Early in the morning, the chilly autumn rain pattered against the windows of Boston 'Celtics training facility. But inside, the central climate control system precisely maintained the room temperature at 22 degrees Celsius, the optimal temperature for athletes to maintain their peak performance, as calculated by the sports science department.
Lin Qi sat in front of the panoramic floor-to-ceiling windows of his second-floor office, a black coffee in his hand, his gaze fixed on today's sports column in the Los Angeles Times.
That column was written with the arrogance typical of Los Angeles residents, attacking not only the players but also relentlessly mocking Lin Qi's team-building philosophy.
" Los Angeles has reached its ultimate form. Look at the Lakers ' current star-studded roster— Derrick Fisher, Kobe Brian, Peja Stojaković, Jermaine O'Neal. These four super talents, whom we personally selected and poured our hearts into, are about to fully realize their potential under Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal's absolute dominance and Phil Jackson's Zen Master. This is the kind of team that can truly win a championship in an 82-game season."
"As for Boston's triumphant victory last night? It was nothing more than a false prosperity left over from a shortened 50-game season. The 1999 Celtics didn't win because of 'pure basketball,' but because of their opportunistic tactics and roster depth during the lockout. That self-important guy Lin Qi is turning a traditionally strong team with a deep foundation into a commercial laboratory filled with the stench of money and gimmicks. Data analysts, overseas scouts, nutrition experts, and even a camera crew filming from the sidelines... They haven't even established a dynasty yet, and they're already looking for the right angle for their bronze statue? Inflation and blind faith have always been the prelude to the collapse of empires."
"But reality is cruel. When the series is stretched back to a full 82 games, when winter is coming, can those smart guys sitting in their offices in bespoke suits, manipulating data, really defend against the menacing Kobe for Gary Payton? Can they take on Shaq in the paint for Mutombo? Until Boston proves this, their championship trophy should forever be marked with an asterisk (*) symbolizing shame."
Lin Qi finished reading it expressionlessly, neatly folded it up, tucked it under his arm, and walked down the metal staircase to the first-floor training area.
At this moment, a subtle tension permeated the atmosphere at the edge of the stadium.
The documentary team that Lin Qi hired at great expense officially moved in today, fully equipped. Four heavy cameras and long-pole microphones hovered around like vultures searching for prey.
Nineteen-year-old Ron Artest didn't shy away from the cameras; instead, he seemed extremely excited. After a defensive scrimmage, he deliberately walked up to a camera, showing off his biceps and yelling at the lens, "Get it clear, man! Get this muscle on camera for everyone to see!"
"Stop showing off, Ron," Gary Payton snapped impatiently as he dribbled at the top of the key. "Don't turn practice into an audition."
These words, though not harsh, served as a subtle jab at Artest, and also gave a fleeting glance at Chris Paul Pierce not far away. Pierce snorted coldly, tightened his shoelaces, and said nothing, but the confrontation in his eyes was palpable.
"Bang!"
During a halftime dynamic offensive drill, Gary Payton and Garnett momentarily lost their positioning. Gary Payton thought Garnett would bounce out, but Garnett chose to cut inside. The pass flew directly out of bounds and hit the sideline barrier.
Gary Payton shook his hand in frustration. Just then, a photographer, trying to capture a close-up of his emotional change, pushed the camera forward half a step, almost shoving it in front of him.
Gary Payton frowned, shoved aside the lens hood, and said with undisguised displeasure, "[Beep...] Step back, buddy. [Beep...] Give me some breathing room. I don't like [Beep...] people who are too forward."
Gary Payton suddenly realized something, and his expression became unnatural. He turned his head and saw Lin Qi walking down the stairs.
Gary Payton, hands on his hips, walked over to Lin Qi, lowered his voice, and said seriously, "Lin, I know what we [beep] are doing. A couple of years ago, when Michael played his last season in Chicago, he was surrounded by a bunch of [beep] guys carrying [beep] machines. I get it, you want to build the team's brand, and this is good for the team."
Gary Payton chewed his gum irritably, pointed to the microphone above his head, and his eyes revealed the shrewdness and vigilance of a veteran.
"I don't mind them filming me, but I know all too well what those Hollywood editors are up to. They can turn a regular defensive lapse into a locker room fire. The whole league knows I have a foul mouth, but if they piece together all my out-of-context trash talk and mistakes for ratings, I'll become the number one villain who ruins team chemistry. If they insist on following me around the clock, I demand to see the final cut; I need veto power over the editing."
Lin Qi looked at the serious-looking guard in front of him and almost couldn't help but burst out laughing.
He took a sip of coffee, glanced at Gary Payton up and down, and said seriously, " Gary, I understand your concerns, of course. But if you ask the editor to cut out all the profanity and trash talk that might 'damage your glorious image'..."
Lin Qi paused, his tone dripping with unsparing sarcasm. "I reckon in a two-hour documentary, your total playing time will only be three minutes. And two of those minutes will be you on the bench, head down, tying your shoelaces."
Rasheed Wallace, who was drinking water nearby, spat it out, clutching his stomach and bursting into laughter. "God, Lin was absolutely right! Gary, when you asked the equipment manager for knee pads in the locker room, you used three words that couldn't be broadcast in one sentence. If you cut out the swear words, you'd be mute!"
Garnett grinned and joined in the silly chuckle.
Gary Payton rolled his eyes dramatically, speechless. "[Beep...]... You know that's not what I meant! I just don't want to become a reality TV clown used to sell videotapes!"
"You're not wrong." Lin Qi's voice was steady, with an undeniable calmness. "But if I agreed to let Gary see the final cut, you would definitely cut out everything indecent. But if I gave the documentary team absolute power, they would amplify everything indecent for ratings. Neither of these approaches is a documentary."
Lin Qi clapped his hands, signaling the production team to come closer.
"As a compromise, any instances of you using profanity that absolutely cannot be broadcast will be muted. Just a [beep] sound. Let's draw up a filming charter. Open training sessions, pre-match warm-ups, the bench, and tactical adjustments are all permitted. The medical room, contract negotiations, and private conversations that you explicitly request to be turned off are absolutely off-limits. You have the right to fact-check; if any footage distorts the facts, it can be deleted. The coaching staff has the right to keep tactics confidential; you cannot reveal our plans."
Lin Qi stared into Gary Payton's eyes, his tone turning extremely stern. "But, Gary, there's something I have to say. You really did act like a jerk just now."
Lin Qi pulled the Los Angeles Times from his arm and handed it to Gary Payton.
"Take a look at this," Lin Qi said coldly.
Gary Payton scanned the article, his face visibly darkening.
Garnett and Rasheed also went over to take a look, and their breathing rhythms were clearly off.
"These guys [beep...] say we only won the championship by chance because of the lockout, and [beep...] say we can't defend Kobe and Shaq?" Gary Payton gritted his teeth, crumpling the newspaper into a ball.
Lin Qi, hands in his pockets, glanced at each player. "There will always be doubts, which is why I had the documentary team film you. We don't need to convince everyone; we just need to capture all your struggles, efforts, and sweat. The fans will naturally make their own judgment."
Gary Payton took a deep breath and threw the wad of newspaper off the court.
He turned to the photographer, no longer showing any resistance, and instead stated his conditions. "Fine, then [beep...] go ahead and film it. But listen carefully, if you're going to film our conflict, you have to also film how we ultimately resolved it. Don't [beep...] just film the fire and not the firefighting."
After saying that, Gary Payton clapped his hands forcefully, turned around and walked to the center of the court, shouting, "Wake up, all of you! Let's do it again!"
The intra-team scrimmage has resumed.
When Artest and Pierce were battling for position on the weak side, their shoulders collided heavily as neither was willing to give way.
The ball at the top of the key was passed to Rasheed. Rasheed got an excellent open mid-range shot at the free-throw line and instinctively passed the ball to Garnett on the baseline.
But Garnett was double-teamed at the time, and he never expected the ball to be passed to him. The basketball hit his knee and bounced out of bounds.
"I didn't want the ball!" Garnett yelled at Rasheed.
"I think you're stuck in position!" Rasheed roared back without backing down.
Thibodeau angrily blew his whistle from the sidelines.
The camera, flashing red on the sidelines, faithfully captured this incredibly chaotic and disorganized scene: the growing pains of dynamic attacking play, the players' misjudgments, and Rasheed's excessive selflessness—everything was laid bare.
Gary Payton pointed directly at the still-operating camera and yelled at Garnett and Rasheed.
"Look! This is what a documentary should film! You two [beep...] just turned an open shot into a turnover! The camera captured it all!"