In late November, the wind in Boston was already biting cold.
In NBA media circles, the Boston Celtics have recently acquired a very prominent, but not very flattering, new nickname – " Arkham Asylum ".
The incident stemmed from a report in a local Boston tabloid. A reporter known for his well-informed sources revealed that during a team practice a few days prior, two Celtics forwards, Ron Artest and Stephen Jackson, engaged in an extremely bloody, unrestricted brawl on the court over a defensive move.
Although the team officially denied the rumors overnight, Lin Qi also claimed that it was just "normal physical contact during high-intensity competition," everyone clearly saw the gauze on Artest's eyebrow and Jackson's broken lip in the following nationally televised games.
Even a fool knows that was definitely not "normal contact".
This defending champion team, which has already achieved a winning streak, is not only ruthless to outsiders, but also like a pack of bloodthirsty beasts to its own.
The "madhouse" atmosphere still lingers in the home team's locker room at the New Garden. Although Jackson and Artest have stopped fighting under the intervention of psychologist Mumford, the two still act like two repelling magnets in the locker room, refusing to sit next to each other.
In this high-pressure atmosphere where an explosion could happen at any moment, rookie Brian Scalabrine became the most indispensable "pressure relief valve."
Hey, you redhead!
Rasheed Wallace, legs casually spread wide, slumped lazily in his chair, letting the team doctor massage his calves while shouting at Scalabrine, who was tidying up his smelly sneakers in the corner.
"Here I am, Rasheed!" Scalabrine immediately sprang to his feet like a spring.
"Go to the Starbucks on the corner. Twenty black coffees, two caramel macchiatos, and two extra pumps of syrup." Rasheed deliberately put on a stern face. "Remember, rookie, don't get the syrup wrong. If it's too bitter, I'll go find Rick Carlisle today and tell him that next time we play the Lakers, you'll be posting up Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal."
A low chuckle rippled through the locker room.
" Rasheed, I got it." Scalabrine expertly pulled a notebook from his bag and quickly jotted down the order, "Twenty black coffees, two caramel macchiatos, and two extra pumps of syrup."
"You're smart enough to know what's good for you. Also, take Chris Paul's ( Pierce's ) dry-cleaned suit back with you; the car keys are in his locker." Rasheed waved his hand.
Scalabrine grabbed his coat and expertly ran out. This was his daily routine at Arkham Asylum. Running errands, paying bills, getting yelled at—he found his niche in this locker room full of thugs through his slick obedience and self-deprecation.
But that's not enough.
Even after the morning's tactical drills ended, the lingering anxiety in the locker room, stemming from the conflict between Artest and Jackson, still persisted.
Coach Rick Carlisle has gone to a meeting. Only the players remain on the training field.
"This is fucking boring." Garnett slammed the ball into the basket and rubbed his face in frustration. He glanced at Jackson and Artest, who were still ignoring each other, and knew the team needed an outlet to vent their excess hormones.
Garnett's gaze locked onto Scalabrine, who had just returned carrying a pile of coffee.
"Hey, rookie! Come here!" Garnett beckoned to him.
Scalabrine put down his coffee and jogged over. "What's wrong, Kevin?"
"Let's play a game." Garnett pointed at Pierce, then at Jackson beside him. "This is a traditional NBA game. You guard all three of us, and each of us gets three shots at you. If you can stop even one of us, I'll buy you breakfast tomorrow. If you can't stop even one..."
Garnett grinned, revealing a cruel smile, "Then tonight you'll be wearing a pink ballet tutu, standing at the dressing room door singing ' Jingle Bells ' for us."
The training ground fell silent instantly, then erupted into a chorus of strange shouts and jeering. Even Artest, who had maintained a cold expression throughout, came over with interest.
" Kevin, this isn't fair..." Chandler muttered quietly from the side.
"Shut up, Tyson Chandler. This is none of your business." Garnett glared at Chandler.
Scalabrine glanced at the group of fierce veterans around him. He knew that if he hid today, he would forever be just a coffee vendor in the locker room, not even worthy of sitting on the bench.
"Come on, Kevin." Scalabrine took a deep breath, walked to the three-point line, assumed a perfect defensive stance, and patted the floor. "But let me make this clear, my defense has won awards at University of Southern California."
"You'll soon find out that Southern California prizes are worthless in Boston, barely even toilet paper."
Pierce was the first to take the court.
First ball. Pierce a simple probing step, Scalabrine's center of gravity flew straight to the Pacific Ocean. Pierce easily lifted the ball and swished it into the net.
"One to zero," Pierce sneered.
The second basket. Jackson came on. Without any feints, he drove straight into the paint, shoving Scalabrine. Scalabrine was knocked back three steps and landed on his backside. Jackson easily scored with a layup.
"Two to zero. You're as soft as tofu." Jackson spat out his mouthguard.
The third goal, by Garnett.
Garnett held the ball at the free-throw line, watching Scalabrine with a look of dread. He dribbled between his legs several times, then executed a wide-angled turnaround fadeaway jumper.
Scalabrine was shaken like a headless fly.
"Whoosh!"
"Three to zero. Game over." Garnett tossed the ball to the caddie. "Go change into your ballet dress, rookie. I'll get you a photography crew."
The entire audience burst into laughter. The veterans, who had been suppressing their gloom for a week, finally released their pent-up emotions at this moment.
Just when everyone thought this red-haired rookie would go to the locker room to change clothes, his face flushed and humiliated, like other humiliated newcomers...
Scalabrine got up from the floor.
He dusted himself off, then looked at Garnett and Pierce with utmost seriousness, speaking in an almost academic tone.
" Kevin, Chris Paul. I think we need to rethink this rule. You guys are All-Stars, Finals MVPs. And me, I'm a second-round pick who almost went undrafted. In a normal game, if Coach Rick Carlisle makes me guard you one-on-one, he must be crazy, or he's bought out the betting odds on the other team to win."
Everyone was stunned.
"So, my failure to defend you wasn't my personal failure," Scalabrine said, spreading his hands confidently. "It's a failure of the Boston Celtics' defensive system. If I encountered you in the low post, my job was to foul or yell for Big Ben to help. And you just took away my right to call for Big Ben."
Everyone was silent for two seconds.
Then.
"Puff..."
Rasheed Wallace, who had been silent until now, was the first to blurt out.
Immediately afterward, Garnett clutched his stomach and squatted on the ground laughing, while Pierce laughed until tears streamed down his face. Even Jackson and Artest couldn't help but turn away, their shoulders shaking violently.
"You're a fucking genius, Brian." Pierce laughed as he walked over and gave Scalabrine's red hair a good ruffle. "I swear, this is the most refreshingly original explanation I've ever heard for 'bad defense'."
"I'm even starting to think he has a point," Garnett laughed so hard he could barely stand. "If Rick Carlisle were on the sidelines, he'd agree with his tactical analysis too."
Scalabrine successfully diverted the attention of Jackson, Artest, and even all the veterans from the intense competition within the team.
He transformed himself into a perfect "buffer".
In Arkham Asylum, a place teeming with villains, Scalabrine found his niche through his unique philosophy of survival.