Late January, Boston, training facility.
The sneakers scraped roughly across the wooden floor, producing a short, sharp screech.
Artest was pressed tightly against Grant Hill, his thick right forearm hard against Hill's side. Sweat dripped down Artest's stubble and onto the floor.
Hill held the ball with both hands, his back to the basket, and stood firmly at the horns on the right side of the free-throw line.
"Lower your center of gravity!" Dominique Wilkins shouted from his folding chair on the sidelines.
Artest slammed his right foot back half a step, his broad shoulder pressing firmly against Hill's back, attempting to disrupt his balance.
Hill leaned back, Artest didn't retreat an inch.
Hill dribbled the ball again. Just as the two were locked in a stalemate, his core muscles tightened suddenly, and using the reaction force from Artest's defense, he pivoted on his right foot and quickly took a half step back with his left foot.
A smooth turn, and a jump.
Artest reacted extremely quickly, immediately pouncing on the ball and blocking it with his long arms.
But in mid-air, Hill's right elbow tucked in perfectly, and his wrist gently flicked the ball.
The basketball flew past Artest's fingertips, tracing a high arc, and swished cleanly into the net.
Hill landed and glanced down at his left foot. His foot landed steadily and firmly on the floor, without a trace of the tearing pain he had felt before.
Artest glanced at the still-shaking Nets, then bent over in frustration, placing his hands on his knees and panting heavily.
"Bottom corner!" Dominique Wilkins tapped the tactical whiteboard in his hand with Mark.
Artest immediately straightened up and, dragging his heavy legs, ran to the right corner three-point line. The assistant coach accurately passed the ball to him.
Artest caught the ball with both hands. Because he had focused so much defensive effort on Hill, the muscles in his thighs were trembling slightly. He forced a shot.
"Bang!"
The ball was too short and bounced off the front edge of the rim.
"My legs are giving out." Dominique Wilkins stood up and pointed out bluntly, "You've exhausted all your energy on defense, and on offense you can't even maintain your jumping height. Every jump is different. I've told you countless times over the past two weeks, Ron, you need to find a balance on both ends of the court."
Artest didn't argue, lowered his head, walked to the basket, picked up the ball, and walked back to the corner.
Stephen Jackson walked up from the sidelines, stood behind Hill, spread his arms, and began the next round of defense.
At the other end of the field, Lin Qi, dressed in a simple wool sweater, stood side by side with Rick Carlisle. Rick Carlisle held a freshly printed league briefing in his hand.
Lin Qi took the briefing and glanced at it.
"The competition is now incredibly fierce. We currently lead the league with a 38-8 record, but the other teams in the Western Conference are very close. The Sacramento Kings are 35-10, the Los Angeles Lakers are 34-11, and the Dallas Mavericks are 33-13. These Western Conference monsters are all playing with ruthless intensity in February's schedule."
Rick Carlisle sighed, "If Ron and Stephen hadn't been suspended by the team, our record might have been even better..."
"If we don't teach these two a lesson now, it'll be too late if they cause any trouble in the playoffs and get suspended by the league." Lin Qi handed the briefing back, his gaze fixed on the court. "The entire league's video analysts are dissecting our game; the real test is yet to come."
At 8:30 PM, at the New Garden, the home team will host the Philadelphia 76ers.
With two minutes remaining in the third quarter, the scoreboard showed a score of 72 to 70.
Billups dribbled with difficulty at the top of the key, and Philadelphia's defensive stalwart Eric Snow clung to him like a mad dog, giving him almost no vision or space. Garnett had just gotten into position on the right low post when two Philadelphia players immediately double-teamed him aggressively.
Gerald Wallace stood in the left corner. His defender, Aaron McGee, retreated to the edge of the paint, giving Gerald a full three meters of space, ready to help defend inside at any time.
Billups caught sight of an open space out of the corner of his eye, flicked his wrist, and transferred the ball to the left corner.
Gerald catches the ball with both hands.
McGee didn't even try to lunge back; he just turned to look at him. The Philadelphia center in the paint even took a half-step up, planted his feet on the path of the drive, and covered his chest with his hands, just waiting for Gerald to charge in and get an offensive foul as usual.
Gerald instinctively pushed his right foot forward half an inch. He's too used to starting his drives. Once he gets going, he only needs one step to break into the paint and finish with a powerful dunk over that center.
But he saw the center who had positioned himself in advance, and he didn't move an inch.
Gerald took a deep breath, bent his knees slightly, and raised the ball above his forehead with both hands. In the instant before jumping, he subconsciously felt his right elbow.
His elbows were close to his right ribs, unlike at the beginning of his rookie season when they turned outwards.
He jumped, his movement not graceful, even somewhat mechanical, but the force from his wrist was extremely decisive, and the basketball was gently flicked out from his fingertips.
McGee, standing three meters away, watched helplessly as the basketball flew across half the court, tracing a high arc.
"Whoosh."
A crisp sound of swishing the net. 75 to 70.
Gerald landed, turned around, and retreated to his own half without looking back.
On the sidelines, Rick Carlisle, who had been pacing anxiously, suddenly stopped.
Philadelphia coach Larry Bird Brown immediately called a timeout.
Gerald ran back to the bench, where Big Ben grinned and handed him a towel. He took it and vigorously wiped the sweat from his face.
Billups walked over and patted the rookie on the back.
Gerald draped a towel around his neck, picked up a paper cup, and gulped down large mouthfuls of ice water, his chest heaving violently.
Inside the VIP boxes above the stadium.
Lin Qi sat quietly on the leather sofa, with the live statistics updated that evening on the table. Sitting next to him was the team's lead assistant coach, Tim Grgurich.
This assistant coach, who has spent many years in the league, has never liked crowded benches. Lin Qi also enjoys having someone to talk to while watching the game.
"Elbows were tucked in, and the jump rhythm was steady." Grgurich's voice was full of praise. " Gerald finally made that corner three. Mark ( Price ) and Chip ( Engelland )'s hard work these past few weeks hasn't been in vain."
Lin Qi looked down at the field. "Only one goal, not quite a complete breakthrough. But a good start."
"As long as this kid is thinking clearly and doesn't recklessly charge into the crowd to draw offensive fouls, Larry Bird Brown won't dare to leave him three meters away so carelessly anymore," Grgurich astutely pointed out the tactical chain reaction. "If Philadelphia is forced to rush out..."
" Gerald's first step could easily get past them," Lin Qi chimed in.
"That's right, the others are completely alive too." Grgurich closed his notebook, his eyes lighting up. "That's why we're so determined to get to that awkward elbow of his."
The team has plenty of good defenders, but few good offensive players, so the offensive burden falls almost entirely on Gary Payton, Pierce, and Garnett.
Ben Wallace is out of the question, but if we can train Gerald Wallace, the pressure will be somewhat relieved.