Late October 1999, Boston Training Center
With less than ten days until the new season opener, temperatures in Boston have plummeted, but the Celtics ' closed training facility is stiflingly hot. The smell of sweat mingles with the screeching of sneakers rubbing against the hardwood floor, creating an atmosphere of extreme tension.
With the league officially issuing new rules on "defensive three seconds" and "canceling illegal defense," the training intensity of this team, which is trying to emphasize overall movement, has been pushed to the brink.
Head coach Doc Rivers and assistant David Blatt were constantly yelling at players on the sidelines to correct their positioning. Even more suffocating than the tactical drills was the survival pressure brought by the team's 14-man rotation. The NBA only has 12 players on the active roster each game, which means that in this arena that brings together All-Stars, veterans and promising rookies, someone faces the predicament of having to sit on the bench in a suit for the opening game every day.
The harsh reality of survival has made the intensity of the intra-team scrimmages approach that of the playoffs.
"Run! The cover is terrible! Why aren't you filling in on the weak side?!" Blatt clapped his hands hard, his whistle piercing.
On the field, the first team (green team) and the second team (white team) are locked in a fierce battle.
Chris Paul Pierce, wearing a green vest, positioned himself on the right 45-degree side to receive the ball. After a smooth run on the Europe tour, the second-year forward was brimming with confidence. Facing the defense, he unleashed his signature triple threat, a deceptive shoulder feint followed by a crossover step, instantly tearing apart the defense.
"Too slow!" Pierce muttered, chewing his gum.
Instead of passing the ball to Garnett who was cutting to the basket, he forced his way in and started, preparing to end the possession with a powerful dunk.
However, just as he took off, a white figure suddenly appeared from the side of the baseline and crashed into him like a moving wall.
It was 19-year-old Ron Artest.
This rookie, who rose from the bottom of Queensbridge neighborhood in New York, had no concept of "starters" or "core players." Instead of going for the ball, he used his broad chest to directly block Pierce, his thick arms locking the opponent's shoulders tightly, and roughly yanked Pierce down from the ground in mid-air.
"Bang!"
The dull thud of muscles slamming onto the floor echoed through the arena. Pierce lost his balance and slid several meters with the force of the impact until he came to a stop against the foam padding at the bottom of the basket.
The stadium fell silent for a second.
"Are you fucking asking for it?!"
The next second, Pierce sprang up as if electrocuted. He ripped off his headband and charged at Artest with a furious expression, his fists clenched white.
Artest didn't give an inch, charging head-on like a raging bull, their chests colliding violently as they glared at each other.
"It's your own problem, you softie!" Artest spat as he spoke. "You think you're an All-Star just because you made a few easy layups in Europe? That weak contact just now wouldn't even count as a foul in Queens!"
"I'm going to knock your teeth out today, you rookie..." Pierce gritted his teeth, raising his right hand high behind him.
"Stop!"
Doc Rivers roared angrily from the sidelines. Garnett and Billups reacted quickly and rushed onto the court. Garnett grabbed Pierce around the waist and pulled him back. Rasheed Wallace and Ben Wallace flanked Artest, holding him back as he continued to charge forward.
"Let me go! This rookie is asking for it!" Pierce roared.
"Come on! [beep...], let's see if your fists are as soft as your [beep...]!" Artest kicked his feet wildly, his trash talk still spraying out like a machine gun.
The situation was on the verge of spiraling out of control.
Let him hit him.
A calm, emotionless voice came from the sidelines. The voice wasn't loud, but it was clear enough in the empty arena.
Lin Qi walked in from the tunnel with a cup of Americano in his hand. Everyone in the arena knew that he held the power of life and death over this team.
Lin Qi raised his hand and pointed to the blind spot in the second-floor stands, behind the basketball hoop, and next to the door of the equipment room.
Three professional cameras had been set up there sometime during the game. Red recording indicator lights were flashing regularly, and long-arm microphones were hanging from the steel frame above the stadium.
"I forgot to tell you," Lin Qi said, looking at the frozen Pierce and Artest, his tone businesslike, "To document the new season, the team just established a video recording department. From today onwards, these machines will be running 24/7, recording everything about this team."
He pointed to the microphone above his head. "The equipment is top-of-the-line. The picture quality is so good you can see the pores on your faces, and the sound quality is so good you can hear every single word you said when you insulted each other's families."
Pierce's fist froze in mid-air, Artest's face turned red. In the world of professional sports, even the most arrogant troublemaker wouldn't want their ugly brawl videos made public across the United States.
"Do you want fans ten years from now, even your kids, to see you fighting each other on TV like street thugs?" Lin Qi looked at them. "If you want that, then keep going. But make your moves look cool, the ratings will be even higher."
These words were like a bucket of water mixed with ice, instantly extinguishing the tension on the field.
Pierce shook off Garnett's hand, irritably straightened his jersey, and glared at Artest: "Consider yourself lucky, rookie. You wait, I'll teach you a lesson sooner or later."
"Just you wait." Artest snorted, breaking free from the Wallace brothers' grip and dusting off his jersey.
"Scatter! Get back to your positions! The scrimmage continues!" Doc Rivers immediately shouted, herding the players back onto the court.
Lin Qi walked to the coaching bench. Doc Rivers wiped the cold sweat from his brow and said in a low voice, "Lin, you need to keep an eye on that New York kid. He's a madman on defense, treating every practice like a Game 7. He's too likely to injure his own players."
" Doc, that's why I brought him to Boston." Lin Qi watched the game.
"What's the meaning?"
" Chris Paul is playing too comfortably right now." Lin Qi pointed to Pierce, who had just completed a pull-up jumper. "Last year 'NBA Finals against the Spurs gave him a false sense of security. Tim Duncan and Robinson's defense was indeed historic, but it was too clean, too rigid. But the underlying nature of this league still includes thugs who will do anything to win."
Lin Qi turned to Doc Rivers, looking him straight in the eye. "We've played the Heat before, you know Pat Riley's style very well. When you face a seasoned veteran like Anthony Mason, who, when the referees aren't looking, will use his hands on his hips, elbows, and footwork, his moves will be ten times dirtier than Artest's today. No matter how talented Chris Paul is, if he can't adapt to this kind of ruthless physical play, he'll suffer a lot in the playoffs sooner or later."
He stared at Artest, who was relentlessly sticking to Pierce on the court. "He needs to get used to this kind of high pressure and dirty play beforehand. Ron is the sparring partner he found. He's the best whetstone for him."
Lin Qi beckoned, calling assistant coach Blatt over as well. He looked at the two coaches and gave a cold and highly provocative instruction.
" David, that ball-handling training we did in Europe this summer will be a daily routine starting today." Lin Qi's tone left no room for negotiation. "Also, tell Bruce Bowen and Ron Artest that whoever can shut out Chris Paul in this training session gets the starting small forward position."
Doc Rivers and Blatt exchanged a glance and gasped.
In the NBA, being a starter means consistent playing time, a larger contract, and a more important role on the team.
"This will drive Chris Paul crazy." Blatt swallowed hard. "They'll practically tear him apart in training just to get him a starting position."
"If he can't even hold up the defense of the second unit, then he should be benched from the starting lineup." Lin Qi was uncompromising.
Just then, Artest went to the sidelines to get a towel, and his keen hearing caught Lin Qi's last words.
"Lin, you told me this before..." Artest stopped and stared at Lin Qi, "So, as long as we lock down that fatso, the starting lineup is mine?"
Doc Rivers was about to reprimand him when Lin Qi raised his hand to stop him.
Lin Qi looked directly at the unruly rookie. "I keep my word. But only within the rules of basketball. I want you to use defensive skills and aggression, not fouls and fighting."
Lin Qi pointed a finger at Artest's chest. "Starting tomorrow, I want you to become his shadow. You follow him when he drinks water, and you stand guard at the bathroom door. As long as he's on the court, do whatever it takes to strangle him. If you do that, you'll start. If you don't, you'll be on the bench waving towels and carrying bags for everyone. Got it?"
Artest's breathing became heavy, and his eyes burned with fervor.
It's a deal.
After saying that, Artest didn't look at Lin Qi again. Instead, he turned his head sharply and locked his gaze on Pierce, who was not far away, like a predator eyeing its prey.
Watching this, Doc Rivers rubbed his temples, looking exasperated. "Lin, you're playing with fire. You're pushing them too hard; this cutthroat competition will ruin the locker room chemistry sooner or later."
"Malignant? How is it malignant?"
Lin Qi casually tossed the empty paper cup into the trash can, his gaze calm, even tinged with coldness. " Doc, what do you think chemistry is? Everyone being all smiles, afraid to say a single offensive word, and hypocritically praising each other in the locker room every day? I don't believe in that. That's a breeding ground for losers, not a champion's locker room."