Office on the second floor of the New Garden, early 2002.
The heater blew out silently from the vents under the blinds, carrying a warm airflow. Lin Qi leaned back in his chair, holding a document he had just torn from the fax machine. The edges of the paper were still slightly warm, and it bore the logo of the National Basketball Players Association.
Rick Carlisle sat across the desk from George Mumford, the team's sports psychologist.
" The Players Association called this morning," Rick Carlisle said, pointing to the fax. "The team's indefinite suspension has now reached its twelfth game. The union's terms have limits; the team can't keep two perfectly healthy players in the training facility indefinitely. If it exceeds twelve games, they will intervene and call arbitration."
Rick Carlisle pulled a folded schedule from his pocket and spread it out on the table.
"Starting tomorrow, the team is flying to Texas." Rick Carlisle tapped the form twice with his knuckles. " San Antonio Spurs, Dallas Mavericks, Houston Rockets. Three games in four days—a grueling road trip in the Western Conference. In the last game against the Knicks, Chris Paul played 42 minutes, and Kevin played 40 minutes. For the past two weeks, we've relied on a rotation of seven or eight players, and their stamina is running low. Next, we have to deal with Tim Duncan and Dirk Nowitzki, and we're short-handed on the wing."
Lin Qi glanced at the schedule, then casually closed Mumford's report, stacked it together with the union's fax, and put it in the drawer.
"Let's go." Lin Qi stood up and straightened his suit jacket. "Let's go downstairs and take a look."
Venue No. 2 on the first floor.
The sound of sneakers rubbing against the rubber floor was sharp and rapid. Dominique Wilkins, dressed in a gray tracksuit, stood at the top of the three-point line, feeding the ball to his teammates.
Ron Artest and Stephen Jackson are training.
Lin Qi and Rick Carlisle pushed open the soundproof door, walked past the equipment area on the sidelines, and stopped two steps away from the three-point line.
Dominique Wilkins glanced at them out of the corner of his eye, raised his hand, and made a pause gesture.
The assistant coach next to the shooting machine immediately pressed the switch, and the machine stopped spitting out balls. The empty court instantly fell silent, with only the heavy, rapid breathing of Artest and Jackson remaining.
Jackson wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand and turned around. Artest held the basketball he had just received at his waist, looking expressionlessly at Lin Qi and Rick Carlisle as they walked over.
"Your indefinite suspension ends today." Lin Qi said, his voice not loud, but clearly echoing throughout the arena.
"Go take a shower in the locker room." Rick Carlisle looked at the two troublemakers. "Go to bed early tonight, and we're meeting at the airport at eight tomorrow morning. We're flying to San Antonio."
Jackson's shoulders visibly relaxed. He exhaled, walked over, grabbed a towel from the folding chair, covered his head, and hastily wiped the sweat from his face.
Artest didn't move. He stared straight at Rick Carlisle.
"My suspension is over? Can I go back to the starting lineup?" Artest asked.
"You're coming off the bench," Rick Carlisle said, leaving no room for negotiation. " Andrei will continue as the starting small forward. You two will share the time at shooting guard and backup small forward. When you're on the court, stick to their key defender on defense. If you get open, shoot threes. And show off the results of your training."
Artest turned and nodded in a deep voice. "Understood."
"But you're still under observation." Lin Qi stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the two men. "Before you put your Boston jerseys back on, there are some things to clarify."
Lin Qi held up one finger.
"First, no fighting in the locker room. If there's any further friction, whoever throws the first punch will have to pack their bags and play a full season in the G League. This is Boston; if you have any tempers, settle them on the practice court with basketball."
Jackson tugged at the towel around his neck and responded with a muffled sound.
Lin Qi raised his second finger.
"Second, no fighting on the court. The physicality will definitely escalate this trip to Texas. If anyone tries to foul you or elbow you, shut them up with tough defense and then put the ball in the basket. Anyone who gets into a fight and gets ejected by the referee, putting the team in a 1-man disadvantage on the road, will spend the rest of the season on the bench."
Artest switched the basketball to his left hand and patted the outside of his thigh.
Lin Qi lowered his hand, his gaze lingering on Artest's face for two seconds.
"Third, and most importantly," Lin Qi looked at them, his tone more serious than ever before, "Absolutely no physical altercations with the fans in the stands. No matter how nasty the away fans' insults are, no matter if they throw paper cups, popcorn, or beer onto the field, you all stay on the field. No one is allowed to cross the scorer's table, step onto the stands, or even touch a fan."
The training hall was silent for a few seconds.
Jackson lowered his head and stomped on the sweat on the floor, without saying a word.
Artest, clutching the basketball, frowned deeply. He looked at Lin Qi, his face filled with utter bewilderment.
"Boss," Artest couldn't help but say.
"Explain."
"Why do you always tell me not to hit fans?" Artest slapped the basketball onto the backboard, holding it down with one hand. "I've heard you mention it several times since I was a rookie."
Lin Qi looked at him but did not answer.
Artest looked up, spread his hands, and said with an almost absurd sincerity, "I hit Stephen because he wanted to take my starting time. I pushed people on the court because those guys were playing dirty and trying to ruin my knees."
"Fans? They just pay for tickets to sit here, drink beer, and let loose. What grudge do I have against them?" Artest shook his head. "I may have a bad temper, but I'm not stupid enough to do that. Why would I rush up to the stands and beat up a fan for no reason?"
Jackson, standing next to him, couldn't help but let out a short, breathy laugh.
"He's a bit crazy, Mr. Lin Qi," Jackson said helplessly, "But he knows who's paying the wages. We're not that stupid."
Lin Qi stood at the free-throw line, quietly watching Artest.
The young man before me, who was furious about losing his starting position and had gotten into a fight during an intra-team confrontation, was now patting his chest and making a solemn promise in the most sincere and matter-of-fact tone that he would never touch a fan.
In the original historical trajectory, at the Palace of Auburn Hills in Detroit at the end of 2004, this man, who had confidently declared "I'm not that stupid," irrationally rushed onto the stands because of a beer that fell from the sky, triggering the worst mass brawl in North America sports history.
"Remember what you said today, Ron." Lin Qi put his hands in his suit pockets. "How far you go in your NBA career depends on whether you can remember this sentence."
Artest bent down and scooped up the basketball from the ground. Although he was a little confused, he nodded.
"There's one more thing." Lin Qi turned to Dominique Wilkins standing beside him, then looked back at the two forwards. "Your suspension is over, but your special training isn't. Starting tomorrow, whether it's a home game or an away game, as long as there's a training ground, you two will be Grant Hill's personal sparring partners."
Jackson stopped wiping his sweat. Artest also looked up.
" Grant's recovery has entered the phase of transitioning to real-game confrontations. He needs high-intensity defensive pressure." Lin Qi pointed to the two of them. "You two guard him, full-court coverage, get physical contact. Dominique will be with your group; while he's guiding Grant to adapt to his new way of generating power, he'll also be refining the details of your offense."
Dominique Wilkins walked over and casually picked up a basketball from the ground.
"Your defensive tenacity is fine, but your footwork on offense is just too rough," Dominique Wilkins said, looking at them. "Tomorrow we're in San Antonio, so let's find some time to start practicing low-post back-to-the-basket moves. Grant needs to practice that too."
Jackson glanced at Artest, then shook his head with a wry smile.
"Go take a shower." Lin Qi turned around and walked towards the door of the passageway first. Rick Carlisle and Dominique Wilkins turned around and followed.
Only Artest and Jackson remained on the court.
Jackson picked up his jacket from the chair and put it on. He walked over to the basketball cart, picked up the scattered basketballs, and threw them in.
"Does the boss think we're out of our minds?" Artest tossed the ball into the basket and turned to Jackson, "Hitting fans? What kind of crazy assumption is that?"
"Shut your mouth and hurry up and pack your bags." Jackson zipped his jacket up to the collar.
Artest snorted, walked to the sidelines, and picked up his bag.
The two walked out of court number two one after the other and pushed open the locker room door.
In the locker room, the equipment manager had already neatly arranged the uniform luggage bags to be taken to the away game tomorrow in front of each locker.
Artest walked up to his wardrobe and stopped.
The cabinet door was open. Inside, hanging quietly was the green away jersey with the number 37 printed on it. Below it lay a pair of spotless match boots.
Artest stood in front of the cabinet for a while. He reached out, took down the away jersey, felt the fabric in his hand, then carefully folded it and stuffed it into the bottom of his luggage.
Jackson sat down in front of the wardrobe a few steps away, unzipped his travel bag, and stuffed his knee pads and sneakers inside.
"If you're going up against Bruce Bowen tomorrow, watch your defense," Artest said with his back to him. "Those old guys on the Spurs are really dirty. If we cause any more trouble, we might get sent to the G League."
"Mind your own business." Jackson zipped up the bag and weighed it in his hand. "My corner three-pointer is more accurate than yours now."
Artest tightened the strap of his bag and didn't argue further.