Early August 2000, Boston Logan International Airport, 4 a. m.
The night was still dark, and the salty sea breeze blew through the private terminal. A Boeing luxury charter plane with a huge green clover logo painted on its fuselage was ready for takeoff.
The players arrived in twos and threes. These giants, who are usually so energetic on the field, were mostly sleepy-eyed, dragging their suitcases, wearing sunglasses, and yawning constantly.
Chris Paul Pierce was the last to arrive. He was not only carrying a huge backpack, but also two full shopping bags in his hands.
" Chris Paul, are you planning to buy a house in Europe and live there permanently?" Rasheed Wallace teased, leaning against the boarding stairs.
"A whole month, man! A whole month!" Pierce shrugged. "I need to bring enough gear. Europe is the fashion capital; I can't let myself be outdone by those Italy heartthrobs off the court."
Billups shook his head helplessly. " Europe is full of boutiques, Chris Paul. Just bring a credit card."
"I know, but I don't want to waste my precious energy trying on clothes." Pierce chewed gum, his eyes radiating confidence. "In Europe, I spend half my time playing tennis and the other half enjoying the cheers."
The crowd burst into laughter.
Lin Qi stood at the boarding gate and gave high-fives to each player who boarded the plane.
" Chris Paul, the scoring burden is entirely on your shoulders this time."
"Leave it to me, Lin."
" Big Ben, show the Europe what a meat grinder is!"
Big Ben nodded emphatically.
" Chauncey Billups, the team's steering wheel is in your hands. Hold on tight."
"Understood." Billups patted his chest.
After everyone was settled, Lin Qi was the last to walk up the gangway, and the cabin door slowly closed.
With engines roaring, the massive chartered plane pierced the clouds in the first rays of dawn, heading towards the other side of the Atlantic Ocean.
Inside the cabin, Pierce had already put on his enormous noise-canceling headphones and was resting with his eyes closed. Billups was still flipping through the dynamic offensive diagrams Rick Carlisle had given him, using the reading light. Rasheed was already sprawled out, snoring away. Ben Wallace, on the other hand, remained like a statue, staring intently at the back of his seat, seemingly engaged in some kind of mental preparation.
The Boston coastline gradually disappeared outside the plane window. A storm was about to hit the Europe continent.
Milan Malpensa International Airport, Italy, 2 PM.
As the Boeing plane landed, a light summer rain was falling in Milan. However, the cool weather did nothing to dampen the enthusiasm of the Apennine Peninsula.
The moment the players pushed their luggage carts out of the VIP passage, a deafening roar crashed down on them like a solid wall.
Hundreds of Italy fans huddled outside the police cordon, holding up giant banners with shamrocks printed on them. Some even lit cold fireworks indoors, the red smoke mingling with the blaring of horns and frenzied shouts.
"Benvenuti Celtics!!!" (Welcome the Celtics!)
Pierce took off his sunglasses, looked at the almost hooligan-like frenzy before him, and raised his eyebrows in surprise. "My God... did they really know we were coming? This is just an exhibition match!"
" The Olympia Milan has been building up its pre-sale hype for a whole week," Lin Qi said, straightening his suit as he walked at the front. "All 12,000 tickets for the Forum Milan the Forum sold out within 48 hours of going on sale."
"Sold out?!" Rasheed's eyes widened. "We don't even sell out when we play preseason games in Boston!"
"In Europe, basketball is a religion, a faith." Lin Qi turned to look at his players, "And you are the first team they've ever seen in their lives—a two-time NBA champion team at their peak."
Three luxury buses painted with Celtics drove towards downtown Milan, escorted by police cars.
The route is typical of Italy, with ancient Baroque buildings, narrow cobblestone streets, and open-air cafes on street corners filled with the aroma of espresso.
The bus eventually stopped at the Bulgari Hotel in the city center. After a quick wash and rest, Lin Qi held his first pre-battle pep talk in the conference room.
"This afternoon, we'll have a mandatory break to adjust to the time difference." Lin Qi tapped the projection screen. "Tomorrow morning, we'll go to familiarize ourselves with the venue. Tomorrow night at 8 PM, the battle will begin promptly."
The opponent's information appeared on the screen.
Olympia Milan, a powerhouse in Europe.
"Boss, do they play dirty?" The ever-competitive Artest rubbed his hands together excitedly.
"Not dirty, but extremely tough." Lin Qi glanced at Artest. "This is Europe; the referees will be lenient. No problem with physical contact..."
"But I can go for high intensity, right?" Artest's eyes lit up.
"Sure, but keep your fists to yourself, Ron," Lin Qi warned. "I don't want to be bailed out of a police station in a foreign country."
Olympia Milan's home stadium, the Forum Milan.
In the early morning, the stadium echoed with the screeching sound of sneakers rubbing against the wooden floor.
Rick Carlisle stood in the center circle with his tactical board, while David Blatt loudly corrected the players' positioning.
"Remember the three ironclad rules of dynamic offense: space, passing, and reading!" Rick Carlisle shouted. " Chris Paul, what is space?"
Pierce answered while dribbling the ball, "Keep all five players out of position, and the distance depends on whether the defender is pressing or collapsing!"
"Right! The ball can't stay in your hands for more than three seconds! Either pass, shoot, or drive!" Rick Carlisle clapped his hands. "Now, run the horns play!"
The players quickly took their positions.
Chauncey Billups Billups dribbled to the top of the key, where Rasheed Wallace and Brad Miller stood at opposite ends of the free-throw line, forming a double horn, Chris Paul Pierce and Doc Doug Christie sank into the corner.
"Get into position! Now, read the defense yourself!" Rick Carlisle took a step back.
Rasheed immediately moved up to set a screen for Billups. Billups quickly used the screen to move sideways, Rasheed took the opportunity to break up the play.
At this moment, Artest, playing as a defender, attempted to switch onto the defense early to double-team.
Billups astutely seized this fraction of a second opening, and instead of forcing a pass to Rasheed who was cutting to the basket, he flicked his wrist and delivered a ground ball to Miller, who was receiving the ball at the high post on the weak side.
The moment Miller received the ball, Pierce in the corner seemed to have a telepathic connection, making an extremely clean V-shaped cut to shake off the defense and cut to the basket.
Miller makes a one-handed bounce pass
"Bang!"
Pierce received the pass and easily scored a layup.
"Beautiful!!" Rick Carlisle couldn't help but shout, "This is the basketball I want!"
Blatt, standing nearby, nodded in satisfaction. "Again! This time I'm asking the defense to change tactics and switch!"
Round reset.
This time, the defense didn't double-team, but switched directly. After the screen, Rasheed was facing Doug Christie was almost 20 centimeters shorter than him.
Billups read the mismatch in a fraction of a second and immediately lofted the ball high to Rasheed.
Rasheed received the ball, completely ignoring Rick Carlisle, and facing the smaller defender, he didn't even dribble, instead launching his signature straight-arm pull-up three-pointer!
"Whoosh!"
Hollow core into the net.
"Great shot! Rasheed, you get a million shots on mismatches like that!" Blatt shouted encouragingly.
After two hours of extremely intense training, the players were drenched in sweat.
On the sidelines, Rick Carlisle looked at his sweat-drenched disciples and let out a long sigh.
Blatt walked over, smiling, and handed him a towel. " Rick, how are you feeling?"
Rick Carlisle wiped his sweat, a wry smile tinged with relief, "Perhaps... I should have learned to let go of the rope a long time ago."
At 7:30 p. m., night fell over Milan.
Outside the Milan the Forum, it was like a grand carnival. Twelve thousand fans packed the entire stadium, and scalped tickets were being sold for more than five times the original price.
The fervent fans, their faces painted with the Olympia Milan logo, pounded deafening drums in the square and even lit several dazzling red flares. Amidst the swirling smoke, it looked less like a basketball court and more like an Rome amphitheater.
Standing in the VIP box on the upper level, overlooking the boisterous stands below, Lin Qi raised his glass of red wine and said to the finance manager beside him, "Remember this scene."
"This is insane, boss. I just saw someone outside willing to trade a Rolex for two VIP tickets." The finance manager wiped the sweat from his brow.
Lin Qi took a sip of red wine. "This is just the first show. After tonight, ticket prices in Europe will be even more insane."
The atmosphere inside the locker room had become extremely tense.
The chants and drumbeats from the fans outside couldn't be blocked even by the heavy soundproof door.
Pierce silently tightened the last shoelace, stood up, and stomped his foot hard.
Billups took off his headphones, his eyes cold. Ben Wallace stood in front of the mirror, forcefully slapping his massive pectoral muscles, making muffled "thump-thump" sounds.
Artest kept hopping around in place, like a bulldog that had been locked in a cage and starved for three days.
Rick Carlisle walked to the center of the locker room and clapped his hands.
All eyes immediately turned to him.
"Did you hear that outside?" Rick Carlisle pointed to the door. "They think this is a friendly match. They think that with our incomplete squad, we'll get lost in the intimidating atmosphere of Europe's home ground."
Rick Carlisle took a deep breath, his voice suddenly rising. "But I want you to remember one thing..."
"You are the NBA champions!"
"Tonight, let's hold back, let's show no mercy! Bring out everything we've practiced! Turn their arena into a library!"
Rick Carlisle extended his right hand.
Pierce was the first to put his hand on it, followed by Billups, Ben Wallace, Rasheed, Artest...
Eleven hands were tightly stacked together.
"One two three!"
"CELTICS!!!"
The roar seemed to tear the air apart in the locker room.
The doors to the players' tunnel were flung open.
The moment that iconic Boston green appeared in the arena, the 12,000 spectators erupted in a terrifying tsunami of cheers and boos.
Pierce walked at the front of the group, and the moment he stepped onto the wooden floor, he took a deep breath of the air mixed with the smell of popcorn.
Billups walked over to him, and the two stood side by side.
" Chris Paul, are you ready?"
Pierce turned his head, his eyes burning with an intensely pure desire for victory.
"Ready, Chauncey Billups. Let's... destroy them."
With a crisp whistle from the referee, the basketball was tossed high into the dome of the Milan Stadium.
The killings of the Europe summer have officially begun.