8:00 AM, Boston.
As soon as Lin Qi turned off his car, the PR director was already waiting at the players' tunnel entrance, clutching a stack of papers.
"Yesterday's column from the San Antonio Express-News." He pulled out the top page and handed it over, his voice tense. "It's been photocopied dozens of times and stuffed into every media briefing bag today."
Lin Qi's eyes darkened slightly. That interview kit was official background material prepared by the league for hundreds of reporters in the media room to ensure the quality of the NBA Finals coverage... Now, it had become leaflets used by those San Antonio to smuggle in their own agendas.
Lynch walked along, reading. The entire page was filled with articles, the titles blunt and jarring. "The Joke of the East." The author used every trick in the book to mock the Celtics' Eastern Conference Finals run, dissecting it utterly worthless: the Knicks' Ewing was too old, a sweep was inevitable; the 76ers lost because Iverson couldn't carry the team alone; the Pacers lacked a true superstar, making the entire series a soporific affair. Finally, the author abruptly shifted gears, concluding... "The true warriors who emerge from the blood and sweat only exist in the West."
"Media open day at 2 PM." The PR director hurried after him, his leather shoes making a jumbled clatter in the corridor. "Those reporters are like Shark smelling blood; they won't ask anything else, they'll just use this to force the players to make a statement."
Lin Qi continued walking without even raising an eyebrow, "From now until the start of tomorrow night, the entire team will be under media quarantine. No one can interview my players without my permission."
The PR director paused, his breathing quickening. "You can't do that."
Lin Qi stopped, turned to the side, and his gaze was like a knife.
"Media open days are a mandatory rule of the league. The NBA Finals are a big show; NBC spent a fortune broadcasting it. Stern's office is after ratings; the whole nation is waiting for Tim Duncan and Garnett to exchange barbs on camera." The director lowered his voice, cold sweat beading on his forehead. "By covering them up, we're not just offending these reporters, we're offending the interests of the entire league. You shouldn't embarrass the higher-ups on something like this."
The elevator doors slid open with a ding, and Lin Qi walked straight in and pressed the button for the top floor.
"They just want a good show, right? The show will go on." He looked straight ahead, his tone calm but unwavering. "They want 'material' to fill the front page, and I'll provide that. My players only need to do three things: sleep, train, and play. As for in front of the camera... they don't need to say a single word."
The elevator doors closed, shutting out the noise and unease.
Lin Qi's office on the top floor of the New Garden had its door ajar.
Lin Qi pushed open the door and entered. Auerbach the Cardinal was sitting by the window, his silver hair standing out sharply in the cold morning light.
This key figure in Boston's history was someone Lin Qi specially invited this morning. Since buying the team, Lin Qi had met Auerbach a few times, but never before had he felt such a reverence, as if he had to learn from an elder's wisdom. This was Lin Qi's first NBA Finals as owner, and the old man sitting opposite him had won a total of sixteen championship rings in his coaching and management careers combined.
"Speak," Auerbach said without turning around, "You didn't bring this old man all the way here just to watch the sunrise, did you?"
Lin Qi sat down opposite him, his fingertips pressing against the glaring copy of " The Eastern Conference's Joke," and pushed it to the old man's side.
"Coach, I'd like to hear your advice," Lin Qi said bluntly. "How do you usually deal with the off-court media during the NBA Finals?"
The term "Coach" has been an unwritten rule within the Boston Celtics for decades. Whether Auerbach was playing, coaching, or later becoming the team's president, everyone in the arena, from Russell to the janitors, always called him "Coach."
Auerbach turned around, his insightful eyes sweeping over the newspaper clippings.
Auerbach leaned back, sinking deep into the leather chair. "It reminds me of 1950. I drafted Chuck Cooper, the first Black player ever drafted in league history. On draft day, an owner asked me in front of everyone, 'Do you know this kid is Black?' I told him, 'I don't care if he's Black, white, or has plaid markings, I just know he can play.'"
The morning light gradually crept onto the old man's face, illuminating the deep lines on his features.
"Later, I fielded five Black starters and appointed Russell as head coach, both of which were firsts in the league. For twenty years, I was practically drowned in newspaper spittle. Guess how many times I talked back?"
Lin Qi looked at him silently.
"Not even once." Auerbach pointed to his heart. "If you open your mouth to defend yourself, it's tantamount to admitting that this is questionable. I never defend myself. I'm only responsible for winning. The scoreboard doesn't lie. When you win the championship, the whole world will shut up."
That's exactly what I think.
"But there's still one thing you haven't figured out." Auerbach tapped the newspaper lightly with his finger. "You've mistaken these reporters for enemies; that's a huge mistake."
Lin Qi frowned slightly, listening to the old man continue.
"They're not enemies, they're just working, making money." Auerbach's voice was calm and cold. " For this NBA Finals, they have to write something on the page every day. If you don't feed them, they'll scavenge for food themselves, and what they'll produce is this sour, rotten flesh."
He paused, then looked up at Lin Qi: "Those harsh words, once they get into the ears of a twenty-something, become noise. Tomorrow night on the field, if they think one step ahead, their hands will falter, and their feet will be a beat slower. But... reporters aren't your enemy, kid. If you throw them a fresh steak every now and then, they'll be busy munching on what you throw at them, and won't have the energy to tear apart your players."
The old man picked up the now-cold coffee on the table and drank it all in one gulp.
"My experience... well, it boils down to one sentence: draw all the fire onto yourself. Give these writers stories that are more appealing than negative gossip, lead them by the nose, and let them write what you want them to write."
Lin Qi stared at the glaring headline for a long time before his gloomy brows finally relaxed and a playful smile appeared on his lips.
"I think I know what to say this afternoon."
Auerbach slammed his teacup down on the table and turned back to look out the window.
"Now that you've figured it out, don't let these people lead you astray again, and don't let this old man of mine have made this trip for nothing."
2 PM, interview room.
A stifling heat filled the air, the lingering glow of spotlights vibrating through the air. All the cameras and microphones were pointed at the passageway like long guns and cannons. The door opened, and the entire room held its breath, but only Lin Qi walked out.
He stood alone under the spotlight, his expression calm to the point of indifference. "My players are not giving interviews today. If you have any questions, just ask me."
A murmur rippled through the audience. Soon, a hand shot up – the author of that column, his question sharp, "It's now widely acknowledged that Western Conference teams are far Eastern Conference to Eastern Conference teams. As representatives of the Eastern Conference, what makes the Celtics think you can compete with Western Conference teams here?"
Lin Qi took the microphone, but instead of directly refuting it, he asked, "I saw that report. I want to tell you something else."
"In 1986, we drafted Len Bias. Two days later, he passed away without ever playing a single official game."
Lin Qi's voice echoed in the empty interview room, carrying a calm and unhurried tone, "In 1993, Reggie Lewis, our captain, collapsed on the field during a warm-up match and never got up again."
The hall was deathly silent, save for the low hum of the air conditioning system.
"The older ones among you should remember what the Garden was like after that," Lin Qi continued in a low voice. "The arena was often not full. Home fans often left early because the game was already decided in the first quarter. In 1994, we won 32 and lost 50. Looking up, there were sixteen championship flags hanging from the rafters, but sitting below was a lousy team that couldn't even touch the playoff floor."
"Back then, nobody considered us a powerhouse anymore; we were the laughingstock of the entire league. However, in those years, even those who specialized in writing satirical articles didn't bother to put pen to paper... because nobody thought the Celtics were even worth mocking."
"That's true, it was my first year managing this Celtics."
Lin Qi paused for a moment, letting the suffocating feeling ferment in the hall.
"So, you're too late to call the Celtics a joke. We were the joke, and for long enough, so we know better than anyone what it feels like."
Many reporters put down their pens and looked up at him.
"The so-called ' Celtics ' in your minds belongs to the dynasty of Russell and Larry Bird... It's used to winning, and has become the number one villain that everyone in the league wants to see fall. But don't forget, the last time the Celtics stood on the NBA Finals stage was in 1987. A full twelve years."
Lin Qi paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping across the room, his tone calm and cold.
"In these twelve years, that dynasty has long since collapsed into ruins. The army you see today is not a continuation of that old dynasty, but rather something we have rebuilt from those ruins, brick by brick."
He leaned forward slightly, his eyes resolute.
"We're tired of being the high and mighty 'number one villain,' waiting to be brought down. To be honest, we've had enough of that position, and we're no longer meant to be." Lin Qi leaned forward slightly, exuding an imposing aura. "Right now, we're just a group of people who've climbed back from the bottom, nothing more."
"As for San Antonio on the other side, in the end, they're the same kind of team as us. They also experienced their worst record in franchise history, and they also suffered David Robinson's major injury." Lin Qi then changed the subject, "A small town, a group of young people... Tim Duncan, Robinson, Popovich. This is also their first time standing on the NBA Finals stage. No one gave them this ticket out of charity; they earned it themselves."
So stop asking why I'm standing here.
"You wanted a story? Here it is. Two teams that nobody believed in climbed from their lowest points to the pinnacle of basketball."
As for who will win?
Lin Qi took a half step back, pushed the microphone back onto the stand, and finally uttered a light yet resounding statement.
"Basketball doesn't lie, and tomorrow night, it will tell everyone the Answer."
Enjoy the game, my friends.
He turned and stepped off the stage, ignoring the clamor behind him that was trying to ask him questions.
At the entrance, the public relations director was waiting, his expression complex.
The inspector Stern sent stood at the very back the entire time, without uttering a single word.
What was their reaction?
"He was on the phone." The PR director paused, his tone complex. "I heard him say... 'A fallen dynasty, a tragic cycle, a comeback.' He said that if you could weave the Celtics' rise and fall over the decades into a documentary, it would be enough for NBC to air it for a whole week during the NBA Finals."
"That's great for everyone." Lin Qi walked into the depths of the arena without looking back. "My players are at peace, the reporters have something to write about, and the league has a story to tell."
This is not just about public opinion, but also a struggle over the right to narrate events.
Behind me, the door slammed shut, completely shutting out all the noise from the stadium.