That evening, at an old-school steakhouse near Turner Sports headquarters in Atlanta.
The private room wasn't very large, and the heavy, dark, vintage wallpaper completely blocked out the noise from outside. The lighting was deliberately kept low, casting only a dim, yellowish halo around the center of the long, dark brown wooden table. The table was clean, with no bottles of alcohol, only two steaming glasses of black coffee and several glasses of ice water filled with crushed ice.
When Doc Rivers walked in, his dark gray suit still bore the creases from the studio setting, his Windsor knot was half-undone, and he hadn't even bothered to loosen his tie completely. He had just finished Turner Sports ' Late Night debriefing program, and his slightly hoarse voice revealed the tension from speaking at high intensity for several consecutive nights.
However, when Doc Rivers ' gaze fell on the other side of the bench, he suddenly froze. He looked at the broad-shouldered old face, the weariness in his eyes vanished instantly, and he grinned and cursed.
" Nique? You bastard, didn't you just win the Europe Championship last month and be enjoying yourself in Italy? What are you doing here?"
Dominique Wilkins rose from the bench, walked with somewhat heavy steps to meet his old comrade-in-arms, with whom he had fought side by side for seven seasons in Atlanta, and embraced him.
"I'd like to know why I'm here too." Dominique Wilkins patted Doc Rivers on the back, then gestured helplessly to the seat next to him with a wry smile. "This morning, that guy used a single phone call to practically drag me from the lobby of Boston Logan Airport all the way to Atlanta."
Doc Rivers followed Dominique Wilkins's finger and his gaze finally landed on Lin Qi, who sat calmly in the shadows. The friendly smile on his face hadn't completely disappeared, but his intuition as a seasoned veteran of the league made his eyes instantly wary.
" The Boston Celtics ' president? Lin Qi?" Doc Rivers unbuttoned the bottom button of his suit jacket, slowly pulled out a chair, and sat down, his eyes darting back and forth between Lin Qi and Dominique Wilkins. "Looks like this dinner isn't just a simple gathering of old friends."
Lin Qi smiled slightly and gestured for the waiter to bring water, "Indeed, not simple."
"I knew it." Doc Rivers gave a self-deprecating smirk, then turned and glared at Dominique Wilkins. "What are you two up to, coming all the way to Atlanta to ambush me today? Tell me, Lin, don't tell me your Celtics are planning to renegotiate a new exclusive television broadcasting deal with Turner Sports. That's not my business."
Lin Qi didn't beat around the bush. With his slender fingers, he pulled a folder from his briefcase and gently pushed it across the smooth mahogany table in front of Doc Rivers.
Doc Rivers didn't take it immediately. He kept his head down, his gaze sweeping across the bold black text on the cover in the dim light.
Immediately afterwards, the micro-expressions on his face froze, and the self-deprecating smile on his lips was abruptly frozen in mid-air.
[ Boston Celtics Head Coach Contract]
The entire private room fell into a deathly silence, broken only by the faint crackling of ice melting in the ice water glass.
Doc Rivers slowly raised his head. "Are you crazy?"
Lin Qi placed his hands on the table, calmly shaking his head. "As the president of Boston, if I were truly insane, the board would have sent me to a sanatorium yesterday. Obviously, it hasn't come to that."
"You're insane, and seriously insane."
Doc Rivers took a deep breath. He didn't even have the desire to open the contract; he simply stretched out two fingers and pushed the folder back a little further.
"Lin, you should look at the league's coaching credential database. I, Doc Rivers, can brag in front of national television, but I've never been an NBA head coach for a single day, not even a minute of assistant coaching experience. And do you know that your Boston Celtics won a full sixty games in the regular season last year?"
"I know, second in the Eastern Conference." Lin Qi nodded.
"Sixty games!" Doc Rivers ' voice suddenly turned somber, carrying a sense of oppressive pressure, like someone being forced into a corner. "That's not a rebuilding team you can use to give rookie coaches practice and gain experience. You got swept 3-0 by the Knicks in the first round of the playoffs last year. It looked shameful to outsiders, but the core of the team was still there. Gary Payton was still there, Kevin Garnett was still there, Dikembe Mutombo was still there. Now you've put me, a commentator, in that spotlight. If we win, the entire American media and fans will say your roster is good enough that even a dog could win on the bench. If we lose, I'll be the culprit who completely destroyed a sixty-win championship contender."
But Lin Qi didn't rush to explain. He turned to the side, took out a videotape without any labels from his bag, and with a snap, steadily pushed it into the center of the mahogany table.
Doc Rivers frowned deeply. "What is this now?"
"Game 3 of the first round of last season's playoffs," Lin Qi said, pointing to the tape, his voice low, " Gary Payton didn't execute Pitino's instructions. Then, Boston called a timeout."
Lin Qi's voice remained calm. "During that timeout, Pitino coldly questioned Gary Payton in front of everyone, and Gary Payton looked terrible. At that moment, KG lowered his head, and Mutombo and Horry didn't even look at the clipboard, falling into a collective silence."
Doc Rivers fell silent.
Lin Qi looked at Doc Rivers: "In that game, Boston didn't lose because of any particular tactical play. The real problem was that the players completely distrusted the coach, and the coach couldn't control the players at all."
Lin Qi continued, "What I need isn't someone who can yell louder to shut them down. Pitino has proven that you can't go against these troublemakers. Gary Payton isn't a college student, and neither is Kevin Garnett."
Doc Rivers slowly raised his eyes and stared at him. "So? What are you trying to tell me?"
Lin Qi looked him straight in the eye and revealed his trump card, word by word. "I want to tell you, this team doesn't lack tactics, nor does it lack discipline. The only thing it lacks right now is someone who, once the door is closed, can make all the players believe... that the coach will always stand with them."
On the other side of the private room, Dominique Wilkins had picked up a knife and fork at some point and was slowly and deliberately cutting the cooling steak on his plate. The silver knife made a dull sound as it scraped against the porcelain plate.
Doc Rivers stared at the black videotape in the center of the table, remaining silent for a long time. As a veteran point guard who had been in the league for over a decade, he knew all too well the suffocating feeling of a head coach and core player completely falling out and distrusting each other.
Dominique Wilkins broke the silence by stuffing a piece of steak into his mouth, chewing a few times, and swallowing it.
" Doc, what this kid said... you might want to consider it."
Doc Rivers turned around, somewhat surprised, to look at his old friend.
Dominique Wilkins wiped the grease from his mouth with a tissue, his earlier arrogance fading slightly as he looked directly at him. "If you're planning to go, I'll help you. Next season, I'll be backing you up in the Boston locker room."
For a moment, the only sound in the private room was the melting of crushed ice in the glasses.
"You're crazy, Nique." Doc Rivers chuckled self-deprecatingly. "You, someone who's aiming for a tax-free contract in Europe, come back to the NBA for a minimum salary, just to be a bodyguard in the locker room for a rookie coach like me who can't even draw up a playsheet?"
"I'm not doing this for you, I'm doing this so I can touch that ring one last time." Dominique Wilkins threw the tissue on the table, leaned back in his chair, and grinned widely.
His old teammate had said enough; Doc Rivers knew that Dominique was sacrificing his last bit of reputation to secure Rivers' first coaching contract.
"What if, in the worst-case scenario, we still fail?" Doc Rivers turned his head and stared intently into Lin Qi's eyes.
He needs a guarantee that can cover all risks.
Lin Qi did not avoid his gaze and answered, word by word.
"Then I'll stand at the forefront, sharing the burden with you in Boston, facing all the media scrutiny from across the country. If anyone has to resign, the one accountable to the board and the public will be me."
Doc Rivers didn't reply immediately. He let out a long breath and looked into the calm yet unusually profound eyes of the young CEO opposite him.
He was unaware that the "young president" in front of him, who was seen by the media and the league as making a crazy gamble, was actually the real owner behind this historic powerhouse. In this private room, no so-called board of directors could sway Lin Qi's decisions. Lin Qi's promise of "ultimate responsibility" was the absolute and unchangeable will of the entire Boston Celtics.
Doc Rivers finally reached out and snatched the thick contract, examining it for a long time.
Doc Rivers took a deep breath, slammed the contract shut, didn't sign it, and stuffed it directly into his briefcase.
"I need to see the lawyer's documents, and I also need to handle the contract termination with the TV station myself."
"Okay." Lin Qi nodded.
"And another thing," Doc Rivers looked up, a ruthless glint in his eyes, "At tomorrow's press conference, I won't be touting that you absolutely must win the championship next season, nor will I claim to be the savior of the Boston Celtics."
"Then what did you say?"
Doc Rivers said in a low voice, "I'll tell the reporters that this team that's won sixty games needs to relearn to be patient with each other and listen to each other, starting tomorrow."
Lin Qi looked at him and finally smiled, "That's enough."
Dominique Wilkins picked up his coffee cup and waved it in the air. "So, is it a deal now?"
"Lin, don't let my name leak to the media before tomorrow."
"I know."
Doc Rivers pushed open the door and went out.
The private room fell silent again. Dominique Wilkins leaned back in his chair, looked at the closed door, and chuckled softly, "He's interested."