December 25th, early morning.
The blizzard in Boston gradually subsided Late Night, and the cool Christmas sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, falling on the minimalist gray leather sofa in the apartment.
Lin Qi woke up with a sore neck.
He opened his eyes, stiffly turned his neck, and unsurprisingly, found himself with a stiff neck. After being locked out of his bedroom the Admiral night, he had spent the night on the sofa wearing only thin trousers. Although he was half-asleep, he vaguely sensed someone tiptoeing out and covering him with a thick cashmere blanket.
Now, there's a glass of milk with a slight steam rising from it on the coffee table.
The master bedroom door remained tightly shut, and there was no sound from inside.
Lin Qi rubbed his stiff neck and straightened up from the sofa. Instead of knocking on the closed door and making a fool of himself, he went into the bathroom, splashed cold water on his face, and quickly tidied himself up.
As he opened the apartment door and walked into the underground garage, a tense atmosphere, as if a storm was brewing, permeated the streets of Boston.
Lin Qi opened the car door and got into the driver's seat. He inserted the key into the lock and turned it all the way in, and the engine awoke with a deep, steady roar. He released the key, letting it spring back into place. In that instant, the car's electrical system activated, and the passionate voice of the WEEI Sports Channel host immediately filled the radio speakers.
"... Without a doubt, this is the most intense Christmas Day game in nearly a decade. The West Coast's 'super team' is heading to the New Garden with their unparalleled offensive efficiency, and we'll see how this Boston Celtics, fresh off their three-peat, will defend their throne at home!"
Passing by the newsstand on the street corner, the front pages of several major newspapers presented starkly contrasting opinions between the West Coast. The Boston Globe's sports column used a provocative, bold headline. "Let Hollywood See Just How Tough Boston Is."
Meanwhile, the All-American Morning Post, originating from New York, offered a critical perspective. " Jordan X Shark, how many quarters can the Celtics hold out?"
The overwhelming public opinion and predictions from various commentators transformed this regular season game into a preview of the NBA Finals. On this day, the entire North America sports world focused its attention on this cold city.
Half an hour later, Lin Qi's car stopped in the underground parking lot of the New Garden in Boston.
The air seemed thick with tension, and even the security personnel in the corridor were on edge, hurrying about.
Lin Qi took the private elevator to the office floor inside the stadium. Before he even reached his office, he could hear the cacophony of camera shutters and reporters asking questions coming from the television screens hanging in the corridor.
That was right after the Los Angeles Lakers finished their pre-game group interview.
On the screen, Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal, wearing a baggy purple and gold training jersey, stood in front of the microphone. Boston reporter tried to provoke him with a pointed question, " Shaq, how much trouble do you think this Celtics can cause you in the paint?"
O'Neal stared at the camera, his enormous eyes revealing undisguised ferocity and a thirst for revenge.
"Trouble? The only trouble is the weather in Boston is too cold." O'Neal grinned, revealing an unsettling smile. "Listen, man. I'm not here to enjoy the holiday atmosphere. I'll make them cry after the game."
The scene shifts, and dozens of cameras and microphones are suddenly pointed at another man.
Michael Jordan.
He was wearing a dark Armani coat and fiddling with a pair of sunglasses in his hand.
" Michael, if the Celtics defend their title this season, they will establish the only four-peat dynasty in the league in over thirty years since the Russell era. As someone who has twice built three-peats, what are your expectations for their performance today?" an ESPN reporter asked loudly.
Jordan paused slightly when he heard the words "four-peat".
"I have great respect for what Boston has achieved over the past three years. A three-peat is tough; I know it takes a lot of hard work." Jordan chewed his gum, his gaze piercing through the camera as if looking directly into Boston's home locker room.
He put on sunglasses, concealing the emotions in his eyes.
"But Beal Russell's era is too long ago. In this era, wanting to win four consecutive championships?" Jordan's voice wasn't loud, but it clearly echoed throughout the entire corridor.
"Want to win four consecutive championships? Fine. You'll have to get past me first."
The moment those words were spoken, the entire interview room erupted in cheers, and the flashbulbs turned the room into daylight.
Standing in the corridor, Lin Qi quietly watched the screen. Jordan's domineering declaration had brought the sense of destiny in this game to its peak.
If you want to make new history, you must step over the corpse of the God of Basketball.
"Those West Coast bastards are fucking arrogant."
A voice filled with gritted teeth came from behind Lin Qi.
Lin Qi turned his head and saw Ron Artest and Stephen Jackson standing not far away. As required by the team, they had arrived at the arena early and had already changed into ill-fitting suits, which was the dress code for suspended players who had to sit on the sidelines to watch the game.
At that moment, Artest was staring at Jordan's departing figure on the TV screen, his chest heaving violently, and the hem of his suit was wrinkled from being gripped so tightly.
"Want to play?" Lin Qi looked at them, his tone completely indifferent.
Jackson didn't say anything, but if they were given a jersey right now, they would definitely dare to rush up and tear O'Neal and Jordan apart.
"It's a pity you'll have to sit in the best seats on the sidelines today, wearing these ridiculous suits." Lin Qi looked away, put his hands in his trench coat pockets, and walked towards the home team's locker room. "You'll get to watch this nationally watched game from the best seats."
Watching Lin Qi's indifferent back, Artest and Jackson froze on the spot, a strong emotion mixed with anger and deep guilt welling up inside them.
Lin Qi pushed open the door to the home team's locker room.
The atmosphere inside was even colder and more oppressive than the blizzard outside; everyone was looking down and fiddling with their equipment.
Rick Carlisle stood in the center of the room. He quietly walked to the stereo in the corner of the dressing room, inserted an old cassette tape he'd found somewhere, and pressed play.
A burst of upbeat music, accompanied by the hissing noise of an old cassette tape, suddenly rang out in the oppressive dressing room.
It was an old United Kingdom song from World War II, with an absurd and comical melody.
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
(Rabbit, run, run, run, run!)
Run rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run
(Rabbit, run, run, run, run!)
Bang, bang, bang, bang, goes the farmer's gun...
(Bang, bang, bang, bang, the farmer's shotgun fired...)
The comical singing, full of eerie fairytale charm, echoed in the dressing room, sounding extremely incongruous and even a little creepy.
All the players stopped what they were doing and looked up at their head coach in confusion.
Rick Carlisle turned around, picked up the eraser, and in front of Garnett and Pierce's astonished gazes, wiped clean all the densely drawn half-court set plays, pick-and-rolls, screens, and low-post isolation plays on the whiteboard.
Nothing was left on the huge whiteboard.
Rick Carlisle tossed the eraser onto the floor with a dull thud.
I'm not planning to assign tactics today.
"Today, let's see the results of 'dynamic offense'."
Rick Carlisle's voice suddenly rose, drowning out the comical singing coming from the speakers.
"Once the defensive rebound is secured, whoever gets the ball charges forward! All forwards and guards, rush to their half of the court immediately! No stopping, no positioning, don't give that 300-pound fat guy and those old men any chance to breathe!"
He pointed to the speakers that were still playing music.
" Michael Jordan and his old buddies are like those haughty farmers with shotguns. And you guys are like the rabbits in this song with nowhere to run."
Rick Carlisle stared into the eyes of Garnett, Pierce, and Gary Payton.
"Don't think, just run! Run like a hunter is shooting at you from behind!"
"Speed up, get running!"
As Rick Carlisle roared, the chant "Run, run, run" from the speakers reached its climax.
The call to attack sounded amidst absurd children's songs.