June 6, 2000, Los Angeles.
At 6 a. m., the sports editorial department of the Los Angeles Times headquarters was brightly lit.
Senior columnist Beal Plaschke stood at his desk, holding a freshly printed draft of the front page.
The headline is prominently displayed. " Big Shark's Redemption: Can Shaq Break the ' Wilt Chamberlain Curse'?"
Subtitle: "Four years of dormancy, a humiliating sweep. Los Angeles doesn't need regular season heroes, we need the O'Brien Trophy."
The accompanying image is visually striking: the main picture shows O'Neal's incredible alley-oop dunk in Game 7 of the Western Conference Finals, his massive 325-pound frame hanging on a precarious rim. In the lower right corner is a small, dark-toned image... a dejected moment from the 1999 playoffs, after the Lakers were humiliatingly swept by the Spurs, with O'Neal sitting on the bench, covering his face with his hands.
"Yes, that's the contrast." Plaschke tapped the draft and said to the editor beside him, "Redemption. It sounds like a story with a lot of drama."
The article begins by directly hitting the Lakers ' sore spot.
In the summer of 1996, a 24-year-old Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal promised the Los Angeles cameras at his signing ceremony, "I will bring you championships, more than one."
Four years passed in the blink of an eye. He won the scoring title, the regular season MVP, and averaged 29.7 points and 13.6 rebounds per game. His dominance in the regular season instilled fear throughout the league. However, his number of rings was zero.
He lost to the Utah Jazz in 1997, lost to the Utah Jazz again in 1998, and was swept 0-4 by the Spurs in 1999. Doubts followed him relentlessly: Could Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal become the Wilt Chamberlain Wilt Chamberlain of this era?
Wilt Chamberlain, the creator of the 100-point game miracle, a monster on the statistics list. But in his 14-year career, he only won two rings, and was overshadowed by his arch-rival Beal Russell throughout his life, even being labeled as 'unable to lead a team to victory'.
Now, at 28, O'Neal is in his absolute prime. Having won both the MVP and scoring title this season, he has no way out and no excuses. If he falls again in the NBA Finals, the doubts surrounding his 'lack of winning mentality' will be definitively confirmed.
What Los Angeles needs isn't flashy statistics, but a real O'Brien Trophy.
June 7, Boston.
The Boston Globe headquarters, too, at 6 a. m.
Bob Ryan, the sports editor, is sipping black coffee and reviewing his column drafts.
The title exudes pride and depth. "A Judgment of History: Fate's 9 Wins and 3 Losses"
Subtitle: "In 1984, Larry Bird buried Magic here. In 2000, Garnett will hunt the Big Shark here."
The accompanying image is the iconic scene of Larry Bird Larry Bird raising the Larry O'Brien Trophy during Game 7 of the 1984 NBA Finals, alongside a close-up of Kevin Garnett pounding his chest and roaring in the Eastern Conference Finals.
"Seventeen championship banners fly over Boston's dome. We know better than anyone how to beat Los Angeles."
Sixteen years later, the Lakers-Celtics rivalry is rekindled. The Lakers, with their supposedly unstoppable interior behemoth, are charging in with overwhelming force. Do they want to redeem themselves in Boston? History will tell them that the New Garden is still Los Angeles ' nightmare.
ESPN headquarters, Bristol, Connecticut.
At 9:00 AM, the " NBA Countdown " special program was being broadcast live.
Host Chris Myers sat in front of the studio, with two sets of data comparisons displayed on the large screen behind him.
Wilt Chamberlain Wilt Chamberlain (1959-1973): 30.1 points and 22.9 rebounds per game, 4-time MVP, 2-time NBA champion.
Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal (1992-2000): 27.2 points and 12.0 rebounds per game, 1 MVP, 0 NBA championships.
"Good morning. Less than 48 hours until Game 1 of the NBA Finals." Chris Myers said seriously to the camera, "The entire basketball world is talking about the same question: Can O'Neal break the 'second Wilt Chamberlain ' curse?"
"The pain of being swept in 1999 tormented him for a whole year. If he wins, he will be officially crowned king. But if he loses..." Myers paused, " Los Angeles ' patience has run out. The labels of 'statistic bluffer' and 'fake winner' will be branded onto him like a mark."
Boston, 10 a. m., Celtics training facility.
Lin Qi stood on the sidelines, holding the Los Angeles Times in his hand.
"The media outside has gone crazy." Head coach Doc Rivers walked over, his brow slightly furrowed. "It's all about O'Neal. These Los Angeles reporters are going crazy trying to provoke him."
"The movement to create a god will elevate a person to a pedestal." Lin Qi casually tossed the newspaper onto the bench, "But on that pedestal, a slight misstep will result in utter destruction."
Just then, Garnett walked over, clutching a copy of the Boston Globe, his face somewhat gloomy.
" Lin Qi." Garnett flicked the headline off the newspaper... ' Garnett Hunts the Big Shark,' "I hate these reporters comparing me to Shaq, it's so weird... I could never play like Shaq."
"Because the media needs selling points, and fans need individual hero showdowns." Lin Qi looked at Garnett, " Kevin, don't be influenced. You don't need to play like Shaq; there are many ways to win."
Garnett took a deep breath, the frustration in his eyes gradually fading, replaced by absolute focus. "Understood. I'll beat them in my own way."
Downtown Boston, 12 noon.
Faneuil Hall Marketplace was engulfed in a vibrant green. Shop windows, lampposts, and café walls were all adorned with the Celtics shamrock symbol.
A line stretched for two blocks outside a large sporting goods store.
" Garnett #5! Any more?!"
"Give me two of Pierce's size 34, the largest size!"
"Does Gary Payton have number 20?"
Shop owner Tom stood in front of the cashier, sweating profusely, yelling into the walkie-talkie, "Warehouse! Bring out even the defective items from the warehouse!"
"Boss, Garnett and Pierce jerseys sold out an hour ago! The 500 we just received last night are completely sold out!" the clerk cried out in despair.
"Who else has it?!"
" Mutombo's number 55, and Rasheed's!"
"Bring them all out! No matter whose they are, as long as they're green, we can sell even the clothes racks today!"
A fan in the crowd shouted, "God, all I want is to buy a jersey to watch Game 1 of the NBA Finals!"
"Come on, buddy," someone next to him joked, "Even if you manage to buy the jersey, do you even have a ticket?"
These words pierced the hearts of countless Boston fans.
Outside the New Garden, 2 p. m.
The blinds at the ticket booth were already tightly shut. Hundreds of unwilling fans had gathered in the square, holding up various frantic signs demanding to buy tickets.
"I'm offering three times the price for votes!"
"Trade two seats for a nearly new Honda Accord!"
" Lao Gui," Boston's most senior scalper boss, is standing with his hands outstretched, surrounded by a group of people.
"Guys, there really aren't any left." Lao Gui gave a helpless, bitter smile. "I've been in this business for twenty years, and I've never seen such outrageous prices. The ticketing system crashed as soon Eastern Conference Finals. Courtside seats were originally $500? Last night, the last ticket I sold cost $8,500. Regular VIP tickets are now selling for less than $1,500, and nobody's even interested."
"Not a single one left?!" the fans cried out in despair.
"Not a single one left." Lao Gui pointed to the huge screen on the outer wall of the arena. "Give up. Go watch TV at a nearby bar, or bring a few cases of beer tonight and get a good spot under this screen. This is the only way you can feel the NBA Finals atmosphere."
Celtics management office, 3 p. m.
Lin Qi's administrative assistant Mary, was frantically apologizing over the phone.
"I'm so sorry, Senator... no, not specifically at you, but even the folding chairs behind the bench are full. Yes, there are no exceptions."
Mary hung up the phone and wearily rubbed her temples. This was the 132nd "backdoor" call she had rejected today, including calls from Boston's political figures and business tycoons.
The office door was pushed open, and Lin Qi walked in.
"How's it going?" Lin Qi asked. "The phone's been ringing off the hook," Mary said, pointing to a thick stack of records. "The mayor's secretary just called too."
"The tickets are for those who truly love this team, not for politicians to use for show." Lin Qi's tone was completely calm.
He turned to leave, but stopped abruptly at the door. " Mary, do you have a ticket?" Mary hesitated for a moment, then lowered her head awkwardly. "I didn't get one... I didn't win the employee lottery either."
"Go find the head of ticketing," Lin Qi said calmly. "Just tell him I said to get you a ticket from my family reserved section. You're part of this team's operation; you're entitled to witness the result in person."
Mary looked up abruptly, her eyes slightly red. "Thank you, Mr. Lin Qi!"
4 PM, Celtics video room.
Lin Qi assembled the coaching staff, along with players such as Garnett, Pierce, Gary Payton, and Mutombo.
Lin Qi slammed the Los Angeles Times onto the table.
"The media has put Shaq on the hot seat." Lin Qi looked at the players present. " Los Angeles can't tolerate him failing again. So, tomorrow night, Shaq O'Neal will be at his most brutal, most dangerous, but also most vulnerable moment of his career so far."
"Vulnerable?" Gary Payton chewed his gum and raised an eyebrow.
"Yes, psychological vulnerability." Lin Qi rested his hands on the table. "When someone's sole obsession is 'winning the championship to prove themselves,' they become extremely afraid of making mistakes. They want to take every shot themselves, and they become impatient. But under this pressure, it might also bring out the best in Shaq."
6 p. m., Logan International Airport.
A private jet bearing the Lakers logo slowly landed.
Outside the VIP passage, cameras and microphones were already set up, and dozens of reporters were on high alert.
Brian Shaw, Fisher, A.C. Green, and others emerged first, while the reporters merely snapped a few photos as a formality; everyone was waiting for the real protagonist.
Finally, a colossal black shadow, almost blocking out the light from the exit, appeared. Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal, his face ashen, his eyes gleaming with a chilling light.
" Shaq!" The reporters surged forward like a tidal wave.
" Boston has declared they'll use four top-tier big men to take turns wearing you down, what's your response?!"
Are you afraid of repeating last year's nightmare of being swept aside?!
O'Neal stopped in his tracks. He lowered his head and scanned the reporters as if they were ants. The noise in the room inexplicably quieted down.
"Four men?" O'Neal's voice was deep and resonant. "Tell Boston, four isn't enough. Have them send up those water cooler guys from the end of the bench too."
O'Neal strode towards the bus, and no one dared to stop him.
Next to emerge from the passage was Kobe Brian, wearing sunglasses and carrying a backpack. At 22 years old, Kobe already exuded a cold and aloof aura.
" Kobe! Chris Paul Pierce said he's going to teach you a lesson!"
Upon hearing this, Kobe, who had been walking briskly forward, suddenly stopped. He turned his head slightly, a cold smile playing on his lips.
He had better keep his word.
After uttering these harsh words without a trace of emotion, Kobe didn't even turn his head and walked straight onto the bus.
The last one to emerge was Phil Jackson, the " Zen Master ".
Faced with a barrage of questions from reporters about the Lakers ' "physical condition and morale after Game 7," the head coach, wearing frameless glasses and holding six championship rings, simply smiled faintly, his expression revealing a composure honed by years of experience.
"I spent nine years with the Chicago Bulls, I know what a championship team is like. And now, I see a similar vibe in Los Angeles."
8 p. m., Boston, Celtics training facility.
On the television screen in Lin Qi's office, news clips of the Lakers ' arrival at Logan Airport were playing on a loop.
"Arrogant, but they certainly have the right to be." Head coach Doc Rivers sat on the sofa, looking at Phil Jackson's enigmatic face, his brow slightly furrowed. "They brought the same tenacity they displayed in their Western Conference Finals come to Boston."
"A string stretched too tight is prone to snapping. If they encounter unexpected resistance on the field, this fierce determination might just crush them."
Lin Qi pressed the remote control, and the screen went black instantly. The noisy media clamor ceased abruptly, and the office returned to silence.
He picked up his coat from the back of the chair and glanced at the clock on the wall.
"Go home and get some rest, Doc." Lin Qi walked towards the door, his tone calm. "We've done all the preparations we could. The rest will be decided on the court tomorrow night."