September 28, 2 PM, Tufts New England Medical Center.
Chris Paul Pierce was discharged from the hospital just 72 hours after being stabbed.
This is nothing short of a miracle in Boston's medical history. He suffered eleven stab wounds, including a puncture in his left lung, with the deepest wound only an inch from his heart. But now, this 22-year-old is walking out of the hospital on his own.
He wore an extremely oversized Celtics hoodie, zipped up all the way, trying to conceal the bandages. His face was pale, and with each step, his hand would unconsciously hover over his abdomen. The street kid who used to swagger around, always holding his chin high in the air, was gone. Now, Pierce's shoulders were hunched, and when a person pushing a wheelchair passed by, he would instinctively turn away from them, his eyes warily watching their hands.
Outside the hospital, dozens of cameras and microphones immediately swarmed in.
Chris Paul! How are you feeling?
"The doctor said you might miss the entire season, is that true?"
Pierce stopped on the steps, his knuckles white from gripping the railing. He stared at the ground, his voice barely audible but unusually crisp.
Thank you everyone for your concern. I will be back.
Without further ado, escorted by two burly security guards, he climbed into a Cherokee SUV. As the guards closed the door, one of them accidentally touched his arm, causing Pierce to visibly flinch before leaning heavily back in his seat, cold sweat trickling down his temples.
October 2nd, New Garden.
The Celtics' training camp for the new season has officially begun.
On media day, cameras and microphones were pointed at head coach Rick Carlisle and general manager Lin Qi. Everyone was asking the same question: Where was Pierce?
" Chris Paul's life is saved, that's the most important thing. As for basketball," Rick Carlisle answered cautiously into the microphone, "We need to give him time, indefinite rest until he's fully recovered."
The atmosphere in the locker room was far more oppressive than at the press conference.
Garnett sat in front of his locker, next to Pierce's empty locker number 34. He was wrapping bandages around his ankle, one loop after another.
Artest's centipede-like scars on his face had just been stitched up, and they were still red and swollen, looking rather unsightly. He kept tearing at the white adhesive tape in his hand.
" Ron." Billups walked over and handed him a bottle of Gatorade. "Don't be crazy. Chris Paul will be back."
Artest stopped what he was doing, raising his bloodshot eyes. " Chauncey Billups, if I hadn't drunk so much that night, if I hadn't let him get those stabs..."
"No ifs." Garnett suddenly spoke, standing up and slamming his locker door shut. "From today onwards, nobody the hell is allowed to mention 'ifs'! Chris Paul's not here, but we'll hold this team together. When he comes back, we'll show him a team that's still winning."
Artest didn't say anything, but simply twisted the cap off the Gatorade bottle.
October 7th, 2 AM, training hall.
The security supervisor was awakened by a very dull thud, like a basketball hitting the ground.
He grabbed a flashlight and rushed into Training Field No. 1, then froze on the spot.
The arena lights were only half on. Chris Paul Pierce, shirtless, was mechanically repeating his shooting motion at the free-throw line.
The white gauze on his chest and under his ribs was soaked with sweat, and blood even seeped through the edges. But he seemed not to feel anything, shooting, retrieving the ball, and shooting again. With each jump, his brow twitched violently from the pulling pain in his lungs.
"Mr. Pierce!" the security supervisor rushed over. "The doctor said you absolutely cannot..."
"Shut up. Get out."
Pierce didn't even turn his head.
The security supervisor dared not step forward and could only retreat to the sidelines, frantically dialing Lin Qi's number.
Half an hour later, Lin Qi pushed open the door of the training hall.
Pierce was still throwing. His movements were completely distorted, his legs felt like lead, and even jumping became extremely difficult.
"Bang."
Another clanging sound of metal hitting the rim. Pierce bent over, hands on his knees, sweat dripping onto the floor.
Lin Qi walked up to him and kicked the basketball off the ground.
"Have you practiced enough?" Lin Qi looked at him. "If you haven't practiced enough, I'll have the team doctor bring the first-aid kit. You run around on the field, and he'll follow behind and stitch you up."
Pierce looked up, his eyes bloodshot. Suddenly, he slammed his fist into the thick foam padding of the basketball hoop.
"Every time I close my eyes, all I see is blood everywhere!" Pierce gasped, his voice hoarse. "I wake up in terror every night. If I see someone with their hands in their pockets while walking down the street, I want to run!"
He pointed to his chest, staring at Lin Qi: "If I weren't that Chris Paul Pierce who could score 20 points on the court, I'd be a moron who got stabbed 11 times in a nightclub! I hate that moron! I'm staying on the court!"
Lin Qi looked at him silently. This was a young man suffering from severe PTSD, using physical pain to suppress his psychological fear.
"Running away won't solve the problem," Lin Qi said calmly.
"I'm fighting!"
"Fight? Still fighting? You're ruining your career." Lin Qi stared at him without moving. "The opening game is still over twenty days away. You want to prove you're not useless? Fine. Starting tomorrow, if you want to come in the middle of the night, I'll have the team doctor and trainer accompany you. The intensity of the match will be determined by the team doctor. Also, see the psychologist once a week, even if you just sit there spacing out for an hour."
Pierce bit his lip, his face full of resistance. In this league that champions tough-guy style, seeing a psychologist is tantamount to admitting you're a coward.
"Don't feel wronged," Lin Qi added coldly. "Tomorrow at two o'clock, I'll have Ron waiting for you in the waiting room of that clinic."
Pierce was stunned. " Ron?"
"That kid's mental state right now is one step away from taking a gun out in the streets and taking revenge on society. If we let it go, he'll either kill his opponent on the court or end up in jail sooner or later." Lin Qi looked Pierce in the eye. "Both of you need to see a psychologist. Even if it's just for Ron's sake, you have to go."
After a long silence, Pierce lowered his head, tacitly agreeing to the suggestion.
Rehabilitation from October 8th to October 20th.
These past ten days have been the most stressful for the Celtics and trainers.
Every Late Night, Pierce gradually increased his training intensity. As his wounds healed, the most difficult part was no longer physical, but the psychological fear.
On October 15th, the first dribbling and breakthrough drill was held.
The trainer, wearing a heavy protective suit, stood in the paint. Pierce accelerated his drive, and the two collided in mid-air...
The memory of the blade piercing his skin flashed through Pierce's mind in an instant. Almost instinctively, he hunched his shoulders in mid-air, completely losing his balance and crashing heavily to the floor.
" Chris Paul!" The trainer was startled.
Pierce lay on the floor, panting heavily, covered in cold sweat.
Lin Qi stood on the sidelines, next to the team's highly paid sports psychologist.
"Typical carnal memory," the psychologist whispered. "He's afraid of physical contact. That's a big problem for a forward who relies on drawing fouls and physical contact."
On the court, Pierce pushed away the trainer who tried to help him up. He rubbed his face hard twice and got up from the floor.
"Again," he said through gritted teeth, "Push harder on me."
Collisions came again and again, he instinctively flinched again and again, and then got up again and again. He tried to use the impacts to eradicate this fear from his muscle memory.
October 25th, the last day of the training camp.
Head coach Rick Carlisle closed the tactical board at the end of the tactical session.
"Tomorrow we'll have our final full-court scrimmage before the season starts," Rick Carlisle paused. " Chris Paul will be back tomorrow."
There was a brief silence in the locker room, then Garnett crushed his water bottle. "I miss that bastard so much!"
Artest sat in the corner, touched the scar on his face, and a grotesque smile spread across his face.
On October 26th, at 10:00 AM, the entire team held a practice session.
When Pierce pushed open the training facility door, the sound of dribbling the ball inside paused for a moment.
He had lost weight and was wearing a green training vest with tight-fitting protective gear on his arms.
"What are you looking at? Haven't you ever seen someone come back to fight for a starting position after taking a dozen stabs?" Pierce forced a somewhat dry laugh.
Garnett walked over, put his arm around his shoulder, and said very gently, "If you hadn't come back, Ron would have sent all the team's sparring partners to the hospital."
Artest stood outside the three-point line, Pierce walked over and raised his fist.
Artest paused for a moment, then raised his fist and bumped it with his.
"Come on!" Rick Carlisle blew his whistle.
The competition begins.
Pierce remained tense. In one possession, he drove into the paint and jumped to block Rasheed Wallace's shot.
Just as their bodies were about to collide, Pierce instinctively flinched. The ball bounced off the rim, and he staggered to the ground, clutching his chest and gasping for breath.
He was still afraid.
Rasheed picked up the ball, walked over to Pierce, and instead of offering comfort, started trash-talking him. " Chris Paul, if you're afraid of pain on the court, go back to the hospital! Opponents won't give you a wide berth just because you have a scar!"
Garnett yelled back at him, "Get hard! Are you a fucking coward?!"
This is the Celtics locker room culture: no cheap sympathy, only blunt and blatant provocation.
Pierce lowered his head, breathing heavily. When he looked up again, the hesitation in his eyes was gone, replaced by a ruthless, street-smart look he had developed since childhood.
Next round.
Pierce called for the ball on the perimeter. Facing Artest's defense, he changed direction, accelerated, and drove straight to the basket without hesitation.
Rasheed leaped high into the air and crashed solidly into Pierce's chest.
Pierce's face contorted in pain, but this time, he didn't flinch. He braced himself against Rasheed in mid-air, managing to maintain his balance and toss the ball toward the basket.
"Beep..."
The assistant coach blew the whistle for a foul.
The basketball went into the net. 2+1.
Pierce fell to the floor. Garnett and Artest immediately went over and pulled him up, one on each side.
"That's how you play, you bastard," Garnett said.
Pierce clutched his chest, hissing in pain, but a grin spread across his face.
He hasn't completely overcome his fear yet; PTSD may stay with him for a long time. But after experiencing a near-death experience, he proved he could still put the ball in that damn basket.
In his office on the second floor, Lin Qi looked down at Pierce, who was surrounded by his teammates, and let out a long sigh of relief.
He knew this kid wouldn't be crippled.