June 12th, the fourth day of the NBA Finals.
If you want to see what it means to be "the most fickle creature in the world," the Los Angeles sports media can definitely teach you a lesson.
Just two days earlier, when the Lakers were down 0-2, the California media were practically ready to hang Phil Jackson on a Hollywood billboard and burn him at the stake, and were utterly denigrating Jason Kidd.
But this morning, when Lin Qi sat in the restaurant of the Peninsula Hotel in Beverly Hills and opened the newspaper, the public opinion in Los Angeles had already shifted 180 degrees.
The Los Angeles Times sports section featured a close-up of Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal roaring across half the page as its background, accompanied by highly provocative headlines.
The King Awakens! Shaq Cracks the Boston Code!
Meanwhile, on Los Angeles morning sports talk shows, the same commentators who were calling for a team rebuild just two days ago are now shouting into the camera, spittle flying. "Listen, the series has only just begun! Boston's big men can't stop Shaq at all, Jason Kidd has developed a three-pointer! A comeback from 2-0 down to 4-2! The Lakers will bury the Celtics in Staples for the next three games!"
"These Los Angeles guys, they change their minds faster than flipping through a book." Rick Carlisle, sitting across from Lin Qi, took a sip of black coffee, watched the talk show on TV, and shook his head with a sneer.
"That's how the world of fame and fortune works. They're not only good at kicking someone when they're down, but also at blindly creating idols." Lin Qi tossed the newspaper aside. "However, this kind of fanatical public opinion precisely reveals their inner weakness. Only when someone is extremely afraid will they shout at the top of their lungs to bolster their courage."
Rick Carlisle nodded in deep agreement. Only an expert could see how narrowly the Lakers won yesterday's game.
As the two were chatting, Chris Paul Pierce, sporting dark circles under his eyes and yawning, walked into the restaurant. Close behind him were Kevin Garnett and Ron Artest, both looking equally menacing.
"Did you sleep well last night, boys?" Lin Qi asked, raising an eyebrow as he looked at the listless key players.
"Excellent. So excellent that I wish I could go and kill a few lunatics in Los Angeles right now." Artest gritted his teeth, pulled out a chair, plopped down, and stabbed a piece of fried bacon with a fork.
This is all thanks to the extreme, die-hard fans in Los Angeles.
At 3:30 a. m. this morning, just as the entire Celtics team was in deep sleep and their bodies were working to repair minor muscle tears, the fire alarm at the Peninsula Hotel suddenly and without warning began to blare shrilly throughout the entire floor.
The sound, accompanied by the glaring red flashing lights in the corridor, sounded incredibly sharp in the quiet Late Night, instantly shattering everyone's deep sleep and causing their hearts to pound uncontrollably.
Imagine the scene: a dozen muscular men, each over two meters tall and weighing over two hundred pounds, are forcibly dragged out of their deep sleep. Some are wearing only a pair of shorts, while others are wrapped in white hotel bathrobes that feel like bodysuits to them. They are wearing slippers, and they are bleary-eyed but furious, running wildly down the fire escape to the cool streets of Beverly Hills.
Gary Payton stood shirtless on the curb, unleashing a barrage of Oakland profanities at the pitch-black night sky for a full ten minutes without repeating himself. Ben Wallace, sporting a messy afro, was shivering with cold, his face so dark it seemed like water could be squeezed out of it; his intimidating gaze made passersby in Los Angeles instinctively give him a wide berth. And the hot-tempered Artest nearly grabbed the sweating hotel lobby manager and slammed him against the wall.
Even more disgusting was that at four in the morning, several modified sports cars adorned with purple and gold stripes were parading through the streets as if they had timed it perfectly. Lakers fans inside were honking their horns deafeningly and whistling and giving the middle finger to the trembling Boston players on the side of the street.
Even a fool could see that this was an extremely despicable underhanded tactic.
Los Angeles Fire Department fire trucks rushed to the scene and, after half an hour of searching, concluded that "someone had lit a smoke bomb in a storage room on the second floor of the hotel, triggering the smoke alarm system."
By the time the players figured out what was happening and returned to their rooms, it was almost dawn. The adrenaline rush from being woken up in the middle of the night left everyone lying in bed, staring blankly at the ceiling. For NBA Finals that demands immense physical reserves, this fifteen-minute fire alarm was more exhausting than running ten shuttle runs in the gym.
"The hotel manager just came to apologize to me," Lin Qi said calmly, looking at the angry players. "He waived all our room fees for the past few days and promised to have two security guards patrolling each floor all night."
"What's the point of a free room? My head is still pounding!" Pierce rubbed his temples, looking annoyed. "Is this the only dirty trick people in Los Angeles know? They barely beat us by 4 points on the court and think they're invincible, but behind our backs they have to use fire alarms to disturb our sleep?"
" Ron, Kevin." Lin Qi ignored Pierce's complaint and turned to look at Artest and Garnett, whose eyes were the fiercest.
"Boss." The two looked up.
"Do you really think that if the Los Angeles folks are as the newspapers claim, that the Lakers have us cornered, that Shaq is unstoppable..." Lin Qi pointed to the newspaper next to him that was titled "The Awakening of the King," a cold smile playing on his lips, "They really need to sneak into the hotel storage room at 3:30 in the morning to light a ridiculous smoke bomb?"
Garnett, the locker room leader, subtly shifted his gaze.
"They're afraid." Lin Qi pointed out the logic behind this underhanded tactic incisively, his voice low but extremely confident. "It's not just the fans who are afraid, the whole of Los Angeles is afraid. They're afraid Shaq will be contained by Big Ben Wallace tonight, afraid Kidd will miss his shots again, and even more afraid that you will personally destroy the pitiful confidence they've just built up at Staples tonight."
Lin Qi stood up, placed his hands on the table, and looked down at his players.
"So, save all that anger from being out in the cold at 3:30 a. m. for tonight's game." Lin Qi's eyes were sharp as knives. "Go to the court and tell those 20,000 Los Angeles fans that even without sleep all night, Boston can still snatch victory from their hands in a head-to-head match."
Artest's eyes were bloodshot, as if they were about to burst into flames. He grinned and sneered, "Don't worry, Lin. Tonight, I'll let the Los Angeles perimeter players experience what true insomnia is like."
Watching the players' fighting spirit reignite, Rick Carlisle quietly finished the last sip of his coffee.