November 11, 2000, Boston.
1:45 PM, outside the president's office at the New Garden.
Hill, leaning on his cane, stood outside the door. He had been standing there for a full three minutes, the frequency of his deep breaths betraying his inner unease.
His left hand gripped the handle of the aluminum alloy cane, his palm slightly sweaty. His right hand rose, hovering in mid-air, but he couldn't bring himself to strike it.
What will he say?
"Will he subtly tell me that there's no place for me in the future of this team?"
"Or will they, like those hypocritical politicians, spout a bunch of nice words to appease people, and then suspend me indefinitely?"
Hill glanced down at his Rolex: 1:47. 13 minutes until the appointed time.
Just as he finally made up his mind and was about to knock on the door, with a "click," the door was pulled open from the inside without warning.
Lin Qi, dressed in a neat white shirt with his tie slightly loosened, held a cup of coffee in his hand and calmly looked at Hill was looking somewhat surprised, outside the door.
"Come in, Grant. Don't stand in the hallway like a rookie who's made a mistake." Lin Qi stepped aside to make way.
Hill paused for a moment, quickly gathered his scattered thoughts, and, leaning on his cane, walked into the office with a "tap, tap" sound.
1:50 PM, Lin Qi's office.
The office was spacious, with a large, dark oak desk behind which was a floor-to-ceiling window offering a panoramic view of Boston's gloomy city skyline. Instead of famous paintings, the walls were adorned with two huge framed photographs... snapshots of the Celtics lifting the O'Brien Trophy over the past two years.
"Sit down." Lin Qi gestured to the sofa, then took his coffee and sat down on the single sofa opposite Hill.
Hill sat down carefully, resting his cane against the armrest of the sofa.
" Grant, before I answer your question from last night about 'whose'," Lin Qi put down his coffee cup and picked up the remote control from the coffee table, "I want to show you something first."
As the remote control was pressed, the blackout curtains in the office slowly descended, and the hidden projector on the opposite wall lit up, projecting a blinding beam of light.
The screen lights up: February 1997, Detroit Pistons vs. Chicago Bulls, broadcast live across the United States.
Amidst the slight noise characteristic of videotapes, a young man wearing a Pistons #33 jersey and a blue jersey appears in the center of the frame.
In the video, Hill's muscles are long and powerful. Facing Michael Jordan's tight defense, he launched an attack from the right three-point line. With an extremely low center of gravity, he shifted Jordan's weight by half a step, Hill cut into the paint like a blue lightning bolt. In the instant he drew the help defense from the inside, he didn't even turn around, delivering a no-look pass behind his head, precisely to Stackhouse in the corner.
With a swift stroke, the three-pointer found its mark.
"Incredible vision!" came the commentator's excited exclamation from the screen. " Grant Hill's pass was like he had eyes in the back of his head!"
The scene changes, another round begins.
Hill held the ball at the top of the key, directing his teammates' movements like a true point guard. He keenly spotted a weakness in the Chicago Bulls ' defense, and a bounce pass pierced through the gap between the two defenders, finding Lindsey Hunter cutting to the basket for an easy layup.
"That's Grant Hill! Ladies and gentlemen!" The commentator's voice cracked with excitement. "Six feet eight inches tall, the vision of a point guard, and the physique of a small forward!"
Another crucial round.
This time, Hill chose to finish the game himself. He started from the left 45-degree angle, his explosive first step blowing past Pippen and driving straight into the paint for a powerful two-handed dunk!
Lin Qi pressed the pause button. The image froze on the young Hill's spirited face.
Hill sat in his dimly lit office, watching himself fly and leap across the screen, and his eyes suddenly welled up with tears. It felt like he was looking at a familiar stranger.
"Do you remember this match?" Lin Qi's voice rang out in the darkness.
"I remember," Hill's voice was a little hoarse, "We beat the Chicago Bulls in the regular season." That was one of the most glorious moments of his career.
"You scored 31 points, grabbed 9 rebounds, and dished out 7 assists in that game," Lin Qi said. "But the stats aren't the point. The point is, you orchestrated the Pistons ' offense. You played like a point guard, scored like a shooting guard, and defended like a small forward."
Lin Qi pressed a button on the remote control, and the screen switched to a data chart.
Grant Hill's stats for the 1996-97 season.
He averaged 21.4 points, 9.0 rebounds, 7.3 assists, and 1.8 steals per game.
Regular season MVP voting: 3rd place (behind only Carl Malone and Jordan ).
All-Star vote leader (overtaking Jordan ).
Lin Qi got up and walked to the window, turning his back to Hill, and remained silent for a few seconds.
" Grant, I've reviewed all your game footage. In the 1996-97 season, you averaged 21.4 points, 9.0 rebounds, and 7.3 assists per game, and finished third in the MVP voting, behind only Jordan and Malone."
He turned around and stared into Hill's eyes.
"You might be thinking, why am I bringing this up? But have you realized something...? There are only a handful of players in the entire league in history who can average 20+9+7. And in that season, you were a name being discussed on the same level as Jordan and Malone."
Grant Hill's teammate Stackhouse later said: Hill was like LeBron James before he appeared, a super forward who could handle the LeBron, organize the offense, and score.
Lin Qi stood up, walked to the French windows, and pulled back the curtains. The blinding sunlight flooded the office again, causing Hill to squint involuntarily.
" Grant, do you know how you differ from this Celtics starting lineup?"
Hill shook his head.
" Gary Payton is a point guard; his strengths are passing and defense, but he needs his teammates to give him space." Lin Qi turned around. " Pierce is a scorer; his strengths are mid-range isolation plays and drawing fouls, but he's not a playmaker. Garnett is a versatile forward, but he's more used to receiving the ball in the low or high post than initiating attacks from the perimeter."
Lin Qi walked back to the sofa and sat down.
"But you're different," Lin Qi said. "You can initiate the offense from the perimeter, you can drive and dish, you can finish yourself, and you can create opportunities for your teammates. You're a true point forward."
Lin Qi pressed the remote control, and a tactical board appeared on the projector.
"With this lineup, Gary Payton is the primary offensive initiator. If Gary Payton gets double-teamed or has a bad Gary Payton night, our offense will struggle. Pierce can isolate, but he's not the kind of playmaker who can orchestrate the entire team. At least not yet."
"But if you're on the court, we have two offensive initiators: Gary Payton and you," Lin Qi said. "You can have the ball on the wing, initiate pick-and-rolls, drive and dish, or attack the basket yourself. Your presence will transform this team's offense from 'two-dimensional' to 'three-dimensional,' and defending you will become a nightmare for the entire league."
Hill looked at the tactics board, a long-lost feeling welling up inside him.
"That's my role with the Pistons."
"Organizer, attack initiator, all-around fighter."