In November, the wind in Boston already carried a biting chill.
But in the underground Stephen Curry of the New Garden, the atmosphere was one of fervent, almost guilty-looking ecstasy.
"Listen, rookie, you're only 19, not even old enough to drink. And Lin Qi's 'nightclub ban' is still hanging on the locker room door. We snuck out today, understand?"
Next to a black, custom-made Cadillac Escalade, Kevin Garnett, wearing sunglasses and an extremely oversized hip-hop outfit, was talking in a low voice to Tyson Chandler Chandler beside him.
"When we get to Avalon, you just sit quietly on the sofa in the VIP booth and observe the world. If anyone dares to offer you drinks, just say it's your older brother who told you to drink water."
Garnett stretched out his long finger and poked Chandler in the chest, his tone extremely stern. "Don't cause trouble, and especially don't mess around with those sluts. You heard about Chris Paul ( Pierce ) being stabbed 11 times in a nightclub last year, right? Now Chris Paul Chauncey Billups both have severe PTSD. You could beg them to go, but they wouldn't. If your skinny frame gets ruined by alcohol or causes trouble, I'll never forgive you!"
Chandler, wearing a slightly ill-fitting custom suit, nodded repeatedly like a schoolboy who had made a mistake. He was also clutching a huge thermos filled with protein powder specially prepared for him by the team's nutritionist.
"Okay, KG. I promise I won't touch a drop of alcohol, I'll just go and broaden my horizons." Chandler smiled sheepishly.
Lin Qi and Margaret had just stepped out of the elevator a short distance away when they witnessed this scene. They instinctively stopped in their tracks.
Watching the two men sneak into the luxury car like thieves, Margaret lowered her voice and asked, "Boss, should I fine them? You've repeatedly forbidden them from going to nightclubs during the season."
"Let it go." Lin Qi couldn't help but shake his head with a smile. " Kevin hasn't caused any trouble all these years. He knows what he's doing. Let's turn a blind eye. It's okay to relax a little once in a while, just be stricter during the playoffs."
" Kevin definitely has a soft spot for this rookie," Margaret said, watching the car's taillights disappear into the distance. "I heard that last week he even took Chandler to his personal tailor to order five suits, all paid for by him."
"Because they're so similar in so many ways." Lin Qi looked away and walked towards his car. "They're both high school freshmen who went straight to the draft, both have long wingspans, and both have slender, athletic builds. Kevin looked at Tyson Chandler and probably saw himself a few years ago when he first entered the league."
As Lin Qi said, in daily life, Garnett was practically Chandler's "half-father." He took him to the most upscale restaurants, taught him how to deal with the media, and even dictated what clothes he should wear.
Chandler was completely obedient to Garnett, treating him like a brother.
However, this camaraderie changes drastically the moment they enter the stadium.
The next morning, there was an intra-team scrimmage.
"Bang!"
A dull thud of flesh colliding echoed in the paint area.
Chandler clutched his chest in pain and stumbled back two steps. He had tried to establish position in the low post, but Garnett's single, vicious shoulder strike—that core strength honed over years and fully adapted to the league's top-tier competition—had completely thrown Chandler off balance.
"You're as soft as a sponge, Tyson Chandler!"
Garnett was nothing like the friendly guy he was yesterday. His face was contorted with rage as he spit and yelled, "What the hell are you doing?! Coward! Stand still! Hold on!"
Lin Qi up a folding chair and sat behind the technical table by the training field, watching the half-court offensive and defensive drills that were taking place on the court.
They really do look so alike when they stand together.
Similar height, equally exaggerated wingspan, and equally top-notch mobility and athleticism.
However, Garnett's skills and physique are already maturing, and his basketball IQ, technical details, and shooting touch are all better.
This is the harshest reality. Garnett is a fully-fledged "all-around forward." He can handle the ball like a guard, execute a smooth fadeaway jumper in the mid-range, and facilitate play from the high post.
Chandler, on the other hand, was just a "rim protector" who hadn't yet built up his muscle mass. His technique was too rough, and his basketball IQ couldn't support him in handling complex tactics.
They may seem like the same type of people, but the things they can do are worlds apart.
At this moment, the competition on the field continued.
After being repeatedly outmaneuvered by Garnett for several rounds, Chandler finally lost his temper. After receiving the ball, he tried to imitate Garnett's signature move, facing the basket, taking a jab step, and then pulling up for a jump shot.
"When!"
The ball bounced off the front edge of the rim and traveled a long distance.
"Toot..." Rick Carlisle blew his whistle.
Before Rick Carlisle could even speak, Garnett rushed forward, grabbed Chandler's jersey, and slammed him against the basketball hoop's backrest.
"Who the hell told you to shoot that?!" Garnett's eyes widened like saucers, his face contorted with rage. "Didn't I tell you, never make that stupid fake when you're not open?! Can you even make that shot now?!"
"But KG, I practice my mid-range shot all the time..." Chandler protested, feeling wronged.
"Practicing your mid-range shot is so you can punish your opponent when they're open, not for showing off!" Garnett shoved him aside. "Who do you think you are? Michael Jordan?!"
In the locker room, the other veterans were already used to it. Scalabrine was even secretly suppressing a laugh. This was Garnett's logic: off the court, I treat you like a brother; on the court, if you don't meet my requirements, I'm your living devil.
Chandler's eyes reddened from the scolding. He had exceptional athletic talent, but he was forced to accept that in this league, he could only do the most menial blue-collar jobs.
"Alright, Kevin," Rick Carlisle stepped in to smooth things over, " Tyson Chandler, your task is to gradually increase your weight and master your free throws and mid-range shot. Once you've mastered those two, we can talk about anything else... Keep training!"
Half an hour later, the starting lineup will face off against the reserve lineup.
Chauncey Billups Billups is positioned high up the court. Garnett receives the ball inside, drawing the defense.
In that instant, Chandler swiftly slipped in from the baseline, his long legs taking two steps before he leaped into the air.
Without even looking, Garnett executed a brilliant behind-the-back pass, tossing the ball high into the air.
Chandler caught the basketball firmly in mid-air and slammed it into the basket with both hands!
"Boom!"
The basketball hoop groaned in pain.
After landing, Chandler looked up at the sky and roared, venting all the grievances he had just suffered.
Garnett turned around, rushed over, and shoved Chandler hard in the chest.
As a time traveler, Lin Qi knew Tyson Chandler Chandler's potential ceiling better than anyone else.
In his memory, the Chandler of later generations wasn't truly incapable of learning anything. When the small-ball era arrived, in order to keep up with the league's development, the later Chandler actually practiced three-pointers diligently in private, and even his free throw percentage once reached over 70%.
The problem is that he never used three-pointers as a regular weapon in official games. Why? Because for a center like Chandler, forcing him to shoot would only weaken his already terrifying efficiency in the paint.
In Lin Qi's memories of his past life, Chandler had a long period where his finishing efficiency and shooting percentage in the paint were consistently among the best in the league. His simple and direct approach of receiving the ball and immediately slamming it into the basket was far more efficient than his hesitant and maneuvering moves in the low post.
" Chandler isn't incapable of training," Lin Qi thought to himself, glancing at the tall young man downstairs who was high-fiving Garnett. "It's just not the right time yet."
In the world of basketball, the worst thing is to "bite off more than you can chew." A 19-year-old rookie who tries to do everything—walking, mid-range shooting, and defense—often ends up being mediocre at everything and fading into obscurity.
Take your time, newbie.