receiving the ball; Robert Horry's ruthless three-pointer from the corner; Dikembe Mutombo's swatting of an opponent's layup followed by a wide grin and a wagging of his thick finger at the camera.
The highlight reel culminated in Kevin Garnett's incredible leap from just inside the free-throw line against the Knicks, slamming the ball into the basket. Upon landing, he clutched his green jersey, his face contorted with ecstasy, and unleashed a beast-like roar at the 20,000 spectators in attendance.
Boston fans buy into this.
Owner Chris Paul Gaston prefers it. These past few days, the box office prices for the first round of the playoffs have been changing daily in his office. Watching the numbers keep rising, Gaston has even been drinking champagne more often these days.
Everything seems to be back on track for a high-society family.
But President Lin Qi sat in his office, looking at the newly printed playoff bracket on his desk, without a trace of a smile on his face.
The first round will be a best-of-five series.
Boston Celtics (2) vs. New York Knicks (7).
Lin Qi gripped the pen between his fingers and drew a deep black line under the words " New York Knicks." The ink smeared across the paper with such force that it resembled an ugly wound.
In the Eastern Conference, absolutely no one wants to face the seventh-ranked Knicks in the first round.
The head coach is Jeff Van Gundy, Pat Riley's protégé. The roster is full of tough guys who have been fighting their way up in the Eastern Conference Conference's meat grinder for over a decade: Patrick Ewing, Charles Oakley, Larry Bird Johnson, Allan Houston, John Starks, Charlie Ward, Chris Childs.
Lin Qi laid out the videotapes one by one on the table and pressed the play button.
In the footage, Patrick Ewing aggressively calls for the ball in the low post with his back to the basket; Charles Oakley subtly pushes open the defender's ribs with his elbow while setting an off-ball screen in the elbow area; Larry Bird Johnson stubbornly holds his ground in the paint; Allan Houston, like a ghost, circles around screens to shoot off-ball; Starks is ready to rush in from the bench and wreak havoc at any moment; and Charlie Ward guards the opposing point guard like a mad dog the entire game.
Click.
The office door was pushed open.
Gary Payton swaggered in, chewing gum, with freshman Chauncey Billups Billups following behind, head down.
During this time, Billups had gotten used to being dragged along by Gary Payton to watch videos whenever he wanted. While Gary Payton was greeting the other party's family, he would listen in. When Gary Payton pressed the pause button, he would take notes of the details. When Gary Payton turned to ask him what he had just seen, he would usually get a scolding first, and then rub his head and repeat it.
The process was extremely brutal, but for Billups, it was like having the league's top point guard giving him special treatment.
Gary Payton glanced at the table piled high with New York videotapes, a smirk playing on his lips as he revealed his signature mischievous grin. "Yo, New York. I love New York."
Lin Qi casually pushed a videotape in front of him.
Gary Payton reached out and caught it, tossed it in his hand, then turned and patted Billups on the chest. "Kid, don't go back tonight, bring the blanket."
Billups nodded quickly.
At 2 PM, the Celtics held their official playoff tactics meeting.
All the lights in the tactical analysis room were turned off, leaving only the projector beam shining on the whiteboard at the front.
Head coach Rick Pitino, dressed in a crisply pressed suit, had drawn a dense array of crisscrossing lines on the whiteboard with his pen.
It must be admitted that Pitino's preparations were extremely meticulous. From every sideline inbounds run by the New York Knicks and their tactical routes for inbounding the ball from the baseline, to the Patrick Ewing ' second pass tendency on the perimeter after Knicks's high post play, he marked everything with different colored pens.
He is an absolutely flawless coach, even somewhat obsessive. He dissected every offensive habit of the Knicks from their last ten regular season games and presented them all to the players.
Then, Pitino began to explain each point one by one.
Gary Payton sat in the last row, practically sunk into the leather chair, arms crossed, right leg propped high on the back of the chair in front of him. He impatiently smacked his cheek with his tongue, making a harsh smacking sound.
Garnett, sitting in the row in front of him, seemed somewhat absent-minded, his head down, one finger unconsciously twirling the pen in his hand; Robert Horry simply pulled his hoodie down low, tilted his head, closed his eyes to rest, looking like he might fall asleep at any moment; veteran center Mutombo stared blankly at the floor; Eddie Jones stared intently at the screen, not uttering a word.
Seeing Gary Payton's expression, Pitino's face instantly darkened. " Gary, what's your problem?"
Gary Payton nonchalantly spread his hands. "No objections... to my coach."
The atmosphere in the video recording room was so oppressive it was suffocating.
"Snap."
Pitino slammed his hand on the switch, turning off the projector and plunging the entire whiteboard into darkness.
" Gary, this is your last warning," Pitino said through gritted teeth, emphasizing each word. "In the professional league, it's not about who shouts the loudest in the locker room or who gets the most paycheck, that the whole team revolves around them. This is Boston, and I'm the one who calls the shots!"
Gary Payton chuckled coldly, slowly retracting his legs from the back of the chair. He leaned forward, his mouth, which had driven countless people away in the league, utterly unforgiving.
"My respected coach, let me remind you. This is the NBA playoffs, not NCAA March Madness. The players sitting in front of you aren't freshmen begging for playing time."
Garnett jerked his head up, Eddie Jones gasped, and even Robert Horry, who had been pretending to be asleep, opened his eyes in shock.
Beside the back door of the video room, Lin Qi rested his hands quietly on the door frame.
Pitino's hands trembled as he shoved the tactics book into his briefcase, his voice icy and devoid of any emotion. "Tomorrow morning, the entire team must arrive an hour and a half early. No rest days; extra practice with group scrimmages. Everyone must be there."
Gary Payton suddenly let out a very soft laugh, "Of course, as you wish, head coach."
The laughter echoed in the deathly silent corridor, even more jarring than if someone had simply slammed the door and left.
The next morning, at the Boston FleetCenter Training Hall.
Pitino pushed the intensity of the scrimmages to an unprecedented level, unlike anything seen in the regular season.
Simulated full-court high-pressure defense, forced rotations on inbounds balls, and a 24-second forced breakout after being double-teamed in the baseline corner.
He stood in the center circle with a silver whistle in his mouth, the sharp whistle blaring one after another, making everyone's eardrums ache in the empty stadium.
On the court, Garnett was supporting himself on his knees with both hands, his green training uniform already soaked with sweat, and he was panting heavily.
Two consecutive hours of high-intensity shuttle runs left his calves feeling a bit sore.
At the top of the key, Gary Payton casually tucked the basketball between his waist and looked at Pitino's hysterical state, then suddenly let out an extremely grating laugh.
Pitino whirled around, his eyes bloodshot. " Gary, you have a problem with my training methods again?"
Gary Payton dusted himself off and casually tossed the basketball to the assistant trainer beside him like trash.
"No, how could I possibly have a problem with a college coach who's never played in the playoffs?"
Gary Payton pulled the white training towel from his shoulder and wiped the sweat from his neck.
"Whoosh."
The entire training hall fell into a deathly silence; even the sound of Delk dribbling the ball at the far end abruptly stopped.
Pitino's face went from ashen to a sickly pale. He shuffled up to Gary Payton, his leather shoes clicking as he walked. Though shorter than Payton, his imposing presence was unmistakable. " Gary Payton, repeat that fart you just made in front of the whole team."
Gary Payton clutched the towel in his hand, staring straight at Pitino without even blinking. "You have ears, you heard me perfectly well."
Garnett's expression changed instantly. Robert Horry, standing to the side, reacted quickly, pressing a hand firmly on Garnett's shoulder and whispering, "Don't move."
Pitino, looking at his starting players who hadn't moved, felt confident he had the situation under control. He puffed out his chest and continued roaring, "In my team, if anyone thinks they're more important than the whole team, or that because they're paid more, they can disrespect discipline, I'll teach them a lesson! In the playoffs, my bench is full of obedient players. No one on this team is irreplaceable!"
Gary Payton stood there, looking down at the ordinary white training towel in his hand.
As Gary Payton watched, he suddenly grinned and smiled silently. Then, without warning, his hands exerted tremendous force.
"Sizzle--!!"
The thick cotton towel was torn in half with a long gash by Gary Payton's terrifying wrist strength.
The sharp, abrupt sound of tearing fabric echoed through the silent arena.
Gary Payton casually tossed the tattered rag in his hand onto Pitino's shoes like trash.
"Fine," Gary Payton tilted his head and clapped his hands. "Then when we play New York in the first round, you try and keep me on the bench."
After saying that, Gary Payton didn't even turn his head, his sneakers creaking on the wooden floor as he walked straight towards the players' locker room door at the far end.
On the tactical observation platform on the second floor, Lin Qi knew that the storm was coming.
Half an hour after training ended.
Pitino changed into a clean suit and stood straight in front of the whiteboard, his back to Lin Qi as he walked into the room.
" Lin Qi, if you're here tonight to represent management and ask me to go to the locker room to apologize to that arrogant Seattle guy, there's no need. I will not compromise." Pitino's voice was icy and obsessive.
Lin Qi pulled out a chair, sat down, and lit a cigarette. " Rick, I don't have time for that. I'm just here as president to routinely inquire about your starting lineup for tomorrow night's first game against the New York Knicks."
Pitino whirled around, his face grim. "Point guard, Tony Delk starts. Gary Payton is on the second unit."
An eerie silence fell over the office, broken only by the muffled hum of the exhaust fan in the corner.
Lin Qi leaned back in his chair, staring intently at Pitino through the thick smoke.
A full five seconds passed before he spoke, his tone so flat it betrayed no emotion. " Rick, are you sure?"
I'm 100% sure.