Gary Payton grumbled as he took two steps closer, squinting at Doc Rivers ' new Celtics uniform. "Is Turner Sports not paying salaries now? Doc, you're the guy who's always bossing me around on TV, and you've actually come to Boston to be our boss?"
Near the bus door, several young Boston players who had just gotten off the bus heard this and immediately began to chuckle quietly, though they were somewhat intimidated.
Doc Rivers slowly turned around, meeting the provocative and testing gaze of the superstar point guard. Instead of getting angry, he grinned and revealed an extremely bright smile.
" Gary, you can continue to spout your proud, foul mouth in the media and locker room. But let me remind you, during my film sessions this season, if you dare to mess up or leave your man open in the fourth quarter again, I will edit every bad shot and misplaced play into a close-up and play it on the big screen in the team cafeteria for three consecutive days."
The players watching erupted in a much louder burst of laughter than before.
Gary Payton gave a forced smile, but the arrogance and probing in his eyes didn't completely disappear because of those words. He grinned, revealing a set of white teeth.
"Very well, Doc. Well, let me remind you, I'll try to give you a run for your money on the court this season and see if I can get you back to the commentary booth on the very first day."
"You're welcome to give it a try anytime, Gary," Doc Rivers patted Gary Payton on the shoulder as he passed. "But I'd better learn some fresh words during this hiatus. Don't forget, I'm a veteran of over a decade in the league, and I was sick of the trash talk you're using ten years ago."
Gary Payton stared intently at Doc Rivers for two seconds, as if he were getting to know the rookie head coach in a new light, then suddenly burst into a shrill laugh, abruptly turning his hand and striding into the restaurant. "Interesting, this trip was definitely worthwhile."
"Roar--!"
Immediately afterwards, accompanied by a strange scream, Kevin Garnett jumped straight out of the second bus. Before Garnett even entered the restaurant, he was already yelling and pulling at his teammates who were traveling with him.
Chris Paul Pierce, wearing his rookie hat with the Boston green shamrock logo backwards, sat silently in a leather booth in the far corner of the restaurant. He was barely speaking tonight, his right hand gripping a can of Coca-Cola tightly, the aluminum can creaking under the weight of his knuckles.
At that moment, the overhead television in the restaurant was repeatedly replaying highlights from last night's NBA draft. Every time the screen panned across the cheering, jumping super talents of the top nine picks, Pierce's eyes grew colder and more somber.
In contrast, Rashad Lewis, a high school student who was picked up by a loophole in the second round (31st overall), looked like a stunted, calcium-deficient, thin bamboo pole, pale and extremely uneasy, following behind the Celtics' life secretary. He hunched over slightly from time to time, his oversized short-sleeved shirt and shorts hanging loosely on his body, appearing even more empty in the sea breeze.
Ron Harper was the last person to arrive right on time. This seasoned veteran, who had won three consecutive championships with the Chicago Bulls and seen it all alongside Jordan, didn't say a word after entering. He simply walked to the long table, sat down, and then slowly raised his left hand, deliberately tapping the Chicago Bulls championship ring, which gleamed under the lights, lightly on the corner of the solid wood table.
"Bite."
A sharp, metallic clang suddenly rang out in the restaurant, instantly silencing the previously noisy card table and the restaurant itself.
Gary Payton raised an eyebrow and glanced at him sideways. Harper also took off his sunglasses and glared back at Gary Payton without backing down. The two arch-rivals, who had fought fiercely in the NBA Finals that year, stared at each other for a full two seconds, and then, almost simultaneously, burst into loud laughter mixed with profanities.
"That old bastard from Chicago."
"That foul-mouthed guy from Seattle."
Dominique Wilkins sat at the very top of the bench today as a "private visitor." On the official schedule the Celtics sent to the league office for inspection, his name was listed simply as "[Guest]" without any mention of coach or player titles.
The first half of the party did indeed resemble a very ordinary players' casual get-together. Someone was slamming plastic chips on the poker table, and Gary Payton and Harper, who had been sitting together for less than five minutes, were already exchanging the most authentic street swear words and insults about each other's families.
Garnett then pestered Dominique Wilkins, who was leaning against the fireplace, insisting that the legendary " The Human Highlight Film " break down the details of his Slam Dunk Contest against Michael Jordan using gestures, without a video recorder.
Mutombo sat comfortably in the warmest sofa chair, a glass of red wine in his hand, watching the group of energetic young people fooling around with a smile.
Pierce remained seated in the corner, staring intently at the Coke can. It wasn't until Dominique Wilkins broke free from Garnett's entanglement, strode heavily to the booth, and plopped down opposite him.
Pierce abruptly raised his head, a hint of defensiveness and arrogance typical of rookies flashing across his young face.
Dominique Wilkins glanced at the draft highlight reel of Mike Bibby on the TV screen, then at the green hat on Pierce's head, and said casually, "Tenth pick?"
Pierce's fingers tightened suddenly around the can, his knuckles turning slightly white from the force. "Yes."
Dominique Wilkins leaned back in his hard chair, his voice barely audible to the two of them. "A pretty good draft position. I was selected third overall in the first round in 1982. I played for Atlanta for over a decade, won the scoring title, the dunk contest, made nine All-Star appearances, and was inducted into the Hall of Fame a couple of years ago. But to this day... I haven't even touched a single championship trophy."
Pierce paused, his wariness turning into astonishment in an instant.
Dominique Wilkins stared intently into the young rookie's eyes. "Draft order, aside from making more money on your first contract, means that once you get to the playoffs, nobody in the league cares what pick you were. Want to shut up all those people who look down on you? The only way is to prove them wrong on the court."
Pierce lowered his head, and after a long silence, he whispered three words: "I know."
"No, you don't know anything yet." Dominique Wilkins stood up and roughly slapped Pierce on the shoulder. "When you get repeatedly stripped by veterans like Ron Harper in scrimmages, when you reach for the ball in the fourth quarter and no one listens, when you get thrashed on the ground by those thugs from New York or Indiana in your first playoff game, then you'll truly understand. Then come talk to me about what you know, rookie."
On the other side of the hotel corridor, Rashad Lewis, a high school student selected in the second round, looked increasingly overwhelmed by the presence of established superstars. Looking at these superstars who routinely dominated games on television, even his hand, reaching for a fork at the grilled meat on his plate, seemed disoriented and stiff.
"Bang!"
Suddenly, a plate piled high like a small mountain, exuding a strong aroma of grease, and two skinless chicken breasts, each as thick as a palm, were roughly shoved in front of Lewis by a pair of large hands.
Lewis shuddered in fright and looked up sharply, meeting Ben Wallace's expressionless face.
Without a word, Big Ben pulled out a chair and sat down Zaza next to the high school student like a wall. "Eat."
"I... I already ate a hamburger in the car," Lewis stammered.
Big Ben looked at him coldly with his dead fish-like eyes, and stretched out his thick fingers, tapping Lewis's thin, wiry wrist with a hint of disdain.
Eat more.
Lewis paused, looking at the plate of roasted meat in front of him, which, though roughly cooked, was still steaming hot. He glanced at Ben Wallace's expression, which seemed to look like he could devour him alive, and quickly lowered his head, picked up his fork, and began to cut the meat with trembling hands.
Although Big Ben's expression remained cold and hard, he casually grabbed a pitcher of ice water from the side and slammed it down next to Lewis with a thud. "Drink some water, don't choke."
Outside the window, the once bright sky gradually darkened, and the roar of the surging waves of the North Atlantic Ocean, accompanied by the oppressive atmosphere before the August storm, grew louder and louder.
The strong wind, carrying sand and gravel, slammed heavily against the old wooden windows of the motel, making a series of loud noises.
Gary Payton and Harper, who had been counting their chips at the poker table, stopped and glanced at the dark, torrential rain outside. The chandelier above the old hotel swayed very slightly due to unstable voltage.
"This damn weather! Boston Airlines is the worst airline in the whole country," Gary Payton cursed under his breath, grabbing a can of ice-cold beer from the table and yelling at the nearby booth, "Hey, Kevin, catch yours!"
Garnett, who was relentlessly pestering Dominique Wilkins for details, turned around, scooped up the can of beer with one hand, and precisely grabbed it. He grinned, snapped the tab open, and took a huge gulp.
There's no heavy historical burden like at Boston Garden, nor the relentless questioning from the media outside.
In this coastal motel trapped by an August storm, a group of people with diverse personalities, some even former adversaries, seem to have managed to bring a touch of their own warmth and life to the old motel, fueled by a variety of high-calorie foods and awkward street jokes.