That afternoon, in the general manager's office.
The chief team doctor pushed open the heavy mahogany door and placed a medical report bearing the Celtics' shamrock logo in the center of Lin Qi's desk.
"Mr. Lin Qi, the baseline reports for the rest of the team are all in good health, meeting reserve expectations." The veteran team doctor adjusted his glasses, his tone somewhat somber. "Except... Ben Wallace."
Lin Qi's hand, holding the coffee cup, paused in mid-air for a moment.
He slowly raised his head, looked at the head of the medical team in front of him, and gestured for the other person to continue.
"His physique is one of the strongest I've ever seen in my thirty years of working in sports medicine. His bone density is far beyond that of ordinary people, and his muscle fiber density and cardiopulmonary recovery speed are all top-notch. But unfortunately..."
The old man changed the subject, tapping the curve on the report with his pen.
"There is a very hidden problem with his right wrist joint."
"This potential problem is extremely minor. If it weren't for the repeated simulations using this newly acquired microcurrent nerve stress testing system, a routine MRI at any hospital in the US would only indicate mild fatigue." The old doctor's expression was extremely serious. "It's a very early-stage, strain-related aseptic inflammation of the tendon sheath, and due to years of impact on the ulnar side of the bone, there are already some subtle signs of nerve compression."
"To put it simply," the veteran team doctor said, trying to keep his words concise, "After his right wrist had endured several intense muscle exertions in a row... such as consecutive blocks, high-post scrambles, or catching the ball, the nerve that controls the fine motor skills at the fingertips would experience an extremely brief numbness, which even he himself might have thought was an illusion."
In Lin Qi's clear memories of the future, Ben Wallace will be the ultimate barrier in the paint, holding a four-time DPOY trophy and tearing down the Lakers F4 in Detroit.
However, he had a fatal flaw that accompanied him throughout his entire career and was ridiculed by the American media and fans for more than a decade...
His free throws were absolutely terrible.
Throughout his career, his regular season free throw percentage has consistently hovered around a paltry 40%, and in some crucial playoff games, he has even managed to airball his shots.
In this results-oriented league, from legendary figures to ordinary spectators, everyone naturally assumed that it was because Big Ben Wallace was simply not cut out for basketball; he was a rough guy, a defensive tool with too much brute force who only knew how to do the dirty work in the paint.
That's not some kind of natural roughness. It's an injury, a hidden occupational injury that has been left undiagnosed and treated roughly over the years.
In the original timeline, this hidden danger was completely ignored during the years Big Ben Wallace spent undrafted and as a fringe player for the Wizards. In year after year of head-to-head battles, that tiny nerve swelled and was compressed until it died completely, eventually destroying even the most subtle muscle memory in his right hand's knuckles. This turned a young man who could have developed a free throw shot into a tactical liability in the later stages of his career, someone who could only sit on the bench in crucial moments or stand under the basket and be repeatedly targeted by opponents.
"Grandpa, if we intervene now, will this situation become serious?" Lin Qi heard his voice sound a little hoarse.
"Right now? Right now it's not even an injury, just a very minor inflammatory reaction. Very, very early stage. That's what I'm most grateful for today."
The old man pushed up his glasses and uttered a truth that sent a chill down Lin Qi's spine.
"If this hidden danger continues to be ignored by the coaching staff, and he continues to use that hand to push the barbell and to fight hard against big men Patrick Ewing under the basket without any restraint, then in less than three years, that insignificant numbness will lead to irreversible and permanent nerve atrophy."
"By then, he would never be able to regain any finesse in his hand."
When Lynch called Ben Wallace into his office for a private talk, Lin Qi hesitated for a long time at his desk, trying to figure out how to start the conversation.
As always, Big Ben entered the room with a silent expression.
He sat down on the leather sofa opposite Lin Qi, his broad frame almost completely filling the entire sofa.
"Sit down, have some water." Lin Qi pushed a glass of warm water in front of him.
Big Ben didn't touch the water glass; he simply sat upright and waited silently.
"Ben, the medical report from the medical center is on my desk." Lin Qi cut to the chase, "You have a hidden injury on your right wrist."
Big Ben's face, as hard as iron, visibly froze for a moment, his eyes becoming somewhat vacant.
"It's not serious, not even a case of overuse injury." Lin Qi stared intently into his eyes, his tone leaving no room for argument. "But the medical team's conclusion is clear: if we don't take strict action and protect it starting tonight, it will completely ruin some of your potential as a professional player in three years."
Big Ben remained silent. But for the first time, a faint hint of panic flickered in his eyes, which usually appeared calm and collected on the field, in front of Lin Qi.
"I know your palms tend to ache and swell after games," Lin Qi said calmly, leaning back in his chair. "You think it's a normal reaction to too much training, and you even think that wrist pain is no big deal for a center. But I have to tell you clearly... it's this seemingly insignificant problem that's affecting your shooting touch every time you take a shot."
"We don't expect you to become Mid-Range King like Allan Houston in the second half of the season, or put up Larry Bird Larry Bird's numbers at the free-throw line. That doesn't make sense in basketball, and there's no need for it..."
"However, I will not allow any potential injury that could have been prevented by modern medicine to turn you into a fatal flaw on the most crucial stages of the future, someone who can only stand on the sidelines watching their teammates fight, while on the court they can only be repeatedly humiliated by the opponent's shameless fouling tactics."
"Starting today, the chief team doctor's physical therapy team will develop a comprehensive, meticulous daily wrist rehabilitation and care plan for you. This includes a specially designed shock-absorbing wrist brace, microcurrent neurotherapy, and a precise force application method that has been fine-tuned by the shooting coach to minimize the burden on your wrist bones."
Lin Qi turned around and looked at the undulating Boston skyline outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.
"Your right hand should stay healthy and intact throughout your entire professional career..."
Ben Wallace slowly raised his bloodshot eyes, which were glaringly red from extreme restraint, and looked at Lin Qi.
From that day on, in the training facility on the basement floor of the Boston Arena, there was one more silent figure who arrived earliest and left latest for the entire team.
Every afternoon, as the team's intense practice ended and Gary Payton and others headed to the showers complaining, Ben Wallace would invariably stay behind alone. He would put on his specially made, high-elasticity black wristband, developed by the medical team and lined with a special ointment, and under the supervision of the shooting assistant coach, he would mechanically repeat the most tedious and basic free-throw line shooting drills again and again, following the new skeletal force curve.