November 11, 2000, 7:30 p. m., Hill's home in the suburbs of Boston.
Winter nights always come exceptionally early in Boston, and the temperature has already started to drop.
The howling wind whipped up the withered yellow leaves in the courtyard, violently slapping against the garage door's roller shutter.
Only a dim floor lamp was on in the living room, and the firewood in the fireplace was burning brightly, making a soft crackling sound. Tamia Hill was curled up on the sofa, several old magazines on her lap. The top one was Sports Illustrated, its cover headline stinging her eyes...
The Fallen Hero: Grant Hill's Ankle, Detroit's Lies, or Boston's Burden?
She sighed, and the dull thud of an engine shutting off came from the direction of the garage.
A few seconds later, the door was pushed open. A gust of cold wind rushed into the entryway, followed by the familiar sound of a cane hitting the ground.
Tamia quickly shoved the magazine under the sofa cushions and stood up. She forced a relaxed smile, preparing to greet her husband, whose eyes were filled with gloom and who was tormented by frustration and self-doubt, unable to sleep at night, as usual.
But when Hill stepped into the glowing living room, Tamia paused slightly.
As Hill's soulmate who had been with him for over four years and knew him best, Tamia was extremely sensitive to changes in the atmosphere. Last night, Hill's shoulders were slumped, his eyes were like a stagnant pool, and he seemed like a walking corpse whose soul had been drained.
But tonight... his change is clearly visible.
Although his left foot was still in a heavy cast and he still needed to support himself with his arms on those cold aluminum crutches, his back was ramrod straight. When he took a step, the rubber pads at the bottom of the crutches tapped on the solid wood floor, no longer with the dull, dragging sound of the previous days, but with a certain firm rhythm.
Most importantly, his eyes. The panic, inferiority, and humiliation that had almost overflowed last night had vanished. In their place was a long-lost, sharp light, like the edge of a drawn sword. Tamia had only seen this kind of light during her time with the Pistons, just before Hill was about to step onto the playoff court.
" Grant?" Tamia stepped forward, took his chilly coat, and tentatively asked, "You... stayed at the gym for a long time today. Did you go to see Mr. Lin Qi?"
"Yes, we talked for the entire afternoon." Hill leaned his cane against the wall, not rushing to sit down and rest as usual.
He supported himself on one leg, opened his broad arms, and pulled his wife into a powerful embrace. He buried his chin deep in Tamia's flower-scented hair, his chest heaving as if greedily inhaling the oxygen of new life.
"How did the talk go?" Tamia hugged him tightly, feeling the life force emanating from her husband's tense muscles.
Hill released his wife and cupped her face in his hands. By the firelight of the fireplace, Tamia saw that her husband's eyes were slightly red, but there was a smile on his lips.
" Tamia, he didn't try to comfort me with any nice words." Hill's voice was soft, yet carried a firm calm. "He was direct. He made me face the fact that it's difficult, extremely difficult, for me to return to my Detroit self. Actually, I know myself... that Grant Hill who was used to flying in the Detroit skies may never be the same again."
Tamia's face paled slightly, and she instinctively gripped her husband's arm tightly. " Grant..."
"But I'm fine, Tamia, I really feel great." Hill squeezed his wife's hand and gently stroked it. "He designed a complete rehabilitation plan for me, it's very complicated. He also has me practice three-pointers. He said I won't need to do what I used to..."
He paused, seemingly searching for the right words.
"... I don't need to charge into the crowd for every ball anymore. He said if I can improve my three-point shooting to 40%, plus my existing playmaking ability, then I can coexist with Pierce and Garnett."
He looked up at Tamia.
"I don't know if I can do what he told me. But this is the first time I've heard someone say... 'You don't need to hit like that anymore.'"
Tamia didn't say anything, she just took his hand.
After a short while, she finally spoke, "So, do you believe him?"
Hill thought for a moment.
"Trust," he said.
Then he added, "Mainly, I wanted to give it a try."
Although Tamia didn't know much about basketball, she understood the hope in her husband's voice. The man who had been tormented by self-doubt for months had finally found a way out that he could see the light.
"However, the price will be a lot of effort and patience." Hill looked into his wife's eyes, his tone becoming extremely serious. "The next 14 months will be a very tedious and difficult period. Lin Qi found me the best sports experts, but it may take me several months just to relearn how to exert force and find my balance like a baby."
He paused, a hint of apology and dependence on his wife in his eyes. "I might have many sleepless Late Night because of joint pain. I might become irritable and frustrated at home because I can't do a simple rehabilitation exercise correctly. I might be very difficult..."
"So, I need you by my side. When I'm about to be overwhelmed by frustration, give me a hand, or just yell at me to wake me up."
Tamia's eyes instantly reddened, and hot tears welled up, but they were tears of joy and relief. The proud, indomitable man, regarded by the entire nation as " Jordan's successor," had finally awakened from the nightmare of injuries and quack doctors.
Tamia nodded vigorously and pressed her face against her husband's broad chest.
"I will." Tamia's voice was nasal, but unusually firm. "No matter how long it takes, no matter how difficult it is, I will be there."
Hill smiled, lowered his head, and kissed his wife's forehead.
Outside the window, the Boston winter night was deep and chilly, with the wind still howling. But in Hill's heart, the cold that had plagued him for months had dissipated.
Facing reality isn't scary; what's scary is having no direction. Now, he has direction.
Hill turned to look at the night outside the window and silently said to himself.
"In 14 months, I will show everyone that Grant Hill is back."
"A stronger Grant Hill."
10 p. m., Lin Qi's study in his villa.
The study was quiet, with only the soft crackling of the burning oak in the fireplace.
Lin Qi turned on only a retro desk lamp that emitted a warm yellow light. On the large mahogany desk, several completely different documents were spread out.
On the left are Hill's "MRI Report" and "Phase One Rehabilitation Plan".
In the middle are several clippings from a magazine, about Mark Verstegen's makeshift training room in State of Arizona.
On the right is a summary report of the appalling injuries suffered by all EBA teams.
Lin Qi picked up his black coffee, took a sip, and stared intently at the screen. He then picked up his pen and wrote an ambitious title in a thick black leather notebook.
[Modern Sports Science and Athletic Performance System (Conceptualization)].
His pen flew across the paper as he organized a grand blueprint in his mind that was twenty years ahead of its time.
Strategic core elements:
1. Data-driven and biomechanical assessment: Abandoning the "feel-based" training method, high-speed cameras and force tables are introduced to biomechanically analyze players' take-off, landing, and lateral movement to identify potential injury risks (compensation mechanisms).
2. Functional Training Revolution: Reshaping the connection between the nervous system and muscles. Instead of training "dead muscles," train core stability, explosive power, and body control in three-dimensional space.
3. Rehabilitation is training; prevention is better than cure: Break down the barriers between team doctors and physical trainers. Don't wait until a leg is broken to seek treatment; build a "firewall" against injuries for players.
4. Standardization and Commercialization: Verstegen is a genius craftsman, but he's currently just a small workshop. My goal is to distill his ideas into a standardized, replicable process, establish a coach certification system, and export it globally!
Lin Qi put down his pen, rubbed his temples, and leaned heavily back in his leather chair.
This is not a small-scale project.
This is a bottomless pit that requires tens of millions of dollars to invest, takes several years, and may not even generate any profit in the early stages.
For the Boston Celtics, establishing a world-class medical rehabilitation system would be their strongest foundation for building an evergreen dynasty. Superstars would flock there because of the medical support, and the peak years of veterans would be extended.
For the entire sports business empire, this is an even larger blue ocean industry than the NBA teams themselves.
Lin Qi glanced at his Patek Philippe watch: 10:15 PM.
He picked up the encrypted phone on the table and dialed a number directly.
"Hey, Jason?"
"Hey, boss." Jason, the team's financial director, sounded a little tired on the other end of the phone, with the faint sound of a television in the background. "Calling so late, is there some problem with the team's salary cap?"
"It's not urgent, Jason. Turn off the TV and clear your head." Lin Qi's tone was calm, but carried an undeniable authority. "I want to discuss a new investment plan with you."
"What kind of investment? Real estate? Or a regional broadcasting network?" Jason immediately focused intently.
"A center for sports science, rehabilitation medicine, and top-tier athletic performance." Lin Qi tapped his fingers lightly on the table. "I want to start a technology sports company, independent of the Celtics, specifically for this. Give me a starting budget of $20 million."
There was a deathly silence on the other end of the phone for ten seconds. Only Jason's rapid breathing could be heard.
"Boss... are you serious?" Jason's voice trembled slightly. "20 million? Invested in a bunch of masseuses and strength and conditioning coaches? There's absolutely no precedent for this in the current sports world!"
"I never follow in someone else's footsteps, Jason," Lin Qi said calmly. "This is just the idea stage for now. In mid-November, I'll arrange a private jet to pick up an expert named Verstegen from State of Arizona and bring him to Boston for a meeting to discuss the feasibility in detail. If it works, we'll get started immediately."
"Understood." Jason took a deep breath, his professionalism allowing him to quickly get to work. "I'll immediately assemble a team to prepare a detailed financial analysis model and risk control report. But boss, I need more background information: What are this company's barriers to entry? Is its profit model geared towards the general public (C-end) or professional sports teams (B-end)?"
"I'll give you the Answer to these questions after I finish talking to Verstegen," Lin Qi said. "Right now, all you need to know is that this is a long-term strategic investment; don't expect short-term returns."
"Understood, boss. I'll start pushing it out first thing tomorrow morning."
The call ended.
Lin Qi stood up, took his coffee, and walked to the large floor-to-ceiling window.
Outside the window, Boston's nightscape was brightly lit, and the lights of the New Garden were still on; the Celtics players were probably still training.
Lin Qi knew he had a powerful team with the potential to win three consecutive championships.
But the greatest enemy of competitive sports is the sword of Damocles hanging over the head of every genius—injuries.
Countless tragic scenes from his past life flashed through Lin Qi's mind.
The once agile and elfin " Penny Hardaway " Hardaway faded into obscurity due to wear and tear on his knee cartilage.
Tough guy Alonzo Mourning is suffering terribly from a rare kidney disease.
In the future, there will be Yao Ming, the Eastern giant who carries the hopes of 1.3 billion people, who will have to retire in disappointment due to stress fractures caused by overwork.
And then there's Derrick Rose, Chicago's youngest MVP, clutching his ACL in pain after a change of direction...
And there's Roy, Oden, McGrady...
If his sole aim was to make money, Lin Qi could have invested in Amazon and Apple in Silicon Valley, companies that had just experienced a stock market crash.
But he's a sportsman, he's at the helm of this team, and he can't bear to see those talented players ruined by injuries.
If we can personally establish a revolutionary scientific training and rehabilitation system, we can not only save Grant Hill, but also help many more people in this league.
This is not merely a matter of commercial interests; it reflects a sense of mission from a time traveler to change the course of competitive sports history.
Lin Qi turned around and walked back to his desk.
He picked up his pen and wrote a line on the last page of his notebook.
"Let every genius realize their full potential, free them from injuries, and allow them to enjoy the great careers that are rightfully theirs."
This is his vision for the project.
Lin Qi closed his laptop and turned off the desk lamp.
The team has training and a game tomorrow.
But today, he has already planted a seed for the future.
Grant Hill's recovery is just the beginning.
A comprehensive scientific training and rehabilitation system is the ultimate goal.