Green and white ribbons, like a never-ending snowfall, covered the floor of the New Garden with a thick layer.
In the center of the court, on the hastily erected awards stage, NBA Commissioner David Stern stood beaming in front of the microphone. Beside him was the O'Brien Trophy, gleaming with golden light, and the Beal Russell NBA Finals Most Valuable Player (FMVP) trophy, representing the highest individual honor.
Garnett has kissed the championship trophy countless times, and Pierce even poured champagne directly onto Big Ben's afro.
But when Stern picked up the envelope with the FMVP name printed on it, the players fell silent and made way for the podium.
"This was a great, historic Game 7. We witnessed the most exciting defensive battle, the most incredible crucial goals, and a great soul rising from the brink of destruction to the top."
Stern surveyed the 20,000 fans in the stadium who were in a frenzy, and loudly proclaimed the name.
"2002 NBA NBA Finals MVP – Grant Hill!"
"Boom!!!!!"
The roar of the New Garden once again surged up to the dome.
In the crowd, Grant Hill paused for a moment. The thirty-year-old man's jersey was already soaked with sweat and champagne.
Garnett shoved him hard from behind, while Pierce laughed and ruffled his hair.
Hill took a deep breath, strode towards the podium.
As the adrenaline subsided, the bone-deep exhaustion from the Game 7 finally kicked in. He walked slowly, even visibly limping. His ankles were protesting after the intense changes of direction and explosive power.
But he remained steadfast in his resolve.
He took the heavy trophy from Stern's hands. Flashbulbs went off like a thunderstorm in front of his eyes.
Hill stood in front of the microphone, looking at the pairs of red eyes below the stage, and at the dome in the distance, and finally his eyes welled up with tears.
"It's been... a very long road." Hill's voice was a little hoarse; he hadn't prepared a speech. "Two years. That's a long time for a professional player."
The entire room fell silent, save for the clicking of camera shutters.
"In the summer of 2000, I lay on the operating table as the doctor cut open my ankle and removed the steel pins." Hill glanced down at her foot and gave a self-deprecating laugh. "For the next eighteen months, I faced monotonous rehabilitation training every day. Day after day..."
"There were a few Late Night when I looked at my feet, which I could barely walk on, and I really thought... Grant Hill's basketball career was over. All those past accolades sounded like an ironic joke."
Hill looked up, her gaze searching through the crowd, finally settling on a woman in the front row of the stands who was already sobbing uncontrollably.
"I want to thank my wife, Tamia," Hill said, his voice choked with emotion. "When I couldn't even get down the stairs, when I was throwing a tantrum at the innocent furniture like a madwoman, you helped me and caught my emotions. This trophy belongs to you halfway."
Tamia, sitting in the audience, covered her mouth and nodded frantically.
Hill then turned to look at Lin Qi, who was calmly watching him.
"I also want to thank someone. Our boss, Lin Qi."
Hill solemnly raised the trophy in his hand.
"You brought me to Boston. You gave me the best medical team, you developed a rehabilitation plan for me..."
"Until this March, I stepped back onto the court." Hill's eyes were filled with pure gratitude and respect. "It was your patience, which is beyond the comprehension of ordinary people, that made all of this possible. Thank you, Lin Qi, you're a madman, and a genius. You gave me the best stage! You saved my career! Thank you!"
Lin Qi stood in the shadows, slightly raising his champagne glass and offering a distant toast to Hill on the stage.
Finally, Hill turned around and looked at his teammates, who looked exhausted but were smiling like children, and at head coach Rick Carlisle, whose eyes were streaked with tears.
"Finally, thank you Rick, thank you Kevin, Chris Paul, Gary, Ben... thank you all."
Hill raised the trophy, the symbol of the highest individual honor, high above the ground, and amidst a shower of green confetti, let out the wildest roar of his life.
" The Boston Celtics are the damn league champions!!!"
"Boom!!!!"
Confetti burst forth, and champagne rained down.
Amidst the jubilation, ABC reporters, cameras with red work lights, randomly pulled players aside in the chaotic crowd for live post-match interviews.
Covered in champagne and almost manic with excitement, Stephen Jackson grabbed a reporter's shoulder.
" Stephen! This has been a great season! What would you like to say to the management of this team?" the reporter shouted, trying to drown out the deafening cheers from the crowd.
"I have to say, Grant was absolutely right! Lin Qi is absolutely the best owner on this planet, in the entire league! Without a doubt!" Jackson roared at the camera, spitting everywhere, "He not only led us to a championship, he also made us rich! Last year at the end of the year, he told us about the stocks we should buy, and my account has already doubled in just a few months! He's practically sent by God to give away money..."
Before Jackson could finish speaking, Brian Scalabrine, who had been hugging his assistant coach, suddenly turned around, his face turning deathly pale.
This substitute forward, who is usually extremely quick-witted in the locker room, reacted swiftly, lunging forward like a linebacker in football and roughly covering Jackson's mouth.
"Are you crazy, Stephen! Shut your stinking mouth!" Scalabrine covered Jackson's mouth while flashing an awkward, stiff smile at the camera. "He's drunk! He's got the champagne in his head! He's talking nonsense!"
Jackson's eyes rolled back as he was being covered, and he was still stammering and trying to break free.
But it was all too late.
The camera, equipped with a red indicator light, is broadcasting all of this clearly and without reservation via satellite signal to tens of millions of television sets across the United States.
Behind and to the side of the podium, David Stern was standing in front of the live broadcast monitor.
This top NBA official clearly heard the sensitive words "stocks," "doubling," and "the owner told us to buy" coming from the speakers.
Stern's smile gradually faded.
"Extract and archive that live interview footage from earlier," Stern said coldly to Adam Silver, the league's vice president, turning his head to the side.
Stern turned his head and looked coldly at Lin Qi.