On February 23, 2000, there were less than 24 hours left until the league's trade deadline.
Boston, CEO's Office.
Lin Qi casually slammed the phone receiver back onto the landline and rubbed his temples. This was already the seventh call he had hung up this morning.
In the ten days or so following the All-Star Game, the entire league's management was as restless as Shark smelling blood. Almost every day, general managers from various companies called, trying to "get something out of Boston," the team that had suddenly become the league's leader.
Some teams wanted to trade their near-retirement veterans for the Celtics ' draft picks. Others coveted Rasheed Wallace and tentatively offered a bunch of junk. Some teams even shamelessly wanted to package up a rookie from the Celtics' bench.
Lin Qi had no interest in these insincere attempts to probe and rejected them all with the simplest of words.
He doesn't need a trade. The Celtics ' roster is already complete; all they need now is time and further integration.
Lin Qi glanced at the latest league standings on his desk.
Boston Celtics: 43 wins, 11 losses.
Los Angeles Lakers: 43 wins, 11 losses.
Since the All-Star Weekend, these two powerhouses from the Western Conference have been like two supercars racing side-by-side, locked in a tug-of-war on the leaderboard. Today Boston won and climbed to the top of the league, and tomorrow the Lakers, led by the " OK Duo," will reclaim the throne with a resounding victory.
"Knock knock."
There was a light knock on the office door twice.
Lin Qi looked up. Standing in the doorway was Wang Zhizhi, dressed in a gray training uniform, with several thick books tucked under his arm.
Since arriving in Boston, this tall Asian man has been like a silent "mute" for a long time. The language barrier, the loneliness of being in a foreign land, and the survival-of-the-fittest jungle law in the Celtics' locker room meant that he mostly just trained silently and sat quietly at the end of the bench, never taking the initiative to communicate with others.
But today, Wang Zhizhi didn't walk by with his head down as usual.
He stopped at the doorway, meeting Lin Qi's gaze, and gave a somewhat stiff but genuine smile.
"Morning, Lin."
A sentence in English with a slight accent, but pronounced clearly.
Lin Qi was slightly taken aback, then leaned back in his chair and revealed a relaxed smile.
Wang Zhizhi stepped forward and neatly placed the books he had been carrying on Lin Qi's desk. On top was a well-worn copy of " The Complete Guide to Practical American Slang," while below it were two Chinese martial arts novels and a historical biography.
"Mr. Lin, I've finished reading the book and brought it back to you." Wang Zhizhi switched back to Chinese, his tone revealing a hint of closeness and gratitude. "In all of Boston, I guess only you could find so many Chinese books. If it weren't for these books to keep me entertained these past few months, I would have gone crazy."
Lin Qi glanced at the books on the table and teased with a smile, "These past few months you've not only been practicing your three-point shooting, but you've also put a lot of effort into your spoken English. How about it, can you understand the swear words Rasheed and the others were spewing in the locker room now?"
Wang Zhizhi scratched the back of his head a little embarrassedly and smiled sheepishly, "I can understand the gist of it now. But if you really asked me to join in their swearing, my tongue would still get tied."
"Take it slow. It's good that you're willing to speak up. But just talking isn't enough; you need to keep working out in the weight room and eat more high-protein foods." Lin Qi pointed to the league-wide record sheet on the table, where Boston and Los Angeles were closely linked. "See? The Lakers have the same record as us right now. If O'Neal gets Dikembe and Rasheed into foul trouble in the NBA Finals in June, I'll be counting on you to take on ' The Big Shark '."
Upon hearing the name " O'Neal," Wang Zhizhi's eye twitched almost imperceptibly. That was a 300-pound behemoth in his prime, a nightmare for centers throughout the league.
But this time he didn't back down. Wang Zhizhi shrugged with a wry smile and half-jokingly replied, "Then I'll have to order two more thick-cut steaks at the cafeteria at noon, so that when he bumps into me, it won't be too embarrassing."
"Go ahead, eat more." Lin Qi laughed and waved his hand.
Wang Zhizhi nodded vigorously and walked briskly into the depths of the stadium. In his silhouette, there was less of the awkwardness he had when he first arrived and more of the composure that belonged to a professional player.
Lin Qi picked up the coffee on the table and took a sip. He stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the main training field below.
There, the daily "hellish torture" is unfolding.
"Bang!"
The dull thud of muscles colliding echoed from just inside the three-point line.
Chris Paul Pierce gripped the basketball tightly with both hands, breathing heavily. His training vest was completely soaked with sweat, clinging to his body. Every drop of sweat falling to the floor testified to the physical exhaustion he was experiencing.
Blocking his path was Ron Artest. This energetic rookie relentlessly used his broad chest and arms to press against Pierce, applying relentless and oppressive physical contact.
Meanwhile, to Pierce's side and slightly behind, Bruce Bowen silently blocked Pierce's turning path. Bowen's hands were extremely restless, constantly making extremely subtle harassments to Pierce's waist, elbows, and blind spots.
This is the "exclusive package" that Lin Qi tailored for Pierce during last summer's Europe training camp: double-teaming training under full-court pressure.
Lin Qi knew very well that in the high-stakes playoffs, facing those historically great wing defenders, Pierce had to learn to make shots under intense physical contact and spacing pressure. Artest's absolute strength combined with Bowen's cunning and tenacious style made them the most torturous "meat grinder" in the league.
From his Europe trip until now, a period of more than half a year, Pierce has endured a lot of hardship in this particular training program.
He was knocked down countless times by Artest, had the ball stolen countless times by Bowen, and even got into a physical fight with the two on the practice court when he was extremely frustrated. Before the All-Star Game, whenever the two of them formed a double-team, Pierce was either forced to pass the ball or would be panting and cursing after missing a shot.
But today, things are different.
"Pass the ball out, Chris Paul! You have no vision!" the assistant coach yelled from the sidelines.
"Shut up!" Pierce roared through gritted teeth.
He gulped down air. His muscles protested, and his legs felt as heavy as lead.
Artest's heavy breath hit Pierce's face. "Give up, Chris Paul, you can't get past this!"
In that instant, Pierce's eyes changed. The weariness of being driven to the brink faded from his eyes, replaced by an extreme focus.
Taking advantage of Artest's push, he suddenly lowered his shoulder and made a highly deceptive feint to break to the right.
Artest subconsciously shifted his weight half a step to the side.
In that half-step gap, Pierce suddenly gathered the ball, pivoted on his left foot, and, close to Bowen's outstretched arm, completed an extremely clean and crisp back turn.
There are no unnecessary movements, no fancy dribbling. Only the most concise footwork honed in muscle memory after countless all-out practice sessions.
He found a gap of only a few centimeters between Artest's fingertips and Bowen's blindfold defense.
Take off and stay in the air.
Sweat dripped from Pierce's eyelashes as he flicked his wrist with remarkable stability in the air.
The basketball flew past their fingertips, tracing a high arc in the air.
The entire training hall seemed to fall silent at that moment, with everyone's eyes following the orange trajectory.
"Whoosh!"
The crisp, hollow sound of the wire entering the net is like heavenly music.
Pierce landed.
The instant his feet touched the floor, he lost all strength, his legs buckled, and he collapsed backward onto the hard wooden floor with a thud.
"Huff... huff..."
Beside him, Artest and Bowen seemed to have all their strength drained by this round, and collapsed to the ground.
"Thump."
Artest plopped down next to Pierce, hands on the floor, sweat streaming down his bald head like a stream, his chest heaving violently.
Bowen lay sprawled out less than a meter from Pierce, eyes closed, panting heavily.
In the empty half of the field, three men, soaking wet, lay sprawled on the floor, their heavy, labored breathing mingling together.
After more than half a year of intense training and countless all-out collisions, a perfect goal finally came on this afternoon after the All-Star Game.
This was the first time Pierce had scored while being guarded by two players.
Pierce lay on the floor, staring at the glaring ceiling lights of the arena, his chest heaving. Suddenly, he laughed hoarsely, the sound echoing in the empty arena.
Artest wiped the sweat from his face, turned to look at Pierce, grinned, revealing a row of white teeth, and smiled back.