Two and a half hours later, with a long whistle from Doc Rivers, this sparring session filled with physical contact and trash talk finally came to an end.
The "dynamic attacking" system's extreme demands on off-the-ball movement almost completely drained the players' energy.
"Alright, guys." Lin Qi walked onto the court, clapped his hands, and said, "Take a shower and head to the new restaurant on the first floor. Lunch is ready."
Half an hour later.
When the group of starving players pushed open the door of the newly renovated team restaurant, they were immediately greeted by a rich aroma of grease and meat.
Rasheed Wallace swallowed hard, grabbed an extra-large plate, and headed straight for the serving station.
However, just as he was excitedly preparing to scoop out the mashed potatoes, a hand wearing a disposable medical the Glove ruthlessly blocked his way.
Standing behind the counter was not the usual Black Grandmama who habitually ladled out an extra spoonful of gravy, but a young nutritionist wearing a white coat and a name tag that read " Celtics Sports Nutrition Department."
The nutritionist, expressionless, picked up two thick-cut steaks, placed them on an electronic scale to precisely measure their weight, and then put them on a plate. Next, he served a vegetable salad tossed with extra virgin olive oil and herbs, and finally added half an avocado.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Wallace," the nutritionist pushed up his glasses, his tone flat, "During your weight loss cycle, there are no carbohydrates. Your ketogenic diet requires that fat provide 75% of your energy, and today's fat intake must meet that target, otherwise your ketosis will be unstable. Please make sure you finish it all."
Rasheed stared at the pile of oily, high-fat food on his plate, devoid of any staple food, his brow furrowing into a deep knot. Normally, he could devour two steaks in one go, but after just experiencing a hellish physical exertion, he felt nauseous and his craving for sugar made him extremely irritable.
"Are you kidding me?" Rasheed's eyes widened, and he suddenly pointed to a table not far away. "If you can't eat carbs, then why is that skinny guy eating pasta?!"
Following Rasheed's finger, Kevin Garnett was sitting at the table with a large plate of whole-wheat Italy, grilled chicken breast, and a whole glass of freshly squeezed orange juice in front of him.
"Because Mr. Garnett's current body fat percentage is only 6%," the nutritionist replied matter-of-factly, pulling out a data sheet. "His metabolism requires high-quality carbohydrates to sustain high-intensity energy expenditure, so he follows the ' Mediterranean Sea diet.' Your body fat percentage... clearly requires a more stringent ketogenic regimen to force fat burning."
The phrase "It's not scarcity that's worrisome, but inequality"—this discriminatory treatment—instantly ignited Rasheed's anger. The intense "carbohydrate withdrawal symptoms" made him lose his patience, and he slammed his plate heavily on the table.
"I'm not eating! You want the horse to run, but you don't feed it grass?!"
"Your current irritability, fatigue, mood swings, and even nausea are just temporary withdrawal symptoms."
A calm voice came from the side. Lin Qi walked over with his plate, which contained a standard keto meal: a piece of grilled salmon, a few slices of bacon, and a small handful of Hawaii nuts.
Lin Qi walked to the center of the restaurant and looked around at the group of players who were the most talented, but also the most unruly, in the entire league.
"Don't make things difficult for the nutritionist; I'm the one who made them do it that way."
Lin Qi pulled out a chair and sat down, looking directly at Rasheed: "Our newly established Department of Nutrition Science is systematically transforming your diets. I'm going to forcibly switch your bodies from the traditional 'glycogen energy mode' to the 'fat energy mode'."
"In this mode, healthy fats will replace unhealthy carbohydrates as your daily fuel. It will keep your body fat percentage at a minimum, reducing the burden on your knees and ankles." Lin Qi tapped the table. "I know the first few days will be tough. But on the eve of the competition, the nutrition department will provide you with precise 'carb cycling,' offering specially supplied fast-burning carbohydrates. By then, you'll find yourself jumping a little higher than your opponents in the last three minutes of the fourth quarter!"
"Do you want to be eliminated from the league at 30 due to being overweight and having fluid buildup in your knees, or do you want to play until 42 like Kareem Jabbar?"
"If you want to win, want a ring, want to make big money, want to stay in this league longer, then you'd better swallow this 'for your own good' attitude!"
These few blunt, almost brutal statements about "honor" and "benefits" instantly shattered the players' psychological defenses.
Spurred on by Garnett's hearty meal and Lin Qi's forceful suppression, Rasheed grumbled as he picked up his plate of high-fat food and plopped down on it.
Lin Qi, carrying his tray, naturally walked over to Rasheed Wallace, pulled out a chair, and sat down. He gestured with his chin towards the corner of the restaurant where the commotion had just occurred.
"See Chris Paul and Ron over there? They almost got into a fight during a scrim over starting positions."
Rasheed scoffed, stabbing his fork into the steak as he chewed and muttered something.
I understand... but it's unnecessary.
Lin Qi cut a piece of salmon and asked casually, "Seriously, Rasheed, I've always been curious. What were you thinking when you offered to be a substitute to Mike Dunleavy in Portland?"
Rasheed paused for a moment while chewing, glancing at him with some surprise. He swallowed the meat, threw his fork on the plate, leaned back in his chair, and snorted coldly.
"Starting lineup? What's so great about that? Starting isn't the key to winning; what matters is being on the field in the final five minutes when the game is decided."
He paused, his voice clearly showing displeasure.
"I told the coach right then and there that I was fine with being a substitute. It's just as important as being a starter. As long as the team is winning, I'm fine with coming off the bench. If we're losing as substitutes, then I'll be anxious, because I want to go on and change the game."
Lin Qi listened and nodded slightly.
Rasheed grabbed his water glass, took a big gulp, and continued talking to himself, his tone becoming increasingly aggressive.
"Back then, the media was always talking about my salary, thinking that because I had a big contract, I had to be the savior, the starter, and the leader of the team. Bullshit! I came here to play basketball and win championships, not to be a mascot. It was so annoying."
He pointed to his plate with his fork, as if referring to the ketogenic meal in front of him.
"Just like this mess... If you want me to contribute, then stop fucking nagging me all the time. Winning is the most important thing, everything else... who cares?"
Lin Qi leaned forward slightly.
" Rasheed, in Boston, we don't have the word 'substitute.'" Lin Qi put down his knife and fork. "We call that the 'second unit.' And I certainly didn't trade you here to make you a starter."
Rasheed's hand paused, and he suddenly turned to look at Lin Qi.
"I want you to be the absolute core of the second unit." Lin Qi didn't avoid his gaze. "Do you know Boston? You should know the history of the Boston Celtics. Look up at the dome of this arena, what do you think we'd put a star player on the second unit for?"
"Because our only goal is the championship, we have the right to be so extravagant."
Lin Qi rattled off two legendary names. " John Havlicek, who won eight championships in this position. And Beal Walton, who came here in 1986 with both regular season MVP and NBA Finals MVP honors, willingly playing the sixth man. In the end, he not only won the Sixth Man of the Year but also took home a championship ring."
Rasheed fell silent, his deep-seated passion for basketball touched by these words.
"Having superstar-level players lead the second unit is Celtics championship tradition. I want to give you maximum freedom, Rasheed. In Boston, you don't need to be a babysitter or carry the burden of saving the team. The starters have their roles; I want you in the second unit... play however you want, just be yourself."
Lin Qi lowered his voice and unleashed his trump card.
"Furthermore, I can grant you special permission to avoid any contact with the media after the game. You don't need to attend press conferences or answer those stupid questions from those idiot reporters. After you finish playing, just take a shower and leave. Nobody should bother you with anything unrelated to basketball."
Rasheed's eyes lit up instantly.
"No need to deal with the media?" Rasheed suddenly looked up to confirm.
"I guarantee that, if you don't want to, the public relations department will keep those reporters at least ten meters away from you." Lin Qi nodded with a smile.
Rasheed's tense shoulders visibly relaxed. He stared at Lin Qi for two seconds, then grinned, a rare look of exhilaration and childlike innocence on his face.
"... Deal." Rasheed grinned, stuffing the remaining half of his steak into his mouth. "Tell that skinny Kevin that the starting lineup shouldn't lose by too many points. Otherwise, when I go on, I'll have to go through the trouble of helping them cover the hole."
Lin Qi picked up his plate, patted Rasheed on the shoulder, and then walked to another table in the corner of the restaurant.
Two big guys were sitting there...
Wang Zhizhi, a rookie from China, and Brad Miller, an undrafted player from last season.
Although these two men were of different skin color and backgrounds, at this moment, they seemed to share a sense of camaraderie. In the crowded rotation of interior players, they were clearly marginal figures, behind Garnett, Mutombo, Rasheed, and even Big Ben. The two were munching on a large bowl of unlimited " Mediterranean Sea " quinoa salad, clearly the rationed ketogenic diet was far from enough to fill the stomachs of these two seven-foot-tall men.
" Brad, Wang Zhizhi," Lin Qi sat down opposite the two and cut to the chase, "I've assigned you two special homework."
Wang Zhizhi and Miller immediately put down their forks and sat up straight.
"After dinner, go find Mark Price. From now on, you'll practice shooting with him every day, especially three-pointers. Then, go to the weight room and have the strength and conditioning coach work on your physical strength." Lin Qi looked at the two big men.
"In my system, you two aren't traditional centers; you're 'stretch big men.'" Lin Qi tapped the table. " David Stern has implemented the defensive three-second rule; the traditional drop-to-the-basket physical play is almost obsolete. You two have height, you have touch, and you can facilitate and pass from the high post. As long as you can develop your three-point shot and improve your physicality, you can get multi-million dollar contracts in this league."
Upon hearing "a contract worth tens of millions," a flicker of excitement flashed in the eyes of both Miller and Wang Zhizhi.
But Lin Qi's next words were like a bucket of cold water poured over their heads.
"But, to put it bluntly," Lin Qi said, his smile fading as his cold gaze swept over the two men. "Your skill sets and roles on the team are almost completely overlapping. I only need a backup center who can shoot threes and pass the ball."
Lin Qi stood up and looked at the two players with unlimited potential in the paint.
"That means this team can only keep one of you. The other person will either be traded or cut."
Wang Zhizhi and Miller exchanged a glance.
"Practice with them more, treat them as your biggest enemy in this league, and devour each other on the training field." Lin Qi picked up his plate, leaving behind his final, cold advice, "You're competing for the same job. Good luck."
Lin Qi turned around and walked out of the restaurant.