7:10 PM, ground floor of the New Garden, referee's private locker room.
In the cramped room, an old 14-inch CRT television was emitting a faint hissing sound.
On the screen, a video clip from Game 5 was playing silently and repeatedly, showing a slow-motion close-up of Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal's shoulder collision with Ben Wallace in the paint.
All the referees had just finished reviewing the controversial calls from the previous game.
Referee Steve Javie was standing in front of the mirror, expertly fastening a black fanny pack with a microphone receiver to his belt.
Javie bent down and picked up the black Fox 40 coreless whistle, habitually rubbing the plastic edge vigorously with his thumb to check for any invisible cracks. Then, he took out a second spare whistle from his pocket and hung it on the other side of his neck.
A senior supervisor from the league's referee committee walked in through the door.
"In the conference room at the New York headquarters, Mr. Stern and all the senior executives were glued to the broadcast." The supervisor looked at the veteran referee. "The bottom line tonight is clear: don't steal the show, don't try to be a 'balance' whistle. Give the game to the players, understand?"
Javie didn't speak. He pulled a mint from the plastic box on the table, popped it into his mouth, chewed it a couple of times, making a slight crunching sound.
Javie raised his hand and pressed the power button on the television. The image of O'Neal's heavy impact on the screen instantly shrank to a white dot and disappeared into the darkness. He put the black whistle in his mouth and walked expressionlessly toward the locker room door.
7:15 PM, away team locker room.
There was no talking in the room.
Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal sat in front of the deepest wardrobe. A thick white towel completely covered his head and face, isolating him from the outside world. Chief team doctor Gary Vitti knelt beside him, silently wrapping his knees with white duct tape.
Jason Kidd sat on the other side of the room. This ball-handling mastermind, usually so strategic on the court, was now looking down, his fingers stiffly untying his shoelaces, pulling them out, then putting them back on and tying them tightly. Then he untied them again.
He was using this meaningless, mechanical repetition to forcibly suppress the spasms in his stomach caused by extreme tension.
The locker room door was pushed open.
Phil Jackson walked in.
Under everyone's gaze, he took a small bundle of dried Indian sage from his suit pocket and lit a lighter.
"Sizzle..."
A crimson spark ignited, and the subtle crackling of burning hay was exceptionally clear in the quiet room. A distinctive plume of white smoke, carrying a strong, acrid smell of burnt plants, rose rapidly, forcefully drowning out all other odors.
Phil Jackson remained silent. Holding a smoking sage, he slowly walked around the locker room with a blank expression.
Thick smoke filled the enclosed room, seeping into the players' nostrils. In a corner, young substitute power forward Mark Madsen was choked by the smoke and couldn't help but cover his mouth, letting out two muffled coughs.
"Cough... cough..."
The sudden cough did not break the oppressive atmosphere; instead, it made the air even more suffocating.
O'Neal, under the towel, paused for a second, Kidd's hand, which was tying his shoelaces, also suddenly stopped.
Jackson walked to the tactical table and shoved the burnt sage directly into the metal ashtray, which emitted a wisp of pungent black smoke.
He didn't say anything, just turned around, pushed open the door, and left the locker room.
7:28 PM, home team players' tunnel.
The tunnel was extremely dimly lit. Just three meters away, at the far end, were the blinding spotlights of the New Garden and the deafening roars of 20,000 Boston fans.
The Boston Celtics players lined up quietly in the tunnel in order of appearance.
Ben Wallace stood at the front of the team. He gripped the drawstring of his shorts with both hands, pulling it outwards with all his might, tying a tight knot. Due to the excessive force, the veins on his forearms bulged.
Chris Paul Pierce stood behind him, holding a handful of anti-slip rosin-magnesium powder, and slammed his hands together expressionlessly.
"Snap."
A cloud of white dust exploded in the dimly lit tunnel, slowly settling onto his jersey. Pierce, head down, rhythmically chewed his gum, his jaw muscles bulging.
At the very back of the line, Kevin Garnett wore headphones. Even before the game started, his forehead and neck were already covered in a fine layer of sweat.
He had his back to the exit of the passage, facing the gray concrete wall. He kept his head down, muttering a few curse words repeatedly and nervously.
"Bang."
Garnett's forehead slammed into the cold concrete wall without warning.
Without any pause.
"Bang."
He slammed into it again, producing an extremely dull thud as flesh struck the wall.
"Buzz!!!"
The Red Alert lights above the passageway flashed, and the countdown timer for exiting sounded.
The DJ's screams echoed through the corridor.
"Next up is... Power Forward— Kevin Garnett!!!"
Garnett instantly ripped off his headphones and casually handed them to the equipment manager beside him. He turned around, strode across the line of shadow on the ground, and charged straight into the blinding white light.
The sound of the New Garden reached its physical limit the moment the last Boston player stepped onto the wooden floor.
In the NBC broadcast booth on the sidelines, star commentator Marv Albert had to press his headset down hard to barely hear the countdown instructions coming from the broadcast van. The commentary booth in front of him was resonating at a high frequency because of the collective jumping of 20,000 fans in the stands, and even the water in the glass on the table was constantly overflowing.
"Good evening, viewers across America. Feel the passion of this city, this is Boston." Albert addressed the camera in his signature voice, "Tonight, the Celtics are just 48 minutes away from their 19th O'Brien Trophy."
Sitting next to him, Beal Walton also looked solemn, his eyes fixed on the players as they removed their jerseys. "But standing opposite them is the Los Angeles Lakers, pushed to the brink. History has proven countless times that when facing elimination, this team will show an extremely strong will to survive."
Center of the court.
As the starting players from both teams walked towards their respective halves of the field, the air seemed to freeze instantly.
Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal ripped off his purple and gold warm-up jersey and tossed it to a ball boy on the sidelines.
Ben Wallace stood at the jump ball point early, his legs slightly apart and his arms hanging naturally at his sides.
Their gazes met in the center circle, and an intense, almost palpable sense of confrontation, as if one could smell blood, silently permeated the space between them.
In the VIP box on the second floor, Lin Qi held a glass of red wine, his gaze calmly fixed on the two people in the center circle.
7:30 PM.
Referee Steve Javie walked to the center circle and glanced at the scorer's table.
He put the black whistle in his mouth, stood between Ben Wallace and Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal, and tossed the ball high into the air.
The sixth NBA Finals has officially begun.