In Milan, the evening sun shines on Piazza del Duomo in Milan. The white pigeons in the square, the Italy gentlemen in their smart suits, and the modern ladies leisurely enjoying afternoon tea in the open-air cafes create the most classic scene in this fashion capital.
Until these burly North America men swaggered across the historic cobblestone streets with loose, casual steps.
"Hey Brian! Stop dawdling! Hold those two Armani bags steady, they contain handmade cashmere coats." Gary Payton, wearing sunglasses and a high-quality casual suit, chewed gum and yelled without turning around, "If you get even a wrinkle, I'll have Ron give you a free smoky eye with his fists during tomorrow's match!"
Behind him, Brian Scalabrine was like a mobile storage rack. He had more than a dozen paper bags with logos of luxury brands such as Gucci and Prada hanging on his arms, and he was sweating profusely as he trudged through the crowd.
The other two rookies, Tyson Chandler Chandler and Gerald Wallace, while not being exploited as badly, were each carrying several shoeboxes, looking like two bewildered, oversized sidekicks.
"The ambiance here is alright, and I'm thirsty." Gary Payton found a high-end outdoor café facing the cathedral, pulled out a chair, and sat down.
The veterans took their seats as if nothing was amiss. An Italy waiter in a vest approached with menus, his manner elegant.
Gerald Wallace plopped down, wiped his sweat, and snapped his fingers like he'd done in Queens fast-food restaurant, "Hey buddy! Give me an iced vanilla latte, large, extra pumps of syrup, and extra ice!"
Tyson Chandler Chandler chimed in, "Give me a Frappuccino with caramel syrup and topped with whipped cream. Hurry, I'm dying of heat!"
The Italy waiter's elegant expression froze instantly. He looked at the two arrogant United States rookies with the disdain one would show a barbarian, and curtly refused them in heavily accented English.
"Excuse me, gentlemen. This is Milan, not Starbucks in United States. We don't have plastic jugs, vanilla syrup, or those sweet drinks called ' Frappuccino.' We only have authentic espresso."
"Not even an iced latte? What kind of coffee do you sell then?" Wallace was stunned, his eyes wide with anger.
"Shut up, newbie, stop making a fool of yourself here."
Stephen Jackson slapped Wallace on the back of the head, interrupting his grumbling. Jackson turned to the waiter, expertly held up a few fingers, and said in broken Italy with a slight Texas accent, "Two espressos for them, and a pitcher of ice water and two large empty glasses separately. Thanks."
The waiter glanced at Jackson, seemed to recognize the face, his expression softened, and he nodded before turning to leave.
"You can speak Italy?" Chandler looked at him in surprise.
"After I failed to make the cut back then, I played for several years at Olimpia Milan Olimpia Club you guys train at now. I know this place like the back of my hand." Jackson crossed his legs, his face etched with the world-weariness of a seasoned veteran. "These Italy only drink pure espresso, without a drop of milk. If you dare ask them for syrup, they'll treat you like a country bumpkin."
A short while later, the waiter brought over several small white porcelain cups, each only big enough to hold a sip of coffee, along with the ice water Jackson had ordered and an empty cup.
Gary Payton and Pierce were already used to the Italy way of doing things; they skillfully picked up their small cups and gulped down the bitter liquid.
Jackson then picked up two glasses of espresso, poured them directly into a large empty glass, added ice water, and pushed it in front of Chandler and Wallace.
"Here, I made myself an iced Americano, it'll do." Jackson leaned back in his chair and chuckled. "You'll really go crazy when it's time for dinner. A plate of noodles for three bites, the plate is as big as a frisbee, with just a green leaf and two pieces of seafood in the middle. I almost hallucinated from hunger here back in the day, and I had to go to the street corner to find the Turkey kebab wraps every night just to survive."
"That sounds like hell." Wallace shuddered as he looked at the iced Americano in front of him.
"And the nightclubs here," Jackson continued, lecturing the rookies, scoffing, "The DJs here are still playing that tinkering, telegraph-like Europe electronic dance music. Finding a place here that plays authentic hip-hop and gets you dancing is harder than defending Shaq."
The group of veterans listened to Jackson's rant and burst into laughter, deeply agreeing with his assessment.
"But then again, this Europe training camp was quite a vacation; they practically blown the game out in just three quarters yesterday," Chris Paul Pierce said casually, fiddling with his lighter.
During this training camp in Europe, Boston has already played several public exhibition matches against top Europe clubs. The results were unsurprising: a clean sweep, with each game decided by a margin of more than 20 points.
"The physicality here is too weak," Ben Wallace, sporting his signature afro, interjected expressionlessly. "That Europe center from yesterday, I just put a little effort into positioning myself in the low post, and he immediately collapsed to the floor, begging the referee for a foul. He's as soft as a lump of dough."
Sitting in the corner, Russia Andrei Kirilenko looked at his noisy Team USA and couldn't help but smile helplessly. As someone who had played in EuroLeague before, he knew very well that the level of Europe basketball was actually not bad; it was just that Boston's current roster was simply too unreasonable.
Garnett stood up and casually tossed a few US dollars as a tip.
He straightened his collar and glanced at Chandler and Wallace, who were still grimacing because they couldn't get their Frappuccino.
"Alright, let's go back to the hotel." Garnett clapped his hands, bringing everyone's scattered attention back. "There's nothing to brag about in an exhibition game where we crushed weaker teams. Save that extra energy for tomorrow's intra-team scrimmage. Remember, we still have a month to gel."
" Brian! Grab the bag! Keep up!" Gary Payton turned and yelled at Scalabrine.