Boston, New Garden.
May 28, 2000, Game 5 of the Eastern Conference Finals.
As the Indiana Pacers ' team bus slowly pulled into the arena's underground parking garage, Reggie Miller looked out the window and saw hundreds of home fans gathered at the entrance. They held up signs that read "Send Reggie home," and even more concisely and powerfully—"One more championship."
The city had just tasted the championship again last year, and now, their inflated ambitions have driven them to crave a dynasty.
The away team's locker room before the match.
Larry Bird Larry Bird stood before the tactical board, silently watching the group of veterans who were pushed to their limits. Reggie Miller leaned against the deepest wardrobe, his left knee wrapped in thick protective gear. Jalen Rose tilted his head back and closed his eyes to rest, while Mark Jackson rubbed his throbbing temples beside him.
"I know that in the past two games, Boston's pick-and-roll tactics have torn our defense to shreds," Larry Bird said, his voice unusually hard. "I also know that the Boston media outside the door have already written their press releases announcing that we've made it to the NBA Finals."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over everyone with an intense intensity. "But I still remember the 1981 Eastern Conference Finals, when we were down in Philadelphia, the series was 1-3 at one point. Back then, all the newspapers in America said the Celtics were doomed. But what happened? We won three straight games and took the championship that year."
"In the playoffs, no one can pronounce your death sentence for you unless you accept it yourself." Larry Bird slammed his tactical pen on the table. "If any of you are already thinking about where to go on vacation after a loss, take your jerseys off right now and leave them here. Boston wants to trample us to the NBA Finals? Fine. Then beat us to death on the court. Otherwise, no one will take the victory comfortably tonight."
Miller stood up, using the bench for support, and stretched his aching left knee. His bloodshot eyes still held that fearsome killer's instinct.
" Larry Bird's right." Miller's voice was hoarse, yet chillingly cold. "My suitcase isn't packed yet. Give me the damn ball tonight, and I'll make this arena completely silent."
The home team's locker room before the match.
The atmosphere here was completely different. Garnett was doing his pre-game warm-up, vigorously pounding his chest muscles. Pierce, wearing huge headphones, was intently chewing gum. Gary Payton and Jones were whispering in a corner, confirming the details of their defensive switch.
The entire locker room was filled with a sense of ease and confidence as the series was about to end.
Offensive assistant coach David Blatt sketched out offensive runs on the whiteboard, but Lin Qi knew that what would truly determine the course of the game tonight was no longer a tactical battle.
Lin Qi strode to the center of the room and tapped the whiteboard twice.
The crisp sound interrupted everyone. The locker room fell silent instantly, and all eyes turned to him.
"Judging from your tone, you seem ready to pop champagne in the arena tonight," Lin Qi said, his voice low but incredibly penetrating. "Do you guys think that 35-year-old veteran on the other side can only go through the motions tonight and watch us go to the NBA Finals?"
No one spoke.
Lin Qi's gaze swept over the young faces, his eyes gradually turning cold. "Don't judge Reggie Miller, who's in dire straits, by conventional standards. If you've forgotten what kind of person your opponent is, let me remind you of his resume."
"In Game 5 of the 1994 Eastern Conference Finals, he scored 25 points in the fourth quarter alone and made a chokehold gesture at Parker Lee at Madison Square Garden, humiliating the arrogant New York."
"In Game 1 of the 1995 Eastern Conference Semifinals, he scored 8 points in 8.9 seconds, snatching an incredible comeback from the Knicks."
"In Game 4 of the 1998 Eastern Conference Finals, he pushed past Michael Jordan and sank the game-winning three-pointer over the defense."
Lin Qi paused, his tone becoming extremely menacing. "And just a few days ago in Game 3, he scored 42 points against you. In this league, as long as the final buzzer hasn't blown, Reggie Miller in dire straits is the most dangerous, cold-blooded killer."
He surveyed the entire arena. "So, if you think you can simply follow the script and lift the East Division trophy tonight, you'll soon be the backdrop for his next great performance. What awaits you is the fiercest counterattack from the Indiana."
Lin Qi turned to leave, but stopped at the locker room door and turned back. "Last year we won our 17th championship. This year, we're going to prove to the world it wasn't a fluke. Let's win tonight and tell everyone we're going to win another title."
At 8:00 PM sharp, at the New Garden.
As the Celtics players ran out of the tunnel, the entire arena erupted in a deafening roar. Eighteen thousand fans rose to their feet, the green sea surging violently under the spotlights on the dome.
When the Pacers players stepped onto the court, they were met with a barrage of boos and pressure.
Miller stood near the free-throw line, warming up with shots, his face expressionless. He looked up at the dense array of championship banners overhead—1957, 1959, 1960... Each banner represented Boston's rich history and the heavy psychological pressure the arena exerted on visiting teams. The newest one bore the inscription "1999," having been raised just last year.
Miller looked away without saying a word. He patted the basketball in his hand, jumped amidst a chorus of boos, and calmly sank a three-pointer.
The opening whistle blows.
The Pacers' first possession. Mark Jackson held the ball at the top of the key, waiting for his chance. Miller, like a tireless machine, quickly circled out from the right wing after a screen, received the ball, jumped, and shot—all in one fluid motion.
"Whoosh!"
A three-pointer swished through the net.
Miller turned back to defense, making that classic "chokehold shut up" gesture to the Boston fans in the front row. The boos from the crowd instantly rose an octave.
But the Celtics ' response was based on their absolute strength.
Garnett received the ball at the high post, faced the slow-footed Smits, faked a move, and then drove to the basket. Dale Davis rushed to help defend, Garnett stretched his long arms in the air and deftly flicked the ball into the basket with a reverse shot. After landing, he pounded his chest and let out a roar.
In the next possession, Pierce had the ball at the top of the key, and Garnett set a screen. Miller was forced to switch on defense, and Pierce didn't hesitate at all. He suddenly lowered his shoulder and used his weight advantage to push into the paint. Miller tried his best to hold on, but the absolute difference in size forced him to retreat. Pierce drove into the paint, and facing the double team, he executed a rhythmic, hang-time layup and slammed the ball in.
Miller continued to rely on his experience to carry the offense. He received the ball in the left corner and, facing Jones's close defense, hit another difficult step-back three-pointer. But on the other end, Gary Payton quickly seized the opportunity when the Pacers retreated, delivering a precise long pass to Jones, who finished with a two-handed dunk.
The Celtics completely controlled the pace of the game. They played fast, precise, and physically demanding, relentlessly wearing down the Pacers' exhausted defense in every half-court set.
At the end of the first quarter, the Celtics led 28-22 by 6 points. Miller scored 8 points in the quarter, but when he walked to the bench, his face was pale and sweat was dripping from his forehead and chin.
At the start of the second quarter, the Celtics launched a high-pressure, attrition-based strategy.
Pierce and Garnett began to exploit mismatches and take turns attacking. Pierce had the ball on the right wing, facing Rose, and after a series of changes in rhythm, he scored with his signature fadeaway jumper. On the next possession, Garnett received the ball at the high post, shifted his weight against Smits ' defense, blew past his opponent, and drove to the basket for a layup.
The Pacers ' defense began to crumble in the confrontation.
Miller tried to maintain his offensive firepower. He hit a three-pointer from the top of the key after a double screen, made a pull-up jumper on the right wing, and even drew a foul on a fast break and made both free throws. But his sporadic scoring was no match for the Boston Celtics' fluid offensive system.
Even more damaging is that the Celtics continue to relentlessly target Miller.
Gary Payton had the ball, Mutombo set a screen, and Miller was forced to switch defense. Gary Payton's shrewd eyes narrowed, and with a quick acceleration, he brushed past Miller and drove into the paint for an easy layup.
In the next possession, Jones had the ball, Garnett set a screen, and Miller switched onto him again. Facing Miller, whose breathing was completely disordered, Jones used a simple crossover to disrupt the opponent's defensive balance and penetrate into the paint, causing a scoring opportunity.
Miller bent over, his hands on his knees, his chest heaving violently. His legs trembled slightly uncontrollably.
At halftime, the Celtics led 56-45, an 11-point advantage. Miller had scored 19 points in the first half, but his steps as he walked back to the locker room were heavy, as if his feet were made of lead.
Boston fans began chanting in unison from the stands. "One more championship! One more championship!"
In the home team's locker room, defensive assistant coach Thibodeau whispered to head coach Doc Rivers: "Early in the third quarter, raise the defensive intensity another notch. Don't give them any breathing room, and take the game completely."
Doc Rivers nodded, then turned to the players and said, "Listen, they're hanging on by a thread right now. They'll definitely come back at the start of the third quarter. But just remember, we're faster, stronger, and have more bench depth. Keep it high-intensity, wear them down, and victory is ours."
The atmosphere in the away team's locker room was so oppressive it felt like it had frozen.
Miller sat in the corner as the physical therapist pressed hard on his thigh muscles, trying to loosen the knotted fascia caused by overexertion.
" Reggie, something's wrong with your muscles," the team doctor warned in a low voice with a serious expression. "If you keep running like this in the second half, you could pull a muscle at any time."
Miller picked up a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. His tone was flat, with only an infuriating stubbornness. "Tighten the bandage on my left knee again. As long as I can stand, I won't be on the bench for the second half."
Larry Bird walked over, looking down at Miller's trembling left leg. "The team doctor wasn't bluffing, Reggie. Staying on the court in your current condition..."
Miller slowly raised his head, his eyes fixed intently on his head coach.
"The 1991 playoffs, Game 5 of the first round," Miller's voice was hoarse, "Also Celtics vs. Indiana."
Larry Bird's gaze sharpened slightly.
"That year, your back was completely ruined. The pain was so bad you couldn't even sit on the bench; you could only lie on the sidelines like a seriously injured player." Miller stared intently into Larry Bird's eyes. "In the second quarter, you hit your head on the floor while trying to save a ball and had to be carried back to the locker room. At that moment, we all thought the game was over, even that your career was over."
Miller smirked, revealing a weary yet arrogant sneer, "And then in the third quarter, you walked out of the player tunnel again, single-handedly sending us back home."
The locker room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.
" Larry Bird, since even your severe back injury and concussion back then couldn't keep you in the locker room," Miller reached for the medical tape in the team doctor's hand and tightly wrapped it around his knee, "You should know better than anyone... as long as my legs aren't completely broken, I will never sit on the bench and accept my fate."
Larry Bird silently gazed at the stubborn veteran before him. For the first time ever, a barely perceptible hint of empathy flickered across his usually cold and acerbic face...
"Suit yourself." Larry Bird turned away casually. "You have two minutes to treat the bandage. Once you're on the field, don't let me see you limping around like a cripple."