After Philadelphia, the Celtics headed west on a road trip.
First stop: the Houston Rockets.
The atmosphere in the locker room was much more subdued than usual.
Cassell straddled a bench with his head down, yanking his shoelaces hard, over and over.
He had won a championship in Houston. Everything here was familiar to him.
But tonight, he had returned as a "discarded trade chip."
Garnett noticed Cassell's tension.
The nineteen-year-old pulled on his jersey and tugged his knee pads up.
He kept sucking in breaths through his teeth-"Hiss... hiss..." He was nervous.
Garnett walked over to Cassell, trying to break the suffocating silence with something lighthearted.
He reached out with his large hand and slapped Cassell hard on the shoulder:
"Hey, Sam, back in Houston. Will the fans give you a standing ovation at tip-off?"
Cassell's hands paused.
He did not joke with Garnett as he usually did. He did not even look up.
He only spoke in a low, hoarse voice with a vicious edge:
"Doesn't matter whether they clap, Kevin."
"Listen, when we get out there, if Hakeem Olajuwon sets up in the low post, you'd better not go flying at one fake like some high school kid."
The muscles in Garnett's dark face twitched.
At the mention of "The Dream," a flicker of undisguised excitement crossed his eyes, followed by the obstinacy of youthful arrogance.
He pounded his chest hard:
"Who the hell have I ever been scared of? Sam, I watched him play in the NBA Finals on TV!"
"I know how he spins. I know his Dream Shake."
"If he dares raise the ball in front of me, I'll swat it straight into the stands!"
Cassell shot to his feet, not a trace of a smile on his strange "alien" face.
He knew better than anyone how terrifying that Nigerian man was.
He stared straight into Garnett's eyes, his tone icy:
"Kevin, you have no idea what kind of monster you're talking to."
"I played alongside him. I hit game-winners against the Suns and the Spurs in the playoffs."
"But in this league, Hakeem's the only man I'm afraid of."
Cassell took a step closer, lowering his voice until it was barely audible, even trembling a little:
"Tonight, all of Houston is watching to see how I've done since leaving them."
"If you can't guard him, I'll be nailed alive to the pillar of shame tonight."
"Don't give me that TV bullshit. When we get out there, hold your ground against him. You understand?"
Garnett was stunned by the almost crazed hunger and pressure in Cassell's eyes.
On the streets of Chicago, whoever's gaze softened in a one-on-one lost.
Nineteen-year-old Garnett did not back away.
He bared his big white teeth, the madness in his own eyes fully provoked:
"Then let him come, Sam!"
"If he scores thirty on me tonight, I, Kevin Garnett, will eat my jersey!"
Cassell watched him for a long moment, then gave a cold laugh and turned away.
"Hope you've got a big enough appetite tonight, rookie."
At the start of the game, Garnett really did tear into the paint like a mad dog.
Relying on his terrifying wingspan and leaping ability, he delivered two consecutive blocks and even hammered home a thunderous dunk on a fast break.
Every time he scored, he roared at the Rockets' stands and pounded his chest.
But as the game went on, these Rockets and The Dream in his prime began to reveal their true terror.
Olajuwon did not even actively call for the ball on offense.
Just his constant battles for position inside, off-ball screens, and one airtight defensive stop after another left the Celtics' young big man struggling to breathe.
Garnett suffered badly under The Dream's massive, solid physical presence off the ball.
Every time they fought for position, he felt as though he had slammed into a moving wall of reinforced concrete.
Before the first quarter was even over, Garnett had picked up two fouls and had to sit on the bench, panting heavily with a towel pressed tightly over his face.
Sitting beside him, Lin Qi said nothing. He only watched quietly as the deficit on the court grew little by little.
Midway through the second quarter, the coach put Garnett back in.
By then, Garnett was seething with pent-up frustration, and the fire in his eyes had shifted from excitement to impatience.
Across from him, a fully rested Olajuwon slowly walked back onto the court as well.
With just over six minutes left in the second quarter, the Celtics trailed by nine.
Olajuwon set up in the left low post.
He extended his long arms and secured the ball firmly against his body.
Garnett instantly pressed up against him, his chest almost flush with Olajuwon's back.
"Come on, man, I'm right here. You're not getting comfortable tonight. Go ahead and turn. I'm waiting for you."
Olajuwon glanced back at him.
There was no anger, not even a smile.
He took out his mouthguard, held it in his palm, and raised a hand toward his teammates. "Clear this side."
The Rockets cleared out one side.
Garnett's eyes lit up... he loved moments like this best: one-on-one, with the whole arena watching.
Olajuwon received the ball.
He put no force into the first move, only leaning back gently.
Garnett held his ground.
On the second move, Olajuwon gave a slight shoulder fake to the left, and Garnett's heel shifted half an inch.
That half inch was enough. Olajuwon pivoted on his right foot, his whole body slipping away like a fish through water as he slid a step along the baseline.
Garnett shuffled sideways to follow. He thought he had kept up.
The next second, The Dream stopped, swung his shoulders back, and raised the ball.
Garnett sprang into the air, jumping so high that even Magic Johnson beneath the basket instinctively looked up...
But it was only a fake.
Only when Garnett came down did Olajuwon slowly bring the ball back, turn toward the middle, and bank it in.
Garnett landed and froze for an instant.
Not because he had been scored on... at his age, he was never afraid of that.
What froze him was what The Dream said as he headed back on defense.
"Hey, young man."
Olajuwon brought his mouthguard back to his mouth, his tone as calm as though he were correcting a kid's footwork at a training camp.
"Don't jump first."
Garnett's lips moved.
He had a hundred possible comebacks.
But that line did not sound like trash talk. It sounded like a lesson.
Worse still, it was right.