June 14, Los Angeles, deep within the Staples Center.
Less than forty minutes before the start of the crucial match, in the physiotherapy room at the far end of the home team's locker room.
Phil Jackson, the " Zen Master," stood beside the treatment bed, his brows furrowed tightly.
Michael Jordan lay on his back on the physiotherapy bed, his right knee brace completely removed. In the dim light, his weathered right knee was terribly swollen.
The Lakers ' chief team doctor took a deep breath, holding a long, thick syringe, and precisely inserted the large needle into the joint cavity of Jordan's knee. As the Pistons slowly moved backward, the transparent syringe did not produce the clear, pale yellow tissue fluid that is typical of ordinary people.
Instead, it was a thick, viscous, black liquid mixed with old, stagnant blood.
The black, oil-like liquid, reeking of a fishy odor, slowly filled the large syringe. This was the price this body had paid for the relentless, high-intensity NBA Finals.
The team doctor watched as a large tube of black liquid was drawn out, and his hand holding the cotton swab trembled slightly.
" Michael, your cartilage is badly worn out; it's full of bruises," the team doctor said in a low voice as he quickly applied pressure bandages. "Your jumping height will be greatly affected tonight, and... you absolutely cannot do any more sudden stops that put a lot of stress on your knees."
Jordan didn't speak. From the moment the needle went in until it was pulled out, not a single muscle twitched on his face. He simply chewed his gum expressionlessly, staring blankly at the ceiling.
Jordan didn't sit up from the treatment bed until the team doctor wrapped his knee tightly in a thick bandage. He moved his still stiff right leg, pulled on a clean training uniform, and pushed open the door to the treatment room.
Outside, deafening cheers pierced through the thick concrete walls, announcing the approach of NBA Finals.
At 8 PM, the battle for Tianwang Mountain officially began.
After their frustrating buzzer-beater loss in the previous game, the Boston players exuded a menacing aura the moment they stepped onto the court.
The moment the referee tossed the basketball up, the young Boston players spontaneously dragged the game into a brutal, extreme state.
They didn't believe that the Lao Liumang sank the game-winning shot over two defenders at the top of the key was invincible!
At the start of the first quarter, Gary Payton, Ron Artest, and Stephen Jackson, the three most ferocious perimeter players on the Celtics, began to relentlessly attack Jordan.
Just three minutes into the game, a deafening chorus of boos erupted from the Staples Center.
Jordan was about to call for the ball on the right wing when Artest bumped him, causing him to stumble. Before he could regain his balance, Gary Payton pounced on him like a hungry wolf on the other side, slapping Jordan's wrist with a crisp "smack".
The referee immediately blew his whistle, calling a defensive foul.
This was just a microcosm of the entire first half. The Celtics gave Jordan no easy space to receive the ball, pushing and pulling, using their bodies and elbows. On every defensive possession, it was as if they wanted to bite a piece of flesh off Jordan.
This suffocating, dog-like suffocation, if it happened during the regular season, would probably have already caused a large-scale on-court conflict.
Jordan keenly sensed the unusual feeling in the hearts of these young Boston players. Their defense was extremely fierce, but behind this fierceness lay a sense of impatience, even... fear, born from being pushed to the brink.
In the eighth minute of the first quarter, Jordan made a strong cut to the baseline, received a pass from Kidd, and prepared to make a layup.
Stephen Jackson, who came over to help defend from behind, gave up on blocking the shot. He swung his arm in mid-air and slammed Jordan, along with the ball, down from mid-air!
Jordan crashed heavily to the floor and slid two meters away.
The crowd erupted in uproar as Lakers players angrily charged at Jackson, prompting the referees to intervene and separate the two sides.
Jordan lay on the floor for two seconds, then refused his teammates' help, patted the floor, and stood up. He walked expressionlessly to the free-throw line and took the basketball thrown by the referee.
Stephen Jackson, Pierce, and Artest stood outside the three-point line, panting heavily, their eyes fixed on Jordan at the free-throw line, their gazes filled with a fierce "I'm going to devour you alive" intensity.
Jordan dribbled the ball twice, then suddenly stopped before releasing it.
His cold gaze swept over the three young men in front of him, their faces filled with hostility, and a mocking smile curled at the corner of his lips.
"You guys are getting too aggressive, boys." Jordan's voice wasn't loud, but it reached Pierce and the others precisely in the noisy arena.
"Do you know why?" Jordan calmly sank the first free throw, his eyes still icy. "Because you've discovered... you simply can't stop me."
"You're afraid. You're trying to mask your fear with these low-level fouls and street brawl-like scuffs."
Jordan took the basketball and aimed at the basket.
Look at your hands, they're all trembling.
"Swish." The second free throw went in smoothly.
These words were like a poisoned needle, precisely piercing the most sensitive nerves of Boston's young people.
Back on offense, Pierce's eyes were completely red. Instead of following Billups ' tactical hand signals to run for screens, he forced the ball at the top of the key. Facing Marion's defense, Pierce lowered his center of gravity, wanting to respond with the toughest one-on-one play.
But he was too hasty, and this haste caused him to lose his usual rhythm. In the instant he forced a turn, Jordan, who had come to help defend, skillfully swiped the ball out of Pierce's hands and launched a fast break.
In the next possession, Artest again got carried away on offense, attempting a layup over Barkley, only to be called for a charging foul.
In the extremely oppressive atmosphere of Game 5, the young Boston players completely lost their composure in the face of Jordan's trash talk and psychological warfare, and fell into inefficient one-on-one battles.
On the sidelines, Rick Carlisle was so anxious that he shouted, wanting to call a timeout to rearrange the tactics, but just as he was about to turn around and gesture to the scorer's table, Lin Qi stopped him.
" Lin Qi? They're completely out of control! They're fighting blindly!" Rick Carlisle said anxiously.
Lin Qi stood with his hands in his suit pockets, his gaze fixed intently on the veteran on the court who had effortlessly navigated the pack of mad dogs, tearing apart Boston's defense with his cold-blooded foul-drawing and scathing remarks.
"Wait a little longer." Lin Qi's voice was completely calm.
He watched silently as Pierce missed another tough shot, and watched Artest pound the basket in frustration.
He felt...
Something is about to happen.