In a nationally televised game in mid-November, the Boston Celtics played the Chicago Bulls on the road.
The outcome of the game was never in doubt. What shocked the outside world the most was that the Chicago Bulls ' star player Kobe Brian, was defended so well that he only made 7 of 24 shots, barely exceeding 30% shooting percentage.
Aside from Chris Paul Pierce, Stephen Jackson, coming off the bench, was responsible for almost all of Kobe's defense.
At the post-game press conference, when a reporter asked how he defended Kobe, Jackson only said one sentence, "I didn't want to guard him, I just wanted to break his ribs."
This high-risk, high-reward playing style quickly made him a new favorite among Boston fans.
However, within the seemingly impregnable Celtics, Jackson's rise to prominence triggered an irreconcilable ecological crisis in the locker room.
The crisis erupted two weeks later during a regular intra-squad scrimmage.
"Bang!"
On the practice court, Ron Artest drove into the paint like a tank, only to run headfirst into a wall. Instead of dodging like the others, Jackson chested right into him.
The whistle didn't blow. Artest stumbled, and the ball went out of bounds.
"You fucking fouled! New guy!" Artest pointed angrily at Jackson.
"If this were the All-Star Game, I would have definitely given you way. But unfortunately, this is Boston." Jackson looked at him coldly. "If you can't even handle this much physical contact, go back to your Queens and go eat your milk."
This statement completely ignited the powder keg.
Without any unnecessary words, the two burly forwards, both weighing over 200 pounds, both from the streets, and both with equally fiery tempers, started wrestling in the paint.
It was a real street brawl. Artest was swinging his fists the size of sandbags, while Jackson was gripping his neck like a mad dog. It took Garnett and Big Ben a lot of effort to pull these two bloodshot-eyed guys apart.
Jackson's lip was split open, and Artest's brow bone was cut. The two were still exchanging the most vulgar insults, even with Garnett between them.
In his office on the second floor, looking down at the chaotic training ground, Lin Qi rubbed his temples with a terrible headache.
If these two powder kegs with highly overlapping niches are not dealt with, they will eventually blow up the locker room.
In the afternoon, Lin Qi took the two men, who were still ignoring each other, to a quiet villa in the suburbs of Boston.
This is no ordinary clinic. This is George Mumford's private studio.
This bespectacled, refined-looking African American gentleman is currently one of the top sports psychologists in the United States. In the 1990s, it was he who was invited by Phil Jackson to the Chicago Bulls to help Michael Jordan overcome his psychological crisis after winning the championship using "mindfulness" meditation. Lin Qi spent a lot of money to keep him in his hometown of Massachusetts, specifically to provide psychological intervention for this "crazy asylum" team.
Upon entering, there was no sofa or desk, only a few futons on the floor. The room was filled with the faint scent of sandalwood, and so quiet that you could hear birds chirping outside the window.
"Sit down, guys. Take a deep breath and feel your still-aching wounds."
Mumford sat cross-legged on the carpet, his voice low and rhythmic.
To find out what these two were thinking, Lin Qi got their permission to sit in the corner as the "team representative" and listen in.
" George, don't give me that crap." Artest irritably sat down cross-legged, pointing at Jackson across from him. "That bastard's trying to steal my starting position; he looks at me like he wants to eat me alive."
Mumford smiled slightly, his eyes closed. " Ron, your impulse control score is off the charts again this week. What are you guarding against? What are you afraid of?"
Mumford opened his eyes and turned to Jackson: " Stephen, what about you? Mr. Lin Qi said you're doing great in Europe."
Jackson leaned against the wall, clearly disdainful of this kind of "mystical" psychological treatment, his eyes revealing a detachment that comes from having seen life and death.
"Mr. George, have you ever been to Port Arthur, State of Texas?" Jackson suddenly asked.
Mumford shook his head. "But I've heard about it, a place full of violence and despair."
"On the streets there, there are no fouls, no referees. If you get pushed down and can't get up, your shoes will be ripped off, and you might even lose your life." Jackson's voice was flat, as if he were telling someone else's story.
"I was drafted into the NBA in 1997, then cut. I risked my life on those concrete courts where guns could go off at any moment, for a few hundred dollars a month." Jackson pointed to Artest beside him, "That kid had a guaranteed contract as soon as he entered the league; he was a prodigy. As for me, I've seen what hell is like."
Jackson turned to look at Lin Qi, who was sitting in the corner.
"My job didn't come easily. If anyone tries to take it, I'll chop their hand off. No matter who they are, whether they're an opponent or a teammate."
The room fell silent, save for the quietly burning incense.
Mumford looked at Artest, his voice still as calm as a stagnant pool. " Ron, did you hear that? Stephen's anger isn't directed at you personally, it's directed at hunger."
"You also grew up in Queens, New York. You told me before that when you were 16, you witnessed a friend's back being broken by a chair leg on the basketball court. Don't you understand the fear of having to bare your teeth to survive?"
Artest abruptly raised his head, his eyes fierce, but then quickly dimmed.
"On the courts in Queens, if you're not more ruthless than everyone else, you won't even get to touch the ball..." Artest muttered, his voice laced with rage and a hint of barely perceptible resentment. "But I'm not a hothouse flower, I earned my place through hard work! I hate it when he keeps staring at my position!"
Lin Qi sat in the corner, listening quietly.
He finally understood. Mumford's guidance was spot on.
Artest's violence stems from his traumatic reaction to the survival rules of the lower Queens. He is extremely insecure and can only use violence and aggression to mask his inner fears; he is afraid of losing his current status.
Stephen Jackson's violence stemmed from his extremely tumultuous basketball career. When he finally found a place to belong in Boston, he displayed violence driven by an extreme sense of exclusion and existential anxiety.
They are actually the same kind of people, beasts shaped by different forms of slums. They are all using violence to desperately try to protect the position they have worked so hard to obtain in this alliance.
"Very good, you're all in a 'fight or flight' state of stress." Mumford clasped his hands together. "Your fear and anger stem from your past. But you are in Boston now, not Port Arthur, not Queens. Take a deep breath and pull yourselves out of the shadows of the past."
Lin Qi stood up, walked between the two thugs, and patted them both on the shoulder.
"If you think the Celtics are too small to accommodate just one of you, then you're seriously underestimating this league." Lin Qi looked at their shocked expressions. "Coach Rick Carlisle has decided that in some of the tougher games coming up, both of you will be playing together."
Jackson and Artest were both stunned. They were used to replacing each other and had never thought of fighting side by side.
"Don't you all think you're the toughest?" Lin Qi smirked. "Go prove it to me on the field. If you want to break someone's ribs, why don't you do it with both of you?"
Lin Qi walked towards the door.
"If you two still want to fight during tomorrow's practice, then go ahead. But if it interferes with the game schedule, you two can go to the G League and fight each other for minimum salaries."