On July 1, 2000, the NBA summer free agency market officially opened.
It was a summer of dazzling stars, but the most greedy eyes in the entire league were still fixed on the man hailed as " Jordan's successor" —Grant Hill.
Within 48 hours of the market opening, the Boston Celtics offered Hill a seven-year, $93 million max contract. At 2 p. m., the press conference hall at the New Garden was flooded with champagne and flashing lights. The Boston media went wild, convinced that this signing would bring the Celtics multiple championships.
However, just four hours later, on the other side of the city, the atmosphere was eerily cold.
Top floor VIP consultation room at Massachusetts General Hospital, Boston.
The strong smell of disinfectant in the air overpowered the aroma of freshly ground Blue Mountain coffee. The wall-mounted film viewing light emitted a stark white light, and several high-resolution MRI and CT scans, just rushed out, hung side by side.
Before signing the contract, Lin Qi not only refused the routine physical examination, but also insisted on the most rigorous independent re-examination. He booked half of the orthopedic center and even used his private jet to bring in Dr. Thomas Clanton, one of the top foot and ankle surgeons in the United States, overnight.
Grant Hill sat on the leather sofa, his once-perfect custom-made suit now showing some wrinkles. He tilted his head slightly, his expression revealing confusion, but more so a deliberately suppressed anxiety.
Several medical experts were arguing quietly in front of the projector lights until Lin Qi pushed open the conference room door and strode in.
"Dr. Clanton, let's get straight to the point." Lin Qi pulled out a chair and sat down.
Dr. Clanton adjusted his glasses and picked up the laser pointer. The red dot landed precisely on the image of the left ankle's talus bone. There, a metallic shadow was visible, along with a surrounding hazy dark area.
"The situation is not optimistic." Dr. Clanton's voice echoed in the empty room, carrying an undeniable professional rigor. "Mr. Hill, the surgery in April inserted a set of plates and screws into your ankle. But look at this high-resolution MRI; there's significant delayed healing here. Worse still, there are already mild signs of osteolysis around the screws, and severe stress reaction in the weight-bearing area of the talus."
Hill frowned, instinctively retorting, "The Detroit team doctor told me the surgery was successful, and the occasional stinging is just a post-operative reaction. They assured me I'd be fully recovered by the start of training camp for the new season."
"That's gambling with your career!" Dr. Clanton interrupted him mercilessly, circling the talus with a laser pointer. "They rely too much on routine X-rays, or rather, they don't want to see the truth. Have you been experiencing frequent swelling and throbbing pain deep in your ankle lately, especially in the middle of the night?"
Hill clenched his fists tightly, his knuckles turning white. For the past few months, countless quiet Late Night had been spent suffering from a piercing pain that felt like a needle stabbing into his bones. But under the league's deeply ingrained "tough guy" culture, he forced himself to treat it as "recovery pain."
"Based on the current trajectory," Dr. Clanton put down his laser pointer, his tone grave, "If you insist on playing through the new season, there's a high probability you'll suffer a refracture or severe joint impact in the first half. At that point, your career will be significantly shortened, or even ended prematurely."
First half?
Sitting in the shadows, Lin Qi twirled his pen expressionlessly. He remained silent, maintaining his composure, but only he knew that the true history was far crueler... Hill only played four games before his prime was completely over. From then on, all that remained were endless surgeries and a seemingly endless comeback; a once-promising talent was reduced to a pitiful, injury-prone individual.
A deathly silence fell over the consultation room.
A flicker of fear crossed Hill's eyes, quickly followed by rage at the thought of his former employer's disregard for human life. He stared at the negative, his voice hoarse. " The Detroit administration swore an oath to me..."
"For some people, medical standards mean nothing compared to ticket revenue and team performance." Lin Qi stood up, turned and waved to the accompanying executives and doctors, "Everyone, please step out for a moment. Close the door behind you."
With a dull "click" from the heavy solid wood door, only the two of them remained in the room.
Lin Qi walked to the coffee table, placed his hands on the surface, and stared intently at the superstar who had just signed a $93 million contract.
" Grant, this is Boston. We treat our players as long-term cornerstones, not disposable assets." Lin Qi's tone was calm yet incredibly penetrating. "Those guys in Detroit are gambling with your leg for next year's box office, but I've spent nearly a hundred million dollars, not to see you spend the rest of your life in a wheelchair."
"So what?" Hill gritted his teeth, a barely perceptible tremor in his voice. "What do you want me to do? Have me operate again? Remove the pins and then have another piece of bone ripped out? Lin Qi, if I go through that torture again, my explosiveness will be completely ruined! Besides, I just signed the biggest contract in the league. Do you want me to be sitting on the bench in a suit in my first year? The Boston media will tear us apart!"
"Who told you we were going to use the Detroit killer tactics?"
Lin Qi didn't get angry. He pulled a thick document from his briefcase, stamped with the joint seal of the Sports Medicine Laboratory and the Texas Medical Center, and handed it to Hill.
"This is a cutting-edge experimental protocol. I've secured a spot for you in early-stage clinical trials."
Lin Qi over the whiteboard and quickly wrote down several stages with Mark.
Step one, metal removal and replacement. We will remove the hidden problem left over from Detroit and replace it with a high-strength absorbable screw (PLLA) that is just beginning to be used in Europe. It can degrade on its own after fixing the bone, and you will never need to undergo a second screw removal surgery.
Step two, biological agents to promote healing. During and after the surgery, the doctor will extract your own platelet-rich plasma (PRP) and inject it in combination with a limited dose of experimental batch bone morphogenetic protein (BMP).
Step 3: An optimal rehabilitation environment. Strict non-weight-bearing is required post-surgery, combined with hyperbaric oxygen therapy.
Hill stared at the densely packed data sheets on rehabilitation therapists and experimental descriptions in the document, stunned. "Can this guarantee that I will recover 100% to my previous state?"
"No." Lin Qi bluntly shattered his illusions. "This isn't some magical surgery that can cure all diseases. The success rate is probably between 60% and 70%, and it might even require a second intervention. Even if everything goes smoothly, you won't be able to regain 100% of your explosive power in the first step."
Lin Qi stared into Hill's eyes, making no attempt to shed light on the harsh reality. "But in the best-case scenario, you can recover to 90% to 95% of your pre-injury athletic ability. You'll lose a little bit of your takeoff height, and you'll need to become smarter and better at protecting yourself. Most importantly, this plan has the potential to extend your peak performance window by four to six years."
Hill's fingers gently traced the document, remaining silent.
"But this will take an extremely long time," Lin Qi said, pointing to the recovery timeline at the end of the document.
From 0 to 8 weeks, strictly non-weight-bearing. Daily hyperbaric oxygen therapy; you can't even get out of bed.
2-6 months, observation period for bone healing. No weight-bearing is permitted until complete bone healing is confirmed.
6-12 months, strength and proprioception rebuilding. This is the most tedious stage, transitioning from water training to non-contact training on land.
It takes 12-18 months; only during this stage can you begin to adapt to the high-intensity physicality of the NBA.
"A year and a half." Lin Qi slammed his hand on the table. "For these 18 months, you will undergo the most rigorous biomechanical data monitoring. If any one indicator fails to meet the standard, you can forget about touching a basketball."
"The coaches and fans will go crazy." Hill gave a wry smile. He knew all too well how the league worked. "A hundred million dollars in salary cap space locked up for a year and a half by someone who can't play. Sponsors will put pressure on you, fans will turn against you, and the media will call you the stupidest owner in league history."
"That's my problem." Lin Qi walked to the water dispenser, poured him a glass of ice water, and handed it to him. "The team's salary cap issues, the coaching staff's doubts, the media's attacks, the pressure of ticket sales—I'll shoulder all of that. You don't even need to read a newspaper. Your only task is to recover from your injury."
Lin Qi looked directly into Hill's trembling eyes and said, word by word, "I'm willing to pay the sunk cost of these 18 months for you, in exchange for five or six years of high-quality career development. Boston can afford this patience, and you... are you willing to entrust the rest of your career to me?"
The objective medical data presented to her, along with this unwavering honesty, finally shattered Hill's defenses.
In this commercial league that treats players as expendable resources, he has seen too much cold-blooded abandonment and exploitation. But he has never seen a team owner willing to take on the overwhelming public opinion storm and hundreds of millions of dollars in financial risk for a player who may not be able to play for a whole year and a half.
After a long while, Hill gently placed the paper cup on the table and raised his eyes. The anger and fear he had felt before had faded, replaced by a deep sense of trust and peace.
"I will cooperate unconditionally with the medical team regarding my recovery." Hill met Lin Qi's gaze, his tone unwavering. "Eighteen months from now, I will show everyone that this $93 million is not only worthwhile, but far exceeds my true worth."
A smile finally appeared on Lin Qi's lips. He extended his hand and shook Hill's hand firmly. "Deal. Now, get a good night's sleep. Tomorrow, we'll face a long battle."
As the ward door closed, Lin Qi's smile gradually faded. The dim light of the corridor shone on his cold, handsome profile.
He walked to the window at the end of the corridor, looked at the early summer night in Boston, dialed his assistant's number, his voice calm but with a hint of coldness.
"Draft a formal document first thing tomorrow morning and file a formal complaint with David Stern's office and the NBA League Medical Committee."
"Boss, should we make the Pistons pay us money?" the assistant asked on the other end of the phone.
"Not only that," Lin Qi sneered, " Detroit must unconditionally provide Hill with his complete medical records for the past six months, all original X-rays and MRI slides, and the surgeon's detailed surgical records. Tell the league that if this concealment of a serious injury for ticket sales is not punished, Boston will lead the effort to amend the ' Injury Information Disclosure Rule ' in the collective bargaining agreement."
Lin Qi's goal is to use this one-sided purge to force the league's top management to face those hidden dangers. He wants to use this opportunity to completely end the barbaric practice of treating players as expendable resources at the league's rule level and establish a truly protective mechanism to prevent the tragedy from happening again.
"It's time to introduce some new rules for this alliance."
Lin Qi hung up the phone, looked at the dazzling lights reflected in the window, and muttered to himself.