The Eastern Conference Finals are now tied 1-1.
The newspaper report was fair and flawless: each team won one game, and the series restarted.
But anyone who experienced the May playoffs knows it's not that simple.
After two games, the Pacers didn't seem to have the upper hand in terms of score, but they did quietly take away something more crucial... they took away the home-court advantage that the Celtics valued most.
Although the score is tied 1-1, the balance has begun to tip slightly in Indiana's favor.
This is the true meaning of "losing a home court advantage." It's not just about playing one less game; it's about losing the initiative from this moment on. The team flying to Indiana next is no longer the composed and dominant powerhouse, but a young team that must prove itself again on the road.
In contrast, the Pacers displayed a seasoned, almost ruthless calm.
The loudspeakers outside the arena played highlights from the previous game over and over again, while the local radio station leisurely broadcast tactical analysis. They used an extremely fair yet extremely biting tone to discuss the Celtics' weakness at point guard exposed in the last game, as well as Boston's panic after losing their home-court rhythm.
Mark Jackson casually straddled a bench in the locker room, untying his shoelaces, looking as relaxed as if he had just finished a regular season game.
Larry Bird Larry Bird didn't waste any time talking to the media in the hallway. He simply muttered to his assistant coach in his signature slightly hoarse and sarcastic country accent, "Continue with the game plan and see how they respond."
Reggie Miller, leaning against the backdrop of the interview area, chewed gum and grinned at the barrage of cameras. His smile was dazzling, yet carried a chillingly defiant undertone. He tilted his head and shrugged.
"They're adorable, really. But taking away their home court feels like taking candy from a baby. Next game in Indiana, I'll show them what a real playoff game is like."
The Celtics boarded the plane in a somber atmosphere.
Young players are most sensitive to changes in atmosphere. Two days ago, when they lost the second game, everyone could still say it was "a bad night."
But now that we're flying to Indiana, that excuse no longer holds water.
No one explicitly said "we lost our home turf," but everyone knew the truth perfectly well.
The cabin was much quieter than usual. Some people were wearing headphones, some were staring blankly at scouting reports, and some had their eyes closed, but no one could fall asleep.
Billups sat by the window, looking at the clouds outside.
The slow-motion replay on TV kept looping in his mind: the pause near the free-throw line, the move that was neither a shot nor a pass, the instinctive first step in the chase after the mistake, and the TV host's smiling question, "Can he even play point guard?" These voices pricked him like needles every now and then. But what really bothered him was that these images overlapped with the words he had heard in the small restaurant in New York State.
Gary Payton slumped in his chair, chewing gum vigorously. He glared at the scouting report in front of him as if those few sheets of paper owed him five million.
"What, why aren't you saying anything?" Gary Payton suddenly turned his head, grinned, and showed his teeth. His voice sounded particularly abrupt in the cabin.
The young players in the front row, who had been hunching over, were startled and secretly glanced back.
Gary Payton slapped his thigh, crumpled the newspaper into a ball, and threw it at his feet. "Look at the expressions on your faces! Anyone who didn't know better would think the plane was about to crash. It's just a 1-1 tie! Each team wins one game, that's fair! It's just an away game, why are you all acting like you're going to the gallows, putting the noose around your own necks first?"
No one dared to speak. Everyone knew that in a situation like this, you should never, ever, ever mess with this person.
" Chauncey Billups!" Gary Payton suddenly raised his foot and kicked Billups ' seat back hard.
Billups turned around.
Gary Payton squinted, pointing at his slightly tense face. "Stop giving me that smug look. It's just a mistake, right? Are you thinking you messed up? That you don't deserve to be a point guard? Bullshit!"
Gary Payton leaned forward, grabbed Billups' shoulder, and roughly shook him. "Listen, kid. You think you're struggling? You're just out of your mind. Go out there, you're better than everyone on the other side. Stop playing like a coward, go and push the ball in like a man, even if you fucking miss, shove that damn ball down someone's throat!"
He scanned the entire plane, his voice suddenly rising, carrying a hint of street bravado and arrogance. "We lost our home court? To hell with home court! True champions have home court no matter where they play. The initiative is in the Indiana' hands now? Then we'll go to their territory, skin them alive, and take back what's ours rightfully in front of those country bumpkins!"
His words were devoid of philosophy and even full of profanity, but the fervent, almost arrogant energy he exuded instantly tore a hole in the cold, suffocating air of the cabin.
Billups took a deep breath, feeling the pent-up frustration that had been building up in his chest for two whole days suddenly dissipate with Gary Payton's abrupt statement.
Lin Qi actually sensed something was wrong earlier than anyone else.
From the moment he stepped into the cabin, he noticed the players' evasive eyes, their excessively quiet demeanor, and the thick, oppressive sour smell of defeat in the air. But before he could do anything, Gary Payton stepped forward.
"Not bad, Gary," Lin Qi thought to himself.
Indiana's welcome was rather understated; there was little crowd at the airport, and only a few people asked for autographs at the hotel entrance.
Upon arriving at the training facility, Gary Payton was the first to get out of the car, his suit jacket loosely draped over his shoulders as he walked inside. Lewis lagged behind and was cornered by reporters who asked, "Do you feel that losing home-court advantage means your advantage is gone?"
Lewis paused, and just as a look of hesitation crossed his face, Gary Payton in front of him suddenly turned around.
He pointed his finger sharply at the reporter's chest, pressing himself extremely close, his eyes blazing with murderous intent. "Advantage? You're talking to me about advantage? As long as I'm on this team, the advantage is in Boston! We'll win tonight, we'll devour you bunch of country bumpkins. Write it down, write it in your lousy notebook, and remember it!"
The reporter was so intimidated by his overwhelming street thug aura that he took two steps back and awkwardly stepped aside.
That's just how Gary Payton is. He never talks about being gentle, kind, respectful, frugal, or modest.
After practice, Billups practiced the most basic dribbling on the sideline. Right hand, left hand, between the legs, change of direction, using the sound of the ball hitting the ground to drown out the noise in his head.
Gary Payton walked over in his sneakers and bumped Billups hard with his shoulder, almost making him stumble.
"You know what they want to see tonight," Gary Payton sneered.
Billups steadied himself and looked at him.
"Those old guys from the Pacers, and everyone in the stands, are all watching with wide eyes, waiting to see you hesitate one more time."
Then, Gary Payton stretched out two fingers and roughly poked two red marks into Billups ' chest with great speed.
"What are you hesitating for? Don't hesitate. You're better than them all! I've been cursing you for two years, and you've been wasting your time?! Go and take them on!"
In that instant, Billups's mind was filled with the words of the old man from the restaurant.
Two people, two different tones, one soft and one hard, yet they both landed on the same point.
He gritted his teeth and nodded emphatically.
Gary Payton then gave a satisfied hum, patted him on the back of the head, and turned to leave.
That night, the roar of the Conseco Fieldhouse was like a deep, solid wall.
Billups stood on the sidelines, tightening his wristbands again.
His mind was no longer filled with confusion, but rather with a fighting spirit ignited by Gary Payton, even bordering on anger.
Before the whistle blew, the whole team gathered together. Gary Payton stood in the center, his eyes wide as he looked around at everyone's faces.
"They think the sky's falling just because we lost one game in Boston? Tonight, leave your damn sympathy and weakness in the locker room. They took what they weren't entitled to, and now we're going to get it back to their faces. Fuck them!"
"Fuck him!"
The Celtics spread out and took their positions.
Billups turned his gaze back to the center of the floor.
The series is now tied 1-1.
But for the first time, he genuinely felt that Gary Payton was right.
Screw 1-to-1.
Eastern Conference Finals, Game 3, is about to begin!