12:30 PM, the recovery center's rest room.
Lunchtime.
The nutritionist's carefully prepared meal box was placed on the metal table in front of Hill: 150 grams of boiled chicken breast, steamed broccoli, half a bowl of brown rice, and next to it a large glass of pale green protein powder shake that looked unappetizing. Every gram of carbohydrate, protein, and fat had been precisely calculated, with the sole purpose of preventing his muscles from atrophying excessively during inactive periods and promoting bone healing.
This doesn't look like food; it looks more like animal feed.
Hill sat alone in the empty lounge. Through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows, his gaze fell on a corner of the main training hall upstairs.
The teammates were having lunch on the sidelines after practice. But it was a completely different world. Gary Payton was telling some dirty joke with great enthusiasm, making Pierce laugh so hard he almost spat out his Gatorade. Garnett excitedly slammed his fist on the table and shouted in agreement. Even Rasheed Wallace, who always looked fierce on the court, was leaning back in his folding chair with a relaxed smile on his face.
Hill chewed on the waxy chicken breast, looking at the corner filled with life, laughter, and brotherhood, a strong, almost suffocating sense of alienation enveloped him.
His name is on the Celtics ' roster.
His salary is the highest in the team.
But he...
He doesn't seem to be one of them.
He couldn't play, couldn't participate in the locker room celebrations after a win, and wasn't even allowed to tell jokes at lunch.
Hill put down his fork, opened his laptop irritably, and started browsing the news.
As if experiencing a masochistic urge, Hill clicked on the column. The author was Beal Simmons, a local Boston sports writer known for his sharp tongue.
Title: Why are the Celtics even more terrifying without Grant Hill?
Author: Beal Simmons
The Boston Celtics are having a dream start: a six-game winning streak, unmatched in the league. What's even more interesting is that all of this is happening while their highest-paid player, "that man," is sitting courtside in a suit.
Let's take a look at the dominant statistics achieved by this current lineup.
Points per game: 112.3 (Second in the league, only behind the Sacramento Kings )
Points allowed per game: 89.7 (First in the league, suffocating defense)
Net points: An astonishing +22.6
To be honest, I used to think Lin Qi's decision to slap on that $93 million contract to Grant Hill in the summer was a stroke of genius. But now, I'm starting to suspect it was a "beautiful mistake."
Why? Because the Boston Celtics have now reached a delicate balance.
Gary Payton remains the " The Glove " who controls the pace of the game, feeding everyone with an average of 9.3 assists per game.
Chris Paul Pierce has officially evolved into the ultimate killing machine; he can not only score, but more importantly, he doesn't take up too much time with the ball.
Kevin Garnett, the league's best offensive and defensive playmaker, can dominate half the court.
Then there's Rasheed Wallace, an All-Star power forward who willingly plays sixth man. He can play power forward or center, and he can dominate inside or shoot threes. His presence gives the Celtics the best rotation depth in the league.
In Boston today, everyone knows what they're supposed to do, and everyone is running perfectly on their own track.
So, 18 months from now (if he really does make a healthy comeback), where will Grant Hill, who used to dominate the ball-handling duties, be placed?
If we start him, then Pierce's shot attempts must be reduced, and this redistribution of ball possession will inevitably bring a painful period.
Put him on the bench? Good heavens, Boston already has Rasheed on the bench with a salary of over ten million a year, and now they want to add Hill?
Hill was a great genius, without a doubt.
But sometimes it's cruel: you end up on the perfect team at the wrong time, a team that no longer needs you.
Perhaps Lin Qi is secretly sweating bullets as he looks at the results sheet?
Hill gripped the screen with one hand, his fingers turning slightly white from the pressure, his fingertips even leaving ripples on the screen.
"Will Lin Qi... also regret it?" he murmured to himself.
His stomach churned, and he couldn't swallow another bite of the precisely formulated nutritious lunch.
2 PM, electrical stimulation therapy room.
The treatment room was dimly lit in the afternoon. Hill lay on her back on the white treatment bed, her left ankle and calf covered with round electrode pads.
With a "beep" as the device started, a weak but sharp electric current began to penetrate the skin, reaching deep into the muscles and periosteum. The electrical stimulation could force long-inactive muscles to contract, preventing atrophy and accelerating local blood circulation. The muscles in my left leg twitched slightly and uncontrollably under the influence of the current, like a puppet being manipulated.
Dr. Lasset stood beside the instrument, skillfully adjusting the knobs.
"How do you feel? Is the stinging sensation within a tolerable range?" Lasset asked, looking at the various parameters.
"It's alright," Hill replied, but his eyes were staring blankly at the white ceiling, like a stagnant pool.
Lasset stopped what he was doing, took off his reading glasses, and pulled up a chair to sit down on the edge of the bed.
" Grant," the old doctor's tone had changed from a businesslike medical jargon, "You're not feeling well today. Your heart rate is 15% higher than usual, and your muscles are constantly tense. This will affect the effectiveness of the electrotherapy."
"I'm fine," Hill replied instinctively with a standard, official response.
"No, you're not good at all." Lasset stared at him seriously. "I've been working in sports medicine for 20 years, from NFL tough guys to NBA high achievers, I've seen too many guys tormented by injuries. Physical tears and fractures can be solved with patience by modern medicine. But what really ruins an athlete is often psychological problems."
Hill's Adam's apple bobbed, but he remained silent.
"What are you afraid of?" Lasset cut to the chase. "Afraid that your explosive power will never be what it used to be? Or are you afraid of... something else?"
The ward was so quiet that only the faint hum of the ambulance monitor could be heard. After a long while, Hill asked in an almost hoarse voice, "Doctor... did you watch ESPN this morning?"
"I read it. And all that nonsense from the reporters in the Boston Globe and Sports Illustrated, I read it all."
"Are they right?" Hill turned his head, his eyes, which should have been filled with murderous intent, now filled with vulnerability. "They've won six straight games, with the best point differential in the league. Not only do they not need me, but... my presence might even ruin their current chemistry. I'm superfluous, aren't I?"
Lasset sighed, walked to the window, and looked towards the training field upstairs.
" Grant, I'm not a coach, nor a tactical analyst, I'm just an old orthopedic surgeon." Lasset turned around. "But I know one thing: injuries can indeed change an athlete's trajectory, but they can never define an athlete's worth. Unless, you give up yourself first."
"But I'm already 28 years old! I'm the highest-paid player on the team! And I'm just lying here like a useless person watching them win!" Hill suddenly became agitated, and the muscles in his left leg twitched violently with the surge of emotion, causing him to gasp in pain.
"Calm down!" Lasset pressed down on his leg. "So you think that $93 million is your shameful cross? You think Lin Qi was a sucker, and he's probably hiding in his office right now regretting it?"
Hill breathed heavily and did not refute.
Lasset shook his head. " Grant, if these thoughts are really driving you crazy, then you're confiding in the wrong person. You shouldn't be asking me, nor should you be reading articles by journalists who rely on sensationalism for clicks. You should talk to Lin Qi. Talk to him in person."
"But..."
"No buts," Lasset interrupted him. "More than healing your ankle, you need to restore your sense of self."
4 PM, upstairs training hall.
After a full day of rehabilitation, Hill changed into casual clothes, tucked his crutches under his arms, and struggled toward the parking lot. This route he had to take happened to pass by a side door of the main training hall.
Through the glass door inlaid with wire mesh, the sharp "squeak" of sneakers violently rubbing against the solid wood floor, and the crisp, muffled sound of basketballs hitting the rim, rushed towards me like waves.
A full-scale 5v5 match is currently underway inside.
Gary Payton's bounce pass pierced through two defenders. Pierce received the ball in the corner, faked a move against the defense, took a step to the side, and drained a three-pointer that swished through the net!
"Bingo!!!"
Gary Payton roared excitedly and rushed over to bump chests with Pierce.
Rasheed Wallace whistled loudly. Head coach Rick Carlisle paced quickly along the sidelines, pointing out defensive positions, while the assistant coach's whiteboard was covered with densely packed tactical symbols.
This is a team brimming with masculinity, with excellent teamwork, and charging towards the championship.
Hill stood in the shadows outside the door, like the little match girl gazing at the roast goose in the shop window. One hand was already resting on the cold brass doorknob.
He pushed open the door, went in, and greeted them. "Tell them that that three-pointer was really beautiful," a voice inside him said.
But his wrist froze.
What can I do inside?
Another voice mocked sarcastically, "Standing on the sidelines like a mascot, leaning on crutches? Watching them soar through the air? I'm not even qualified to be their sparring partner. Besides, this system is working so perfectly now, what good would my sudden appearance do besides reminding them that the team is supporting an exorbitantly priced patient?"
Hill gave a self-deprecating twitch and slowly released the doorknob.
He turned and silently disappeared into the chilly corridor of early winter in Boston. The cheers and basketball sounds coming from the door behind him were more jarring to him than any other noise.