The first game of the first round of the 1998 NBA playoffs.
At 2 p. m., a dense array of camera positions had already been set up outside the media tunnel of the Boston FleetCenter Arena.
Local and national reporters, wearing raincoats, pointed their microphones intently at every Celtics staff member who passed by.
"Mr. Lin Qi, with the Celtics having won 60 games in the regular season, is there any panic in the locker room as they face the seventh-ranked Knicks, who have Patrick Ewing?"
"Rumors are circulating that Gary Payton had a serious physical altercation with Coach Pitino during yesterday's closed-door practice, with the two even exchanging guns. Will he still be starting point guard tomorrow night?"
"As the general manager, do you think Rick Pitino's college championship experience will become useless theoretical knowledge when facing Jeff Van Gundy's tough, meat-grinding defense?"
" Kevin Garnett's team recently demanded a $126 million contract from management. Will this have any impact on their performance in the first round of the playoffs?"
The reporters' cameras and microphones were practically piercing Lin Qi's face.
Lin Qi tugged at his suit jacket, his steps never faltering, but he couldn't help but curse inwardly.
Two people are facing off with guns in a closed-door training session?
Why the hell don't you just say they were bleeding each other with knives in the stadium?
While Gary Payton may be a big mouth and Rick Pitino may be a control freak, this is the Boston FleetCenter, not the hideout of a Colombia drug lord!
However, Lin Qi knew very well that the reason these media outlets were swarming like Shark smelling blood was because the Boston Celtics were now one of the most watched teams in the United States.
"No comment, everyone." Escorted by security personnel, Lin Qi calmly opened the microphone in front of him, his voice steady and firm.
It was 4 PM sharp, with four hours left before tee time.
On the wooden door of the Celtics ' home locker room, an assistant coach used a thumbtack to stick the official playoff starting lineup for tonight in the most conspicuous position.
The starting lineup for the Boston Celtics in Game 1 of the first round of the playoffs.
Point Guard (PG): Tony Delk
Shooting Guard (SG): Eddie Jones
Small Forward (SF): Robert Horry
Power Forward (PF): Kevin Garnett
Center (C): Dikembe Mutombo
Once everyone saw it, Delk's name was clearly listed in the first column for point guards.
The once somewhat noisy locker room suddenly became eerily quiet, as if all the air had been sucked out.
Tony Delk stood alone in front of his locker, not even daring to look up at the older men around him, mechanically wrapping white bandages around his wrists again and again.
Ron Mercer glanced at the list, sighed, and lowered his head deeply to the floor.
Robert Horry sat on the physiotherapy bed, slowly putting on stockings, his expression still that of someone who couldn't quite figure out what was going on.
Mutombo sat in a chair, his hands clasped together and resting on his broad chin, his face as dark as the night sky before a storm.
Eddie Jones sat in the corner, organizing his sneakers without making a sound.
Garnett stood there, stunned, staring at the starting lineup for a full half minute.
Until I heard the heavy sound of sneakers behind me.
Gary Payton strolled over, hands in his tracksuit pockets.
His gaze lingered on the name " Tony Delk " for only half a second.
Five seconds.
Ten seconds.
The heavy breathing of some players could even be heard throughout the locker room.
Gary Payton stared at the paper, then suddenly shrugged and let out a piercing sneer, "Fine, that's fucking interesting."
He turned around abruptly, strode back to his locker, ripped off his hoodie, and roughly pulled on his green jersey with the Boston Celtics number 20 printed on it.
"Then let the New York outside see what college basketball is all about!" Gary Payton said coldly as he put on his jacket.
Garnett whirled around, his eyes bloodshot, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked. " Gary, I fucking..."
Gary Payton didn't give him a chance to finish speaking, coldly interrupting him without turning around. "Kid, this is none of your business. Fight however you want."
After saying that, Gary Payton walked straight to the most inconspicuous bench at the very end of the locker room, sat down, bent down, and began to tie his shoelaces one by one.
Lin Qi stood quietly outside the locker room door.
The heavy wooden door was not closed tightly, leaving a gap about the width of a palm.
He sensed the oppressive, almost suffocating silence within.
Outside the arena, the clamor of Boston fans entering the stadium could already be heard. Twenty thousand Boston, dressed in green die-hard jerseys, were waving white towels distributed to them, marching in unison on the floor of the stands, chanting "Beat New York!" wildly.
To the pure fans outside, they came here today to witness a great young powerhouse with sixty wins launch its first sprint towards the O'Brien Trophy in this new era.
But only General Manager Lin Qi, standing in the shadows of the corridor, knew the truth.
Tonight, the real challenge for the Boston Celtics isn't facing Jeff Van Gundy and Patrick Ewing on the court.
Rather, it's a problem within the team itself that has escalated to an irreconcilable level.
Lin Qi slowly raised his head and looked at the other end of the corridor.
Head coach Rick Pitino, dressed in a crisp, almost wrinkle-free suit, clutched a spotless tactical board tightly in his hand, his leather shoes making a steady, arrogant clatter on the smooth marble floor as he walked step by step toward the locker room door.
His steps were steady, and his head was held high.
It's just like a fanatical believer who holds the Truth in his hands and is about to go and prove to the world that he is absolutely right.
Lin Qi leaned against the cold wall and glanced at his watch.
The first round of the playoffs is about to begin.