The plane landed in San Antonio in the afternoon. The team did not rest; the team bus drove straight to the arena.
As is customary in the NBA Finals, the visiting team will have a practice session the day before the game. To put it bluntly, it's just a formality, a chance to work up a sweat, shoot a few balls, and get used to the "familiarity" with the basket. But the moment the bus came to a stop, the atmosphere became a little strange.
Chauncey Billups Billups was the first to step out of the car, looking up at the colossal gray-white structure— the Alamodome. They had visited it during the NBA Finals looming over it, everything seemed completely different.
The players entered the stadium one after another. After passing through the deep, seemingly endless players' tunnel, the scene before them suddenly opened up, and then everyone fell into a collective silence.
That standard hardwood floor, representing the highest level of the NBA, now stands alone in the very center of the vast ruins of the lawn, like an insignificant patch on a giant.
Around the floor was a nearly desolate open space stretching for dozens of meters. Beyond that were the stands, like layers of peeling rock, hidden in the gray-blue shadows. Above was a distant dome, with cold steel beams crisscrossing to form a giant net.
Nineteen-year-old rookie Rashad Lewis, facing the grand scale of the NBA Finals for the first time in his life, swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing.
But what truly sent chills down the spines of these seasoned Boston wasn't the sheer size, but the emptiness that stretched to the horizon.
Looking up, there was nothing. A few lonely banners for college football bowl games and sponsor signs hung from the rafters, and above that, there was only a thick, pure darkness that swallowed up all light.
39-year-old veteran Dominique Wilkins was the last to enter the court. With his hands in his training pants pockets, he stood on the sidelines and slowly turned halfway around, surveying the behemoth's stomach with his eyes. Then, he gave a self-deprecating laugh and turned to his younger teammate beside him.
"To play in this godforsaken place, you have to bring your own light. Look up..." He raised a finger, pointing to the pitch-black void, "There's not a ray of light."
The acclimatization training officially began. The first player to step onto the shooting line was Robert Horry.
A three-pointer from the corner... This is the perfect shot he could hit even with his eyes closed, even in his dreams. He bends his knees, jumps, and gently flicks the ball with his fingers. The basketball leaves his hand, tracing a perfect arc that should have swished cleanly through the net.
... too short.
The ball didn't even touch the Nets; it slammed against the front edge of the rim with a dull thud and bounced back onto the court. Horry didn't make a sound, bent down to pick up another ball, returned to his original position, and shot again.
It's gotten shorter again.
On the third ball, he deliberately added more power, and the ball slammed against the back edge of the rim and flew directly out of bounds.
Horry finally frowned. He tucked the ball under his arm, walked straight to the basket, and stared at it for a long time. Then, he turned around, facing away from the basket and looking into the distance. At that moment, he finally understood the source of his unease.
In any historic stadium, whether it's the bustling Boston Garden or another intimidating away game, when a shooter raises the ball, the background is always filled with dense crowds of fans, vibrant advertising boards, and glaring scoreboards. For these veterans, aiming is no longer a deliberate action, but an unconscious judgment. Their visual nerves instinctively capture these reference points, instantly measuring the distance.
But under the Alamodome, behind the basketball hoop was a pitch-black void. With all reliable reference points gone, and the honed subconscious instincts vanished, the brain could only guess wildly in panic. The hoop seemed to hang suspended in mid-air, with no sense of distance or depth.
It's not just about the visual experience, but also the tactile sensation under your feet.
Chris Paul Pierce was the second to realize something was wrong. He dribbled the ball, bent low as usual, made his signature probing step followed by a change of direction, and then forcefully pushed off the ground with the ball of his foot...
Something's wrong with this floor.
Pierce looked down in surprise at the ground beneath his feet: the exquisite varnish, the clearly defined wood grain, it looked no different from any of the top courts in the league.
At the tactical meeting that evening, Lin Qi placed a three-page report on the table. It contained data that the sports science team had collected on the field that afternoon.
Doc Rivers stared at the middle column for a long time.
"The floor is modular," he said, pushing the sheets of paper to the center of the table. "There's no joist, no cushioning layer. Underneath the planks is just concrete."
"We tested twelve points on the court, and the difference between the areas with the greatest and least rebound force was nearly 30%." Doc Rivers tapped the paper with his pen. "There were a few spots where the racket directly absorbed the force when it hit the ball."
The tactical room was quiet for a moment.
"Damn it..." Doc Rivers leaned back in his chair, glancing at the room full of assistant coaches. "For the next three games, our players have to fight tooth and nail against the San Antonio on this concrete floor."
The 2-3-2 format of the NBA Finals means that in the next three games, they will be completely trapped in this giant concrete box.
In the corner, Lin Qi remained silent. He was thinking about another, much longer battle. He had spent an entire regular season, enduring the curses of the American media and fans, using rest periods, rigorous physical examinations, and sports science interventions to protect the knees and ankles of these core players.
They successfully acquired the healthiest and most complete NBA Finals roster in the entire league.
But now, the three most crucial away games of the NBA Finals will be played on this floor, which doesn't even have a keel.
The wooden planks were directly above concrete, offering absolutely no cushioning. Playing a 40-minute high-intensity match on such a surface meant that the players had to rely solely on their meniscus and Achilles tendons to withstand the impact of each jump and landing.
The Spurs have been running on this floor for six years, and their muscle memory has long been accustomed to how to exert force on a non-bouncy surface.
Another point is visual depth. A background so empty that there are no reference points will seriously interfere with the accuracy of long-range shots from the outside, but it has almost no effect on shots from the inside.
Lin Qi sighed and pushed the test report back onto the table.
" Doc," he said, looking at Doc Rivers, his tone flat, "That's the home-court advantage in San Antonio."