The staff pushed the podium to the center of the venue, set up a table, and placed the gleaming O'Brien Trophy on it.
Twenty thousand people stared at the trophy, and the roar of their voices rose even higher.
David Stern walked onto the stage, pulled the microphone closer, and delivered a long official address with a smile.
But nobody really cares what he's saying.
After finishing his speech, Stern paused for a moment.
He then announced the NBA Finals MVP.
Gary Payton.
The moment that name echoed throughout the arena, the last vestige of restraint at New Garden vanished completely.
Gary Payton, standing in the crowd, visibly paused for a second.
Just this one second.
He tilted his head back and squeezed his eyes shut. That tough shell cracked in that instant. He raised his hand to cover his face, and his shoulder jerked violently.
Before he could even calm down, Garnett pounced on him, lifted him off the floor, and strode towards the podium.
Gary Payton was perched on Garnett's shoulders. He was still trying his best to maintain his cool, composed demeanor, but he couldn't control himself at all. He tilted his head back, closed his eyes tightly, and tears streamed down his face.
When Stern handed over the trophy, the entire arena erupted into complete frenzy. Gary Payton caught it with both hands, glanced down at it, and then suddenly raised it high above his head.
The roar from the stadium nearly lifted the roof off in that instant.
After the podium was removed, the stadium transformed into a chaotic frenzy.
Doc Rivers was surrounded by assistant coaches and the management team, who shook his hand and patted him on the back one by one. He stood there, trying his best to maintain that composed and gentlemanly expression, but the corners of his mouth had completely lost control.
At the other end of the court, Chris Paul Pierce plopped down on the floor. He didn't get up. He pulled up his jersey collar and buried his face in it, his shoulders shaking. He didn't intend to let anyone see him crying now.
Chauncey Billups Billups ran over, squatted down, and dragged him up from the floor, then grabbed his shoulders and shook him violently a few times. Pierce looked up, his eyes red-rimmed, but he didn't care anymore, letting Billups hold him and shake him like that.
Rashard Lewis had absolutely no idea what he was supposed to do. He ran around the court aimlessly, bouncing twice in front of Garnett, then dashing over to Billups, like a runaway bouncing ball that just wouldn't stop.
Robert Horry found Ron Harper, and the two shook hands. Harper patted Horry on the back without saying anything, Horry nodded.
Bruce Bowen stood near the sideline, lifted his jersey to wipe his face. He lowered his head and chuckled silently for a while before raising his head again to survey the electrifying stadium.
P.J. Brown grabbed the strength and conditioning coach next to him and the force almost choked the coach.
A large number of media outlets flooded in, their cameras and microphones scrambling to penetrate the crowd. Pierce, surrounded by reporters with tears still on his face, didn't try to hide it and spoke loudly directly to the cameras. Billups, playing a prank, shoved his championship cap down on Pierce's head and pressed it down, but Pierce laughed and pushed him away.
Lewis also got a hat, put it on, took it off, and put it on again, but none of them felt right. In the end, he simply wore it crookedly on his head, grinning foolishly as he continued to squeeze into the crowd.
Dominique Wilkins was standing outside the sideline.
He didn't join the media frenzy; he just stood there quietly, observing everything.
When a reporter tried to approach him for an interview, he waved his hand, and the reporter tactfully stepped back.
He just stood there, letting the tears flow freely, without wiping them away.
He recognized all the young people celebrating on the field. They were talented, energetic, and some of them were just starting their professional careers. They had no idea how long they had waited for this day.
But it finally arrived.
Lin Qi stood at the entrance to the tunnel, in the shadows, looking at the center of the court.
Confetti was still flying everywhere, and the celebratory music played by the DJ was completely drowned out by the roars of 20,000 people.
He made countless phone calls and went through round after round of negotiations to get to this point. The morning after the other agent slammed down the phone, he would calmly dial it again. The players on the field, celebrating their victory, didn't know any of this, nor did they need to. Tonight's cheers weren't for him, and his name would likely not even make the top three spots on tomorrow's front page.
From the very beginning, he knew this was the fate of a trader. Tonight, he wouldn't feel the slightest disappointment that the ribbon hadn't landed on his shoulders.
He was already preoccupied with something else entirely.
This shortened season only had fifty regular season games. There are already voices outside saying that this championship is not of high quality and should be marked with an asterisk.
Lin Qi didn't intend to refute it.
He was just thinking that next year would be a full eighty-two games.
Playing from November to April, then into May and June, the long schedule will take on a completely different amount of strain on the players. Opponents will have twice the preparation time. Every team in the league that wants to win will be studying them with videotapes, studying Doc Rivers ' tactics, studying everyone's habits, and studying every loophole in Boston's defense.
Defending a title is never as simple as winning a game you've already won.
Moreover, things are changing in the Western Conference.
The Los Angeles Lakers finished the shortened season with a record of 31 wins and 19 losses, and were eliminated in the first round of the playoffs.
On this night that belongs to Boston, almost no one cares about a loser from the Western Conference.
But Lin Qi knew that the incredibly destructive center was only twenty-seven years old, and his stamina and strength were rapidly approaching their absolute peak. The arrogant guard was only twenty years old, and his skills and ambition were growing at a visible rate every day.
This team currently resembles a pile of top-of-the-line parts without their instruction manual. Internal strife, chaos, and players fighting their own battles. But the foundation is there. Once someone assembles this machine, the gears will mesh relentlessly. And the speed at which they're working together is accelerating.
Next year, this team will be waiting for Boston on the NBA Finals stage.
It will be the year after next.
Lin Qi stood at the entrance to the tunnel, with the entire New Garden erupting in thunderous cheers behind him—a celebration that Boston had been suppressing for far too long.
He paused for a moment.
Then, turning his back on the clamor, he walked into the depths of the passage.