In early December, Boston faced a grueling stretch of games.
The indefinite suspensions of Artest and Jackson have left the Celtics short-handed on the frontcourt. Media outlets are predicting that this " Arkham Asylum " will pay the price for its internal turmoil.
This sense of crisis reached its peak during the home game against the Seattle SuperSonics.
Ray Allen, the Seattle SuperSonics ' star player, is the most terrifying off-ball movement master in the league. Like a tireless long-distance runner, he relentlessly cuts through the half-court with the help of his teammates' screens. After chasing him for an entire quarter, Chris Paul Pierce not only ran out of energy but also picked up two fouls for excessive defensive actions.
Rick Carlisle glanced around the bench, his gaze finally settling on the water cooler.
" Raja! Warm up!"
Raja Bell, sitting at the far end of the bench in a long-sleeved training uniform, immediately stood up. Unlike the other Black players who shouted excitedly, he nodded very politely to Rick Carlisle.
"Okay, Coach. I'm ready." Bell's voice was as gentle as a college student working part-time in the library.
This is an undrafted player from 1999 who spent two years wandering in lower-level leagues before being signed by Boston this summer on a minimum-salary short-term contract. Before that, he spent most of his time running sprints during garbage time.
The game restarted.
Seattle SuperSonics offense. Ray Allen prepares to circle out from the baseline to receive the ball after a screen.
But the moment he took his first step, Bell's defensive move made him extremely uncomfortable.
Bell didn't even look at where the ball was; he was like a piece of chewing gum that wouldn't stick to him, sticking to Ray Allen's side a step ahead. In the referee's blind spot, Bell's right hand was secretly pulling on the hem of Allen's jersey, while his left knee was intentionally or unintentionally bumping against the outside of Allen's thigh, disrupting his starting rhythm.
Allen struggled to break free and bypassed his teammates' screen. But Bell didn't choose to flank; instead, like a madman, he used his extremely tough body to force his way through the screener and Allen!
"Bang!"
A muffled thud. Bell's shoulder slammed into the man covering his chest, but without pausing, he used the recoil to press himself against Ray Allen again.
Allen barely caught the ball, but his jumping rhythm was completely off. Just as he tried to pull up for a shot, Bell lowered his center of gravity, his chest pressing firmly against Allen's lower body, and one hand precisely blocked Allen's view.
There were no attempts to block, no jumps, just frustratingly constant interference.
"When!"
Allen's shot missed.
"Isn't that a foul?!" Ray Allen complained angrily to the referee as he retreated on defense, pointing at Bell pulling his jersey.
"Bell is staying close to Allen as he retreats on defense," he said to Ray Allen.
"Ray, if you're feeling uncomfortable, maybe you should consider passing the ball. Because I'll be sticking with you for the rest of the time."
Ray Allen stared at the seemingly refined-looking defender as if he were a monster, a sense of irritation rising within him for no apparent reason.
This is a completely different defense from Artest and Jackson. Those two thugs like to use strength to try to destroy their opponents, while Bell uses extreme tenacity, subtle tricks, and psychological warfare to "torture" his opponents.
He doesn't care about steals or blocks; he just wants Ray Allen to pay a heavy price every time he receives the ball.
What surprised Lin Qi even more was the offensive performance in the next round.
Boston launched a counterattack, with Chauncey Billups Billups breaking through and dishing the ball towards the right corner.
In this position, if it were the old Artest, he would most likely have taken a step and tried to force his way into the paint. But Raja Bell received the ball without any hesitation, not even a slight adjustment. He jumped, shot, and his movements were textbook perfect.
"Whoosh!"
A three-pointer swished through the net!
After scoring, Bell simply turned around quickly, like a hunting dog that has locked onto its prey, and retreated closely behind Ray Allen.
"This kid's defense has a ruthless edge," Rick Carlisle said, his eyes gleaming on the sidelines. "How can he combine defensive exertion with offensive shooting so well?"
"That's called the wisdom of energy allocation." Lin Qi crossed his arms, a satisfied smile playing on his lips. "His survival experience at the bottom taught him not to do anything unnecessary on the court. He used every bit of energy precisely to challenge his opponents and shoot from the corner. He even knew how to provoke his opponents."
Raja Bell played 28 minutes throughout the game. He made Ray Allen extremely uncomfortable in the second half with his extremely subtle moves, constant running around the court, and relentless physical contact. On the offensive end, he made 3 of 4 three-pointers, scoring 11 points. Every shot he took was wide open in the corner or on the wing, never taking up any extra possession of the ball.
He is humble and polite, yet fiercely aggressive on the court. He relentlessly flirts with fouls, but still manages to deliver a consistent long-range shooting performance.
Lin Qi felt it was a real shame after seeing Raja Bell's performance; if he were just a few centimeters taller, he would have been a perfect 3-and-D player.
That evening, at the training hall.
Stephen Jackson and Ron Artest were sitting on the floor, panting heavily. They had just finished their shooting quota for the day.
The wall-mounted TV in the training facility was replaying the footage of Raja Bell sinking his third three-pointer from the corner that night.
In the video, the undrafted player, after scoring, remained expressionless as he retreated to defense, then subtly shoved Ray Allen in the lower back.
Jackson stared at the television screen, picked up a towel and wiped the sweat from his face, his eyes becoming more complicated than ever before.
"Did you see his little trick when he squeezed through the screen?" Jackson's voice was a little hoarse.
"I saw it clearly. Left hand pulling his jersey, right knee hitting his thigh—it was extremely subtle; the referee couldn't see it at all." Artest, no longer displaying his usual rage, stared at the screen, his brow furrowed. "And when he received the ball in the corner, he didn't even look at the defender; he just shot."
"He doesn't hog the ball, doesn't throw tantrums, plays like a mad dog on defense, and can still sink those damn open threes." Jackson turned to Artest, gave a wry smile, and said, " Ron, the boss isn't kidding us."
Artest fell silent. A genuine sense of crisis surged up his spine.
In the NBA, talent is indeed a stepping stone. But if an undrafted player on a minimum contract can execute the head coach's tactics so perfectly, create space, and keep the locker room quiet... then those two "old men" who cause trouble in the locker room every day could really lose their place in this league.
They suddenly realized that their real enemy was not each other at all.
If they cannot evolve into something like Raja Bell, they will be ruthlessly eliminated.
The tense hostility in the air strangely dissipated at that moment. In its place was a sense of despair and resonance shared by the marginalized and underprivileged.
Artest got up from the ground, walked to the basket, and picked up a basketball.
Instead of swearing as usual, he turned around and forcefully passed the ball to Jackson was standing outside the three-point line in the corner.
"Hey, raise your elbow a bit higher when you shoot," Artest's voice was deep and rough. "Those shots you just took had too low an arc."
Jackson paused for a moment. He caught the ball and glanced at Artest. The hot-tempered beast from Queens was now earnestly preparing to pass the ball.
Jackson adjusted his breathing, jumped, raised his elbow, and flicked the ball away.
"Swish!" The needle pierced the net.
In the training hall, there was no more cursing or beatings. Only the "thump thump" of basketballs hitting the floor and the "swish swish" of basketballs swishing through the net.
Two vicious dogs that once tried to kill each other finally formed an alliance when faced with a common survival crisis.