Head coach Doc Rivers strode to the center of the restaurant and clapped his hands forcefully. "Alright, gentlemen. You've had your fill of meat, you've had your fill of cards, and you're probably tired of hearing about the old guys' past glories. Now, stop all your entertainment and let's talk about something less fun."
With Doc Rivers ' hoarse command, several burly Celtics support staff carried several heavy, large cardboard boxes into the meeting room. In front of each player's seat, a green folder exuding the fresh smell of ink was placed with utmost seriousness.
The gold lettering on the folder cover was printed with restraint.
[Personal preparation advice during the 1998-1999 season suspension].
However, when Gary Payton impatiently opened the first page of the folder, he saw several large, bold characters handwritten in red pen at the very top of the inner page.
[Sole goal: The championship]
To the left of the green folder, neatly arranged were boxes of black videotapes labeled with each player's personal name. Gary Payton, Eddie Jones, Robert Horry, Kevin Garnett, Kevin Mutombo, Dikembe Billups, Chris Paul Pierce, Chauncey Billups Lewis, Ben Billups... each had a box in front of them, not one Wallace than the other.
Doc Rivers picked up one of the cassette tapes with Gary Payton's name on it, weighed it in his hand, and glanced around the room.
"Let me make this clear to everyone first: this doesn't contain complicated half-court movement tactics, nor is it a mandatory order imposed on you by the team management. Everyone knows that in four days, on July 1st, all teams in the league will be locked down. During this long lockout, according to the league's legal department regulations, the existing coaching staff and management cannot contact you through any public channels, by phone, or during training camps. Therefore, from a legal perspective, what I'm sending you today is merely advice."
Gary Payton, sitting on a bench by the window, leaned back and let out a disdainful sneer, "Suggestions?"
"That's right, a suggestion." Doc Rivers stared directly at the star point guard across most of the long table. "You can throw this document and the videotape out the window right now, right in front of me, into the North Atlantic Ocean to feed the fish. According to union law, the Boston management won't be able to fine you a single penny. But on the day of the restart, if you come back to my locker room covered in fat, with old injuries that haven't healed, and with terrible shooting touch, don't come crying to me about how you didn't receive this guide back then."
For a moment, no one in the entire restaurant could laugh anymore.
Lin Qi stood quietly at the far end of the long table, arms crossed, a cigarette dangling from his lips as was his habit. To his right, defensive assistant coach Tom Thibodeau coldly swept his gaze across each player's face with scrutiny and ill intent.
For these two items, Boston has assembled a full team of video editors, a chief strength trainer, a full-time medical team, and nutrition experts over the past month. These professionals are absolutely not allowed to accompany the players to their respective vacation destinations during the lockout, so in these final days, they have worked tirelessly to compile every possible detail into this customized manual.
Thibodeau left the perimeter players with key messages on video: weak-side box-out defense, blind spots in physical confrontations when going around screens, and communication commands. For the interior players, he focused on positioning in the paint, timing jumps for help defense, and the art of body control on the edge of foul trouble. The strength coach, tailored to each player's physique, specified strict body fat percentages and core strength development goals to be achieved during the hiatus. The team medical team also developed specific, weekly personalized advice and guidelines for players like Garnett, Gary Payton, Mutombo, on how to improve their physical condition.
The video editors were the most ruthless. They directly edited together the ten most humiliating plays from last season's playoffs, plays that everyone would rather not face, plays that would make them want to crawl into a hole in the video rental store. They laid out these plays without reservation in front of everyone: missed man, out of position, bad shots, failure to get back on defense, and failure to pass when they should have.
Gary Payton roughly flipped open his folder, and on the first page, written in bright red ink, were the following: [Strictly prohibited from traveling to Seattle and Los Angeles to participate in any amateur commercial pickup games during the shutdown. Strictly control weight gain. Immobilize and ice your left ankle daily.]
Gary Payton's brow furrowed, and he looked up at the team doctor not far away, shouting somewhat displeasedly, "Hey, old man, who the hell wrote this? I know my own body inside and out."
The team doctor slowly capped his pen, adjusted his glasses, and looked at him coldly. "I wrote this, Gary. If you don't want to become a defensive liability on the court after you turn thirty due to habitual ankle sprains, you'd better quit those pickup courts this summer. If you really don't want to hear it, sign that confirmation form at the bottom, then walk out and throw this document in the trash. Do as you please."
Gary Payton stared intently at the team doctor who dared to defy him in public for a full three seconds, finally letting out a cold snort and somewhat irritatedly signing his name in a flamboyant manner on the confirmation form, "You guys in Boston, you really know how to exploit loopholes."
The team doctor looked down and took back the form, his tone icy. "Then don't let me see you've gained a whole eight pounds on the video during the first physical test of the new season."
In contrast, Kevin Garnett didn't have those densely packed, complex forms and tables that made his scalp tingle. Instead, Doc Rivers and the coaching staff had specially placed an old-fashioned black Walkman and several labeled cassette tapes in a folder after understanding the situation.
Wearing oversized headphones, Garnett pressed the [play] button with his right hand, his fingers tense. Soon, Doc Rivers ' signature, slightly hoarse but extremely clear recording came through the headphones, entering his ears in the most straightforward language, sentence by sentence.
" Kevin, this summer you need to build eight to ten pounds of muscle, but your lateral movement defensive speed cannot decline at all. After receiving the ball at the high post, the time from receiving the ball to making an offensive decision must be reduced to less than three seconds. In the last five minutes of half-court set plays, your primary role is to be a finisher, reduce meaningless passes."
Garnett lowered his head, staring intently at the spinning tape gears, his lips unconsciously pursed.
Gary Payton craned his neck and leaned closer. His shifty eyes immediately spotted Garnett's empty folder, which contained only a Walkman.
Garnett calmly stuffed the cassette tapes into the deepest part of his backpack.
Rookie Chris Paul Pierce's folder contained only four lines of emotionless instructions: [Force body fat percentage down to 8%-9%], [Adapt to the longer three-point line distance in the NBA at a private gym], [Strengthen lower body core strength for low-post back-to-the-basket play], and [Increase ball-handling and finishing drills significantly in half-court sets].
Pierce held the pen and signed his name in the bottom right corner of the confirmation form.
Rashard Lewis received the thickest and most detailed document of all. It was absurdly detailed, specifying the exact calorie intake for his three daily meals, his exact sleep and rest schedule, and even which weeks he was absolutely forbidden from adding weight in the weight room to avoid compressing his still-developing bones and joints. The last page contained only a handwritten sentence from the Celtics' chief nutritionist and strength and conditioning coach. "[Listen, boy, don't rush to prove your invincibility on the court. First, survive the physical battles.]"
At the head of the table, Doc Rivers placed his hands on the table.
"Going to nightclubs, taking your long vacation in Hawaii, or going back to your hometown to be with your families—that's the freedom granted to you by union law. The lockout has never been your fault as players."
The head coach spoke very slowly, but his hoarse voice carried an undeniable authority.
"But allow me to remind you all today that the fat won't stop growing just because the owners and unions are arguing in the office; your old injuries won't heal automatically just because labor negotiations break down; and as for your shooting touch and defensive instincts that you rely on for survival, they won't just fall from the sky the day the doors to the restart reopen, just because you think you're nationally renowned geniuses."
Doc Rivers ' gaze swept across Gary Payton's face, then landed on Garnett, Pierce, and the high school student in turn.
"When the shutdown ends next year and the doors reopen, I don't want to hear anyone in this locker room say to me, 'Sorry, I'm not ready yet.' For the next few months, you are legally free. But listen carefully: freedom is not about letting yourself go."
Only then did Lin Qi, who had remained silent all along, slowly take a step and walk to the very front of the long table.
Lin Qi took the unlit cigarette out of his mouth and slapped it onto the center of the table.
Last season, the Boston Celtics won a whopping sixty games in the regular season. The entire American media was hailing us as a return to the ranks of the elite.
"Then, we were swept out of the playoffs in the first round by the New York Knicks. Viewers across America watched live on television how the Boston Celtics went soft in the fourth quarter."
Everyone present stopped laughing and joking; no one could laugh anymore.
"I don't want to hear the media keep saying in the press conferences or newspapers at the start of the new season that our team is young, we have a future, and we have great talent. All that nice-sounding nonsense does is make you weak in the locker room and turn you into hothouse flowers. The lockout affects all teams in the league the same way. Some will gain weight, some will go to nightclubs and ruin their health, and some will use it as an excuse to lose. That's their prerogative."
Lin Qi looked at these faces, each one destined to rule the league in the future, his deep eyes resolute and determined.
" The Celtics next season..."
"No, starting tomorrow, my only goal consists of just two words..."
"Champion."
Did you understand?
Doc Rivers casually pulled a blank videotape—completely black and unlabeled—from the inside pocket of his suit jacket and slammed it onto the long table.
Gary Payton frowned, tapping the table with his fingernail in annoyance. "What the hell is this thing now?"
Doc Rivers grinned widely, revealing a smile that sent chills down the spines of the young players present, even under the dim chandelier.
"No, Gary. This tape is completely blank right now, there's nothing inside. I'm going to keep it in my desk to document all the incredibly stupid mistakes you multi-millionaires will make on defense, in rotations, and in crucial possessions this season. On the day we finally put our championship rings on, I'll put it on public display in front of hundreds of thousands of marching fans at Boston City Hall, so you bastards will remember how many stupid things you did that almost killed us along the way."
After a brief and oppressive silence.
Gary Payton was the first to lean back in his chair and laugh out loud without restraint, "Coach, don't worry, I'll keep a little notebook of all the stupid things you do on the sidelines. Don't forget yours when they're being shown in the plaza later."
Harper chuckled and tapped his championship ring on the corner of the table. "Don't worry, Doc, I'm the best at remembering coaching mistakes."
Garnett slammed his fist on the table and burst into wild laughter again, while Dikembe Mutombo's deep, hoarse laughter echoed like low-frequency thunderclaps throughout the somewhat old restaurant.
The long-standing, suffocating pre-war atmosphere was finally shattered by this burst of laughter mixed with countless curses.
Only four days left.
On July 1st, all the doors to NBA arenas will be completely locked.