November 10, 2000, Boston.
6:15 a. m., the Hill home in the Boston suburbs.
The alarm clock's shrill buzz mercilessly shattered the tranquility of the morning.
Grant Hill jolted awake, his muscle memory instinctively pushing him to roll over and jump off the bed. But just as he was about to exert force with his thigh, a sharp pain deep in his left ankle abruptly stopped him from moving.
He took a deep breath and carefully sat up. His wife, Tamia Hill, was breathing evenly beside him, still fast asleep. Hill slowed her movements and gently lifted a corner of the blanket.
The heavy bandage wrapped around his left ankle, like a white shackle, served as a reminder: you haven't touched a basketball in four whole months.
Hill leaned forward, his hand reaching for the cold aluminum cane beside the bed. He tucked the cane under his arm, gritted his teeth, and slowly straightened up. His entire weight had to be precisely on his right leg, while his left leg, which could once deliver a powerful dunk over a defender, was now suspended in mid-air.
He had been repeating this difficult act of getting out of bed for four months. But habit had not alleviated the pain; each time he stood up, it felt like reliving a defeat.
Under the glaring incandescent light of the bathroom, a man who seemed unfamiliar to him was reflected in the mirror: 28 years old, his upper body muscles were still as strong and perfect as an ancient Greece sculpture, but his eyes were bloodshot, revealing an undisguised weariness and confusion.
This is not the all-powerful " Jordan successor" of the Detroit Pistons, nor is it Grant Hill who signed a 7-year, $93 million max contract in July of this year with a beaming smile.
This is the gaze of a wounded soldier trapped inside his own body, uncertain of the future.
As Hill listened to the sound of running water while washing up, his thoughts drifted back to four months ago.
He still vividly remembers the dazzling lights of the signing ceremony at Boston's New Garden. Flashbulbs were going off everywhere, and reporters were bombarding him with questions. Team president Lin Qi gripped his hand tightly, his eyes radiating absolute confidence. "Welcome to Boston, Grant. This will be your new home, and together we'll build a dynasty."
He was full of vigor back then. He left Detroit and joined a super team that had just won two consecutive championships and was on the rise. He felt that everything was a perfect new beginning.
However, fate played a cruel joke on him at his most triumphant moment. The mandatory in-depth medical examination following the signing of the contract plunged him into despair.
The top-notch medical team that Lin Qi personally brought pointed to the X-ray and revealed the ugly truth that the Pistons had been trying so hard to cover up: severe osteolysis had occurred around the steel nails, and there was an extremely high risk of stress reaction in the talus. If he continued to force himself to play, his career could be completely over within two years.
" Grant, you need to have surgery again." In the air-conditioned office, Lin Qi's tone was calm but left no room for negotiation. "Remove those time bomb-like metal screws, replace them with absorbable materials, and completely rebuild your bone structure. The price is... an 18-month rehabilitation program."
"18 months?!" Hill remembers his voice trembling at the time. For a 28-year-old player in his prime, 18 months without touching a ball is tantamount to a slow death of his career.
"Yes, 18 months." Lin Qi's gaze remained fixed on him, unwavering. "But this time, we'll make you 'truly' recovered. Not the kind of Detroit, suicidal treatment we did in Detroit. I want a Grant Hill who can play the rest of his contract healthy, even if you don't get a single minute on the court in your first year."
In mid-July, the shadowless lights shone brightly.
Then came the endless, dreary present... the fourth month of my recovery.
7:30 a. m., Celtics training facility, basement level medical rehabilitation center.
Hill, leaning on his crutches, pushed open the glass door of the rehabilitation center's temperature-controlled room, accompanied by the "tap, tap, tap" of the rubber floor. The air was filled with a mixed smell of disinfectant and medical alcohol.
Dr. Lasset was already waiting for him. The gray-haired sports medicine authority glanced at his watch and nodded slightly. "Good morning, Grant. Precise timing. Maintain this discipline."
"Good morning, doctor." Hill forced a smile that she tried to make appear relaxed.
"Same as before. First: Hyperbaric oxygen chamber, 90 minutes, to promote deep cell repair." Lasset pointed to the huge, transparent device in the corner that resembled a space sleep pod, "Then there's resistance non-weight-bearing training in the hydrotherapy pool, followed by deep electrical stimulation and alternating hot and cold therapy in the afternoon."
Hill nodded obediently. He was very familiar with this process; it had been the same almost every day for the past few months.
Hill lay down in the hyperbaric oxygen chamber. The transparent door slowly closed, accompanied by the hissing sound of the air pressure, completely isolating him from the outside world. The machine started up, emitting a low, muffled hum. As the air pressure inside the chamber gradually increased, Hill felt a slight pressure on his eardrums, and he swallowed.
90 minutes.
In this cramped space where only the sound of one's own heartbeat can be heard, the human brain always seems to enjoy torturing itself. Hill closed her eyes, and fragments of pain uncontrollably flashed through her mind...
The nauseating dizziness that comes with waking up from anesthesia.
When the stitches were removed, I saw an ugly, dark red scar on my left ankle that looked like a centipede.
And... the monotonous cycle of hyperbaric oxygen therapy, hydrotherapy, and electrical stimulation, day after day.
The physical confinement is only one aspect; what's truly terrifying is the stagnation, as if forgotten by time.
9:45 AM, spa pool
Hill sat by the warm water, slowly immersing his legs in the pale blue water. The water temperature was set at the perfect 32 degrees Celsius, and the buoyancy supported his battered left foot, allowing him to temporarily experience a long-lost sense of "lightness."
"Okay, Grant, let's begin today's range of motion training." Rehabilitation therapist Johnson stood by the pool, a stopwatch around his neck and a waterproof recorder in his hand. "Ankle dorsiflexions, 10 reps per set. Remember, the movements should be extremely slow, feel the muscle stretch, and keep the range of motion below your pain threshold."
Hill gritted his teeth and began to slowly bend and straighten his ankle in the water. Every tiny movement required immense willpower to control. For a top striker who could once easily dribble past Scottie Pippen, the contrast of having to exert all his strength in the pool for an ankle bend of less than 15 degrees was simply absurd.
"Excellent, hold on... against the water resistance... one more time..."
10 times.
20 times.
30 times.
Dry, mechanical, dull pain.
To distract himself, Hill's gaze drifted to the wall-mounted television. ESPN's classic opening theme for "SportsCenter" was playing, showing a replay of last night's league games.
On the television screen.
" The Boston Celtics' reign of terror continues! Last night, the Celtics effortlessly crushed the New Jersey Nets 115-98 at home, securing their sixth consecutive win to start the season! They are also currently the only undefeated team in the entire league!" Announcer Stuart Scott's signature rousing voice echoed throughout the spa.
The scene cut to a highlight reel: Chris Paul Pierce takes a probing step beyond the three-point line, then drives into the paint, leaps high over two defenders, and completes a powerful one-handed dunk! The New Garden erupts in frenzy. Pierce lands, pounding his chest and roaring to the sky.
" Chris Paul Pierce was on fire last night! He racked up 38 points, 9 rebounds, and 5 assists!" Another commentator exclaimed incredulously, "Since that shocking nightclub stabbing incident in September, this guy hasn't faltered; he's become even stronger! Look at his stats over these six games: an average of 29.7 points per game, currently leading the league in scoring!"
A breathtaking data panel appeared at the bottom of the screen.
Boston Celtics Core Player Average Statistics (6 Games)
▶ Chris Paul Pierce: 29.7 points / 7.5 rebounds / 4.2 assists
▶ Kevin Garnett: 24.3 points / 13.2 rebounds / 5.8 assists
▶ Gary Payton: 20.5 points / 4.8 rebounds / 9.3 assists
"Three guys in the starting lineup are averaging 20+ points per game! Ladies and gentlemen, this is the kind of offensive firepower the league hasn't seen since the 'Showtime' Los Angeles Lakers of 1987!" Scott raised his voice.
"Don't forget the most terrifying point, Stuart," the guest chimed in. "Their sixth man... Rasheed Wallace. He averages only 28 minutes per game, yet he delivers 16.2 points and 7.5 rebounds! If Rasheed were a starter on any other team, that would be a solid 20+10! Gary Payton's playmaking, Pierce's scoring, Garnett's versatility, Big Ben's defense, plus Rasheed's dominant performance off the bench... what kind of alien-level lineup is this?"
In the video, Rasheed Wallace hits a three-pointer from the left corner, followed by his signature roar.
The atmosphere on television suddenly became tense. The guest took a sip of water and dropped a bombshell. "So, this brings up a question that the entire league is whispering about... what role will Grant Hill play when he returns next year?"
"A soul-searching question." Scott stroked his chin. " Hill has a massive 7-year, $93 million contract, undoubtedly the highest-paid in Boston. But now, this system is running like a perfectly crafted Switzerland watch. The three starters are averaging 20+ points per game, and the ball distribution is extremely balanced. Even Rasheed is willing to sacrifice his stats to come off the bench. So, with this former Detroit star back, where does he fit in on the team?"
"What's even more worrying is the lack of team chemistry. Hill is a point forward who needs the ball in his hands to be at his best. But with the current Celtics, Gary Payton orchestrates the offense, and Pierce is the primary offensive weapon. If Hill is forced into the starting lineup, who will come off the bench? Doug Christie? That would significantly reduce the defensive pressure on the perimeter. Put Hill off the bench? Let a $93 million superstar lead the second unit? That sounds like a joke."
"Actually, many people have been thinking..." The guest paused deliberately, "... that Lin Qi's big-spending signing of Hill this summer, now it seems, was it unnecessary?"
"Don't be so harsh, Hill's talent is undeniable," Scott tried to smooth things over, but his next sentence was even more hurtful. "But the truth is cruel... this Celtics really doesn't need him anymore."
" Grant? Grant, is the water too cold?"
It took therapist Johnson two shouts to pull Hill's soul back into her body.
"Sorry... I was lost in thought." Hill's lips were pale, and her voice was dry, as if she had been trekking through the desert for days.
"If you feel pain, we need to stop immediately." Johnson glanced at the TV screen following Hill's gaze and immediately understood. He opened his mouth, as if wanting to say something comforting, but in the end, he just silently lowered his head and made two marks on the whiteboard.
Hill took a deep breath, pulled his gaze away from the television, stared at his reflection in the water, and continued performing the mechanical bending and stretching movements.
But deep within his heart, that voice coiled like a venomous snake, tightening its grip ever more.
"What they said on TV is right."
" The Celtics don't need me at all."