Rasheed had only been on the court for less than two minutes when he executed a textbook high screen at the top of the key.
"Beep!!!"
Referee Joe Crawford's whistle pierced the noise of the arena, and his exaggerated gesture pointed at Rasheed —moving screen.
Rasheed's brow furrowed into a tight knot, his teeth grinding together. But he glanced at the scoreboard on the sidelines, swallowed the curse that was about to escape his lips, and silently raised his right hand to accept the penalty.
Two minutes later, at the bottom corner.
Rasheed received the ball, used an extremely realistic fake to knock away the defender, and strode into the paint. Just as he took off, the Pistons center slammed into his ribs from behind.
"Bang!"
Even the reporters in the front row could see that the move was a bit out of line. Rasheed completely lost his balance in mid-air, and with his core strength, he managed to flick the ball towards the basket before it slammed heavily onto the floor and slid all the way out of bounds.
The basketball bounced twice on the rim and rolled out.
There was no whistle.
The three referees seemed to have simultaneously suffered from intermittent blindness. Donaghy, standing near the baseline, was even indifferently chewing gum.
Rasheed propped himself up halfway from the floor, staring intently at Donaghy.
"That's not even a regular foul?!" His anger finally broke through his rational defenses, and Rasheed sprang to his feet.
"Beep!!!"
Donaghy seemed to have the whistle between his teeth all along. Without a second's hesitation, he raised his right hand high, making a "T" sign.
Technical foul!
Rasheed paused for half a second, then Detroit's fury completely ignited this powder keg in Boston. He ripped off his wristband, slammed it to the floor, and pointed at Donaghy's nose, yelling, "You bunch of bitches who came to hype the game on leashes! You really think I can't see what you're doing?!"
"Beep!!!"
Donaghy's expression remained unchanged as he blew a second short whistle and pointed one finger toward the players' tunnel.
Second technical foul. Ejection.
The entire the Palace of Auburn Hills erupted in an instant, with deafening boos and malicious whistles nearly lifting the dome off the building.
The away team's bench erupted in chaos. Garnett and Billups jumped to their feet, and Ben Wallace, quick as a flash, grabbed Rasheed, who was about to charge forward and throw a punch, leaving two long marks on the wooden floor with their feet.
"Let me go! I'll twist that bald bastard's head off today!" Rasheed's eyes were bloodshot, like a mad beast.
Coach Doc Rivers rushed onto the court, spreading his arms to block Donaghy's view while yelling at the assistant coach, "Get him in! Now!"
Rasheed was forcibly dragged towards the players' tunnel by three or four men. Just before disappearing, he turned around sharply, his predatory gaze fixed on Donaghy.
At this moment, Lin Qi, who was sitting behind the away team's bench, slowly stood up.
He walked straight to the technical table with one hand in his suit trouser pocket.
Amid the commotion, Donaghy and Crawford noticed the Celtics leader. They exchanged a glance, their eyes filled with an arrogant and defiant air of "we're in charge here."
Lin Qi stopped less than a meter away from the two men, his gaze passing over the recorder as if he were looking at two lifeless objects.
"You two put on a very good show tonight." Lin Qi's voice wasn't loud, but it carried a chilling aura that could freeze the surrounding air.
Donaghy gave a perfunctory, businesslike smile, "Mr. Lin Qi, please return to your seat. League rules stipulate that management must not interfere with law enforcement."
Lin Qi didn't get angry; he even smiled faintly. He straightened his suit sleeves and leaned closer.
"Blow away, gentlemen," Lin Qi said, glancing at the whistles around their necks, his voice barely audible to the three of them. "After tonight, you'll never have another chance to touch one of these."
After saying that, Lin Qi ignored the two people's frozen expressions and turned back to his seat.
Halftime is over.
The Celtics trail the Pistons 48-56, Pistons 8 points.
Halftime fouls comparison: Boston 18 fouls, Detroit 9 fouls.
The away team's locker room was deathly silent.
Rasheed's locker door was open; he had already been forcibly removed from the arena. Garnett sat on a bench, his chest heaving violently, the veins on the back of his hands throbbing with his heavy breathing. Gary Payton had a towel over his head, radiating an extremely dangerous and violent aura.
Doc Rivers stood in front of the tactical board, took a deep breath, and just as he raised the whiteboard marker to speak.
"Bang."
The locker room door was pushed open, and Lin Qi strode in.
All eyes immediately focused on Lin Qi.
"Feel wronged? Feel it's unfair? Feel like these bastards with whistles in their mouths are shitting on your necks?" Lin Qi looked around, his cold gaze sweeping over each person.
The locker room was deathly silent. Garnett sat on the bench, the veins in his neck throbbing slightly from the exertion. The only sound in the room was his heavy, muffled breathing, like a powder keg ready to explode at any moment.
"If all you're thinking about right now is how to get an explanation from the referee, then you've truly become the perfect losers in David Stern's script." Lin Qi's voice wasn't deliberately raised, but it carried an undeniable penetrating power.
He walked over to Doc Rivers, calmly snatched the whiteboard covered with tactical diagrams from the head coach's hand, and then slammed it face down on the central table.
A soft "snap" sound, though not loud, abruptly cut off the restless atmosphere in the air.
"I assembled you guys—the most dangerous and intimidating bunch in the entire league—not to see you sit here sulking like punching bags when we're down at halftime," Lin Qi said, his hands on the edge of the table, leaning slightly forward as his gaze swept over each tense face.
"Listen, in the second half, put that damn basketball, I don't care how, into Detroit's basket. Donaghy wants to mess up the game with his officiating? Wants to control the score? Then widen the gap to a point where he can't close it even if he blows his cheeks out."
Lin Qi straightened up and adjusted the buttons on his suit.
"Use absolute dominance to show him that his whistle is useless against you. Go tell Detroit, go tell the entire league, who really is taking over this era."
Garnett stood up from the bench. He gritted his teeth, the muscles in his cheeks trembling slightly from the exertion. He suddenly raised his hands and clapped them twice heavily.
"Slap! Slap!"
The crisp sound broke the deathly silence in the locker room.
Then Garnett began nodding rapidly, with his signature, neurotic rhythm. He glanced around at his teammates, muttering rapidly and indistinctly.
"Bury them alive... tonight, bury those Detroit bastards alive..."
Gary Payton, who was standing nearby, also got up, supporting himself on his knees. He ripped the towel off his head, tossed it into the closet, and coldly uttered a few words.
"Take down these bastards."