June 29, 1994, Indianapolis, Hoosier Dome.
The NBA had brought this year's draft to the Pacers' home turf, and more than twenty thousand Indiana fans packed the stands.
For these fans, who had just watched their team suffer a heartbreaking loss to the Knicks in the Eastern Conference Finals, tonight held one extra attraction-the local golden boy, Eric Montross.
The seven-foot white center, who had come out of Lawrence North High School in Indianapolis and gone on to win an NCAA championship at North Carolina, was the crowd favorite tonight.
Every time he appeared on the big screen, deafening cheers erupted through the Hoosier Dome.
And almost every draft expert had made the same prediction: ninth overall, Boston Celtics, Eric Montross.
The logic was airtight... Parish was old, and the Boston Celtics desperately needed a center. Montross had the highest floor of any traditional five in this draft, and the Boston media had started calling him "the Celtics' next white tower" a month ago.
In the Celtics' war room, the head scout went over the list one last time.
"Lin, Montross's agent called again this afternoon. He really wants to wear green. He said his grandfather..."
"I know. His grandfather nearly joined the Celtics in 1948. Very touching story."
Lin Qi cut him off, his gaze settling on another name on the list. "But we're not picking him tonight."
The entire war room fell silent.
David Stern stepped onto the stage, and the draft officially began.
The first eight picks brought no surprises. Everything followed the course Lin Qi remembered.
First overall, Milwaukee Bucks, Glenn "Big Dog" Robinson.
Second overall, Dallas Mavericks, Jason Kidd.
Third overall, Detroit Pistons, Grant Hill.
Fourth overall, Minnesota Timberwolves, Donyell Marshall.
Fifth overall, Bullets, Juwan Howard.
Sixth overall, Philadelphia 76ers, Sharone Wright.
Seventh overall, Clippers, Lamond Murray.
Eighth overall, Sacramento Kings, Brian Grant.
"The Boston Celtics are on the clock with the ninth pick. Three minutes remaining."
The noise inside the Hoosier Dome began to swell, and twenty thousand pairs of eyes turned toward Montross in the stands.
The young man had already straightened his suit collar, while his mother wiped away tears of excitement beside him.
The ESPN commentator sounded absolutely certain. "No suspense here. Boston will take Montross at number nine. This might even be the one pick tonight that needs the least analysis..."
Meanwhile, in the Los Angeles Lakers' war room, Jerry West stared at the television screen, his fingers tapping unconsciously against the table.
The Lakers held the tenth pick, right behind the Boston Celtics.
Throughout the spring, West's scouting team had flown all over the country. In the end, every report pointed to the same name-Eddie Jones of Temple University.
A six-foot-six swingman with an astonishing wingspan, fierce defense, and a graceful, fluid jump shot.
West's discerning eye for players was unmatched in the league.
To him, the big men in the lottery were all mediocre. Only this lanky youngster, widely projected to fall outside the top ten, had the makings of a superstar.
He had even worked out the plan: Jones at shooting guard, then, in another two years, pair him with a young center who could wreak havoc inside. The revival of the purple-and-gold dynasty would only be a matter of time.
"Relax, Jerry." An assistant handed him a cup of coffee. "Everyone in the league knows Boston is desperate for Montross. Jones will fall to us. It's a lock."
West grunted, but his brow remained furrowed.
After thirty years in this business, the words he trusted least were "it's a lock."
Onstage, Stern opened the envelope.
"With the ninth pick in the 1994 NBA Draft, the Boston Celtics select..."
Montross was already halfway out of his seat.
"...Eddie Jones, from Temple University."
The entire Hoosier Dome went quiet for a second, then erupted into thunderous boos laced with disbelief.
The camera hastily cut away from Montross, frozen halfway to his feet, to the other side of the stands...
Eddie Jones himself was stunned. Only after his agent nudged him twice did he react, rising and walking toward the stage in a daze.
The ESPN commentary desk scrambled. "This... this is tonight's first upset! The Celtics have passed on Montross, the player everyone thought they'd take, and selected Eddie Jones at number nine! My God, their backcourt already has... what are they after?!"
And in Los Angeles, that cup of coffee was slammed hard onto the table in the Lakers' war room.
"Damn it!"
Jerry West shot to his feet, veins throbbing on the forehead of a man who was usually the picture of composure.
He stared at the draft list on the table, unable to suppress the flare of anger inside him. He seized it, crushed the white sheet into a ball in his palm, and hurled it into the wastebasket in the corner.
"Boston! Boston again!" He paced the room like a lion robbed of its prey. "What do they need Jones for?! They have Fox! They have Brown! What they need is a center! A center!!"
Assistant general manager Mitch Kupchak tried to put out the fire. "Jerry, calm down. We still have alternatives. Jalen Rose is still there, and so is Montross..."
"I don't want a center! There was only one name on the first page of my list!"
West slammed a fist onto the table, making the coffee cup jump. "Find out! Find out who's running things in Boston now! That miser Gaston would never approve a pick like this. Who was it?!"
Word soon came back over the phone: a young man named Lin Qi, twenty-nine years old, a nobody who had only gained authority over basketball operations three weeks ago.
West held the receiver and fell silent for a long time.
Decades ago, he too had come up being called a "nobody."
He knew better than anyone that a man who could withstand the pressure of public opinion throughout Boston, pass over the golden boy everyone wanted, and precisely snatch a player out of the tenth pick's grasp was not gambling.
That was someone who had seen the same thing he had.
"Jerry, ninety seconds left. We have to submit a name," Kupchak urged.
West closed his eyes briefly and forced a few words through his teeth. "...Montross. Get me that center."
And so, when Stern announced, "With the tenth pick, the Los Angeles Lakers select Eric Montross," the Indiana fans in the Hoosier Dome delivered the most absurd scene of the night.
They cheered as their hometown golden boy was selected by a bitter rival, yet sighed because he had not gotten to wear a Celtics jersey.
The broadcast camera finally cut to the Celtics' seats.
The young general manager, Lin Qi, was smiling and shaking hands with those beside him. As though sensing something, he looked up at the camera and lightly raised his bottle of mineral water toward Los Angeles, far away on the other side of the continent.
Here's to you, Logo.
At that moment, the only sounds in the Lakers' war room were a few dull presses of buttons.
West did not even look at Montross's smiling face on television as he put on a Lakers cap. He grabbed the red telephone beside him and deftly dialed the direct line to the Miami Heat's front office.
The call was answered after just two rings.
"Jerry?"
West wedged the receiver between his shoulder and ear. "I know you need a young big man. David Stern just read out the name. Lewis Schaffel, are you interested in Eric Montross?"
Meanwhile, in the home-team Pacers' war room, general manager Donnie Walsh withdrew his gaze from the Boston Celtics' seats, looking thoughtful.
He held the fifteenth pick and the draft of a three-team trade he had been planning for a long time.
But what had just happened suddenly gave him another idea...
That young man in Boston who dared snatch meat from Jerry West's mouth had Dino Radja and Sherman Douglas in his hands.
And what his own team, just one step away from the NBA Finals, lacked was precisely...
"Give Boston a call," Walsh told his assistant. "Tell them I'd like to buy their new general manager a drink after we wrap up."
Draft night had only just begun.