On the wooden floor in the center of the stadium, staff quickly laid out a red awards carpet. Spotlights shone down from the dome, illuminating the entire podium as if it were daytime.
League president David Stern stood before the microphone, holding a card with the final results written on it. He slightly adjusted his tie, his gaze sweeping over the boiling sea of green around him.
The surrounding noise seemed to be suppressed by an invisible hand the moment Stern raised his hands, gradually turning into a unified shout.
"Ladies and gentlemen."
Stern's voice echoed throughout the New Garden through the loudspeakers, "In this series filled with competition and legend, there is one player who, with his impeccable scoring and iron will, has carried this team's offense from start to finish."
Stern paused for a second, his gaze falling on the player standing at the front of the crowd.
"2000-2001 NBA NBA Finals Most Valuable Player..."
Stern's voice suddenly rose in pitch.
Chris Paul Pierce!!
boom!
The roar of the New Garden exploded at that moment.
Chris Paul Pierce stood among his teammates, his tense lips finally curving into a slight, relieved smile.
Pierce tugged at his jersey and calmly strode forward amidst the deafening cheers of the crowd.
His teammates surrounded him, laughing. Garnett patted him hard on the back, while Ben Wallace gave him a strong shove.
Stern extended his hand toward the legends' seats on the sidelines.
"Let's welcome Boston Celtics legend, Mr. Beal Russell, to present the Finals MVP award for this game."
Beal Russell, who was sitting on the sidelines, stood up. The legendary superstar, who was slightly aged but still tall, took the " Beal Russell Trophy" named after him from the staff and walked steadily toward the podium.
Russell looked at the young man, who was covered in sweat but had a determined look in his eyes, and handed the heavy gold cup to Pierce.
Pierce raised the trophy high with one hand, facing the countless flashing lights of the stadium.
He then took the microphone from Russell.
The noise in the arena gradually subsided, and more than 20,000 eyes were fixed on the young man wearing the number 34 jersey. Pierce held the microphone, his voice calm, as if he were chatting with an old friend.
Pierce loosened his grip on the microphone slightly, glanced at his teammates beside him, and spoke with a sincere tone.
"To be honest, this trophy could go to anyone. Everyone on this team fought for this championship until the very last moment. I might not have been the best player on the court."
He glanced down at the Beal Russell Cup in his hand and then said.
"Last September, during those days lying in the hospital bed, I truly felt like I was going to die."
The scene was so quiet you could hear a pin drop. Many fans suddenly recalled the shocking massacre that had gripped the entire league last fall.
"When I first returned to the team after recovering from my injury, I realized I was actually quite a jerk," Pierce chuckled self-deprecatingly. "I broke the team's rules... At that moment, all I could think was: 'That's it, I've been stabbed, I can't get back to my form, and I've gotten myself into trouble. Lin Qi will definitely trade me and Ron away as soon as possible.' I thought my Boston career was over, and I wanted to stay in Boston."
Upon hearing this, many people in the audience, including Larry Bird Larry Bird and the management team, smiled knowingly.
Pierce turned his head and glanced at Ron Artest standing beside him, his tone revealing a sense of helplessness and truth.
"But Lin Qi didn't send me away. He kept me. And then, that bastard Ron helped me."
Artest grinned, laughing heartily beside him.
"During that toughest month in the training gym, these guys didn't care how many wounds you had, or whether you could sleep at night," Pierce shook his head. " Ron was like a mad dog on the field every day, constantly shoving me and trying to cripple me. I cursed under my breath every day back then, thinking that this was no human being."
Pierce tightened his grip on the microphone slightly, his gaze returning to the front, his voice low and resolute.
"But it was only after he knocked me to the ground again and again, and then I got back up, that I truly recovered... Not only am I still alive, but I also have to win here."
Pierce looked at the Beal Russell Cup in his hand.
"But after you've walked through the gates of hell and been skinned alive by these bastards on the training field, you'll understand..."
Pierce tilted the trophy upwards.
"Nothing feels more reassuring than holding a trophy in your hand."
Without any grand pronouncements, Pierce concluded the season with these down-to-earth words.
The trophy was passed from hand to hand among the players.
Artest hugged the trophy and smiled like a child, Chauncey Billups held a cigar and couldn't put it down, and Big Ben even weighed it in his hand.
Pierce couldn't help but shout in that direction.
"Hey! That's enough! A couple of touches are enough, remember to give it back!"
A burst of laughter erupted from the crowd. Artest laughed and stuffed the trophy into his arms, then turned to run away from the crowd, nearly tripping over Big Ben next to him.
Pierce stood in the center of the crowd, letting sweat slide down his forehead, a helpless yet delighted smile on his lips.
Before he could even catch his breath, several broadcast staff carrying cameras and reporters holding microphones broke through the security cordon and surrounded him. The black microphones were almost shoved into his mouth.
" Chris Paul! Chris Paul! Look here!"
An NBC reporter pushed through the crowd and shouted, "Three-peat! Doing all this in Boston, what's the first thing that comes to mind right now?"
Pierce roughly wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, breathing heavily, and glanced at the camera.
"I was thinking..." Pierce grinned, revealing a tired but bright smile, "I can finally take a break for a while."
The reporters and teammates surrounding them burst into laughter.
"And," Pierce pointed to the Beal Russell Trophy that Artest was holding, "Please remind Ron that's my trophy, and the recording is still on. Tell him to give it back to me right now."
After a few brief banter, the flashes and cameras finally dispersed to the sides.
Guided by the sideline staff, the players surrounded Pierce, who had just finished an interview, and stepped back from the noisy center of the field, walking through the players' tunnel into the stadium.
The moment Pierce led the way in pushing open the heavy doors of the home team's locker room...
"Bang!"
The dark green stopper shot into the air accompanied by white foam.
Garnett had already put on his goggles and was waving a two-liter bottle of Moët & Chandon champagne in his hand when he sprayed it all over Pierce's face as he walked in!
"Oh! Damn it!" Pierce yelled and dodged, nearly dropping the Finals MVP trophy, but luckily Garnett behind him reacted quickly and caught it.
The entire locker room instantly transformed into a boiling ocean of white foam.
Garnett put the championship baseball cap backwards on his head, grabbed Pierce's neck, raised the heavy trophy high above his head, and roared wildly at the locker room ceiling.
"Three-peat! We did it! Did you hear that?! We did it!" Garnett's eyes were frighteningly red, and his voice was hoarse and torn from shouting all night.
Ben Wallace sat on a stool to the side, letting his teammates pour an entire bottle of champagne over his head, grinning from ear to ear.
Just as the commotion in the locker room was at its fiercest, head coach Rick Carlisle pushed open the door and walked in.
This coach, known for his strictness and even harshness, had long since lost his suit jacket, his shirt sleeves rolled up high, and the top three buttons undone at the collar.
When Rick Carlisle entered, the frenzied shouts in the locker room suddenly subsided. Chauncey Billups, holding an empty bottle, exchanged a glance with Gary Payton, then the two of them pounced on him with a yelp, pouring two freshly opened bottles of champagne directly over Rick Carlisle's head!
"Splash!"
The icy liquor instantly soaked Rick Carlisle. His wet hair clung to his forehead, and his body was covered in a dense layer of white foam.
The locker room fell silent for a moment, then erupted in deafening laughter.
Rick Carlisle let the champagne stream down his face and nose, and in that instant, his shoulders slumped slightly.
Rick Carlisle closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
No one knows how many sleepless nights he stayed up or how much criticism he endured from the outside world regarding his "strict hiring practices" and "lack of human touch."
And now, when the trophy is truly right in front of me.
The tension and pressure that had been building up for an entire season finally shattered amidst deafening cheers.
When he opened his eyes again, his eyes were slightly red, but he smiled with extreme relief.
Rick Carlisle wiped the alcohol off his face haphazardly, pointed at the group of sweaty players around him, and laughed and cursed.
"These bastards... Where's the champagne? Give me the bottle, nobody's getting away today!"