The next morning, they flew to New York.
Lin Qi barely spoke the whole way. He folded up a copy of the day's newspaper and placed it beside him. In the sports section at the bottom of the front page, there was a photo of Billups before he took a shot last night. The photo was poorly taken... His shoulders were slightly raised, his eyes were unfocused, and he was frozen in mid-air. The headline was even more direct: "Stuck in Mid-Air".
Billups glanced at it but didn't touch the newspaper.
After the plane landed, Lin Qi hailed a taxi and drove out of the city. The buildings outside the car window grew lower and lower, the streets wider and wider, and the May wind blew in through the cracks in the car window, carrying a chill.
"Where are we going?" Billups finally asked.
"Let's eat," Lin Qi said.
"Just for a meal?"
"You haven't eaten yet, have some food first."
Lin Qi didn't continue speaking and turned to look out the window.
They went to a small steakhouse, located in a somewhat out-of-the-way area, with an old sign, seemingly catering only to regular customers. The restaurant was nearly empty in the afternoon; the bartender was wiping glasses behind the counter, and the faint sounds of spatulas clattering came from the kitchen. Lin Qi, clearly a regular, nodded to the waiter and led Billups to a corner seat by the window.
After the food was served, Billups didn't touch it.
He was hungry, but his throat was tight, and he couldn't swallow anything. He stared at the steak on his plate, his right hand unconsciously fiddling with the fork.
How does it taste?
The sound came from the side.
An elderly man with gray hair stood by the table. He was wearing a dark shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his forearms, and a rag was draped over his shoulder. He wasn't a waiter, nor did he seem like the kind of owner who would deliberately try to please customers. He was just passing by when he saw a young man sitting in the shop with a pale face that looked like he was about to vomit, and casually asked him a question.
"Not bad," Lin Qi said.
Billups nodded in agreement. "That's good."
The old man glanced at Billups' almost untouched steak.
"Your expression looks like you're chewing cardboard."
Lin Qi twitched the corner of his mouth.
"I'm the owner here." The old man draped a rag over his shoulder. "If the food is bad, you can tell me while I'm still in a good mood."
"It has nothing to do with the food," Billups said.
"Then it's not the chef's fault." The old man looked at him, staring at him for two seconds. "Is something on your mind?"
Billups remained silent.
The old man squinted and leaned his face forward.
"Wait a minute," he said, "You're that backup guard from Boston, right?"
Billups looked up.
"Your game at the New Garden last night was on TV all day."
The atmosphere suddenly became a little awkward. Lin Qi kept his head down, cutting his steak, pretending not to hear.
Billups grunted in response, without looking up.
The old man pulled out a chair and sat down.
"Alright, stop looking so glum," the old man said. "It's just a loss. As long as you're not dead, there will be plenty of opportunities later. The worst thing is when the game is over and you're still thinking about those one or two rounds, torturing yourself."
Billups stared at him, looking a little embarrassed.
"You used to play ball too?"
The old man was delighted.
"I fought for a few years. I did just as many stupid things when I was younger as you."
Lin Qi put down his knife and fork, glanced out the window, and still didn't say anything.
The old man tapped his knuckles on the table.
"You young defenders sometimes overcomplicate things. The defense on the court, your teammates' positions, whether you should shoot or pass the ball—what's the right thing to do? All that thinking is pointless."
A strange laugh came from the next table. Oil sizzled in the kitchen, and a truck roared past the window.
"There's no right or wrong on the court. The point guard is the team's commander in the most critical moments of the game. You're standing here to make decisions."
Whether to shoot or pass, you need to have a clear idea in your mind first. If you think that shooting this ball will help the team score points and win the game, then don't hesitate. If you think a teammate is in a better position, then pass the ball to them. You need to have confidence in yourself. The worst thing you can do is like you did last night, hesitating and then shifting the blame to your teammates, making them take the responsibility for you.
You need to understand, no matter what you choose, as long as every decision you make is for the sake of winning, that's enough. Even if you lose in the end, you'll be the one getting yelled at when you get back. That's what being a point guard is all about. Understand?
Billups loosened his grip on the fork slightly.
"Should I have thrown it myself last night?" he asked.
"How should I know?" the old man replied curtly, leaving him no room to maneuver. "Your worst mistake last night wasn't the error itself, it was making the other four players on the court wait around with you. In a situation like the fourth quarter, nobody has time to hesitate with you."
Billups looked down, staring at the corner of the table.
He smiled.
"I've experienced something similar when I was younger. It was the conference finals, an away game, and we were down by one point. The play was simple: a high pick and roll. I drove in and saw two options. I thought I was being clever and decided to wait a second in the air to assess the situation. But the ball was knocked away mid-air, and I didn't even get a foul."
Billups looked at him. "And then?"
"And then?" The old man shrugged. "Then I realized something. Trying to play like a 'correct point guard' in crucial moments is nonsense. You're not here to role-play; you're here to win."
The old man stopped, picked up his water glass, and took a sip.
Billups sat there, feeling as if all the tangled thoughts in his mind had been smoothed out. That awkward feeling of "what kind of player should I prove myself to be?" seemed to have eased a bit.
The old man stood up and patted the table.
"The meat's getting cold. Eat it quickly, don't waste my steak."
The old man turned and left, returning behind the bar to continue wiping the glasses as if nothing had happened.
Lin Qi picked up his cup and took a sip of water.
"You've known him for a long time?" Billups asked.
"Um."
"You brought me here on purpose."
"Um."
Who exactly is he?
Lin Qi didn't answer, but just gestured towards the bar.
After finishing his meal, Billups went to the restroom. At the end of the corridor hung several old photographs with worn-out borders.
The one in the very center is black and white. In the photo, a man wearing Celtics number 10 jersey, drenched in sweat, is laughing and hugging a group of people in the locker room. The floor is covered with scraps of paper and champagne. Billups stood there for a while and recognized half of the championship trophy peeking out from the edge of the photo.
When he returned to his seat, Lin Qi had already paid the bill.
"You should have told me sooner," Billups said.
"I told you, but you probably wouldn't listen." Lin Qi grabbed his coat. "Let's go."
As he left, the old man didn't turn around from behind the bar; he only raised his hand slightly.
As he walked to the side of the street, Billups glanced back at the unassuming steakhouse.