That game, which forced the Chicago Bulls to call a timeout and dragged the game to the last second before Jordan winner was decided, should have been a turning point—the young players had seen the ceiling, and after being defeated by Jordan's signature fadeaway jumper, they were fueled by a surge of energy and should have played even more fiercely.
Lin Qi thought so too.
But reality dealt him a heavy blow.
For the next two weeks or so, the phrase "almost" clung to Boston like an inescapable curse.
They hosted the Indiana Pacers, led by Reggie Miller, and the game was a fierce battle.
With 11 seconds left in the fourth quarter, the score was tied. The Boston Celtics had just executed an excellent wing screen... This is Adelman's most successful tactical routine recently, which has worked repeatedly in the previous games.
Just as Finley was about to make his off-ball cut, Pacers ' veteran center Dale Davis seemed to have read the script beforehand. Without even glancing at the ball, his massive body blocked Finley's path half a step ahead.
This seasoned Indiana gang had already meticulously edited and analyzed the Boston Celtics ' recent games. They had calculated that when these young players were exhausted, they would habitually rely on Finley's off-ball runs on the wing in crucial possessions.
Finley, caught off guard by the pre-arranged blockade, was momentarily slowed down.
In that split second of delay, the basketball passed by Sam Cassell came hurtling towards him. Dale Davis, who had already set up a trap on the defensive end, made a ruthless anticipation steal from the side, snapping the ball in mid-air with a resounding thud!
The gasps of 19,000 fans at the FleetCenter caught in their throats.
Sam Cassell was unable to retreat in time and could only desperately lunge to foul the defender.
A sharp whistle blew, and all the lights focused on Reggie Miller. This skinny, mantis-like super-killer tilted his head as he walked to the free-throw line, spitting wildly at the Celtics ' bench.
"Oh, look at these Boston Boy Scouts, their tactics are pretty good. But you guys cut to this spot last time too, do you really think we don't watch the videotapes?"
Amidst a deafening chorus of boos and middle fingers from the crowd, Miller dribbled, took his first shot, flicked his wrist, and delivered two signature, ruthless free throws that swished through the net, sealing the victory in the final second.
The moment the ball went in, the entire stadium fell silent. Miller, however, seemed to hear some beautiful symphony. As he backed away towards the players' tunnel, he defiantly cupped his hands to his ears, raised his chin high, and made an extremely arrogant listening gesture towards the Boston stands.
Just before stepping into the tunnel, he even gave a graceful bow to Lin Qi, whose face was ashen on the sidelines, and brazenly took the victory away on Boston's home turf.
Almost there.
Immediately following that, they faced the Charlotte Hornets in a back-to-back away game, with the two teams separated by only one point in the final three seconds of overtime.
After a series of extremely reasonable and selfless passes on the perimeter, the long-range shot missed. Garnett, with his last breath, jumped three times in the paint amidst a forest of giants, and finally, thanks to his terrifying wingspan, managed to grab an offensive rebound under the basket!
Just a gentle touch and it's a sure kill!
But just as he jumped for the second time and his body was fully extended in mid-air, Hornets ' Larry Bird Johnson crashed into him from the side. The referee's view was blocked, and Johnson's thick left elbow, with a hidden and vicious "inch-force," slammed into Garnett's unsuspecting right side waist! At the same time, his right hand was gripping Garnett's shorts tightly from below.
"Click."
Garnett lost his balance in mid-air. Due to the excruciating pain and exhaustion, he instantly spasmed, and the basketball, which he had almost secured, inexplicably slipped through his fingers, hitting the rim of the hoop and bouncing away.
A deafening roar of mockery erupted throughout the Hornets ' home arena. Garnett slumped to the floor, instinctively clutching his lower back. He was just a little short.
Then came the away game against the Atlanta Hawks, which was initially thought to be a turning point to end the losing streak.
Addressing the issues exposed in the first two games, the Boston Celtics played at an extremely fast pace on the road, relying on the chaotic play of their young players to maintain a lead for a full three quarters. However, in the fourth quarter, Atlanta's half-court game turned on again.
In the final, nail-biting moments, the Boston Celtics were down by one point with five seconds left on the shot clock.
In Atlanta's relentless and almost maddening swarm, Sam Cassell was relentlessly clung to by the opponent's perimeter anchor, Mookie Blakelock, with his tenacious physical contact. Almost losing his balance, Sam Cassell mustered his last strength to make a jump pass, managing to barely manage to slip the ball in mid-air to the unguarded Person on the perimeter.
But just as Person caught the ball and jumped, the Hawks ' wing defender suddenly shifted sideways and lunged at him from the side!
The blocking hand almost pressed between Person's fingers. Person, who had been playing intensely all game and whose legs felt like lead, broke out in a cold sweat in mid-air. In order to avoid the block, his shooting hand inevitably underwent a very slight deformation in the fraction of a second before landing.
The basketball flew over the heads of 20,000 Atlanta fans with a brutal arc, slammed into the back of the rim, and circled halfway around.
The entire Boston Celtics bench couldn't help but raise their hands in cheers.
But the next second, the ball bounced comically twice on the steel rim, then wobbled and slid off.
The final whistle blew.
The Atlanta home crowd erupted in deafening cheers, while Person could only stare at his hands in despair, his face ashen.
So close. So close. It's always just a little bit short.
The Boston media won't show any mercy to a losing team.
In a column of a local sports newspaper, a reporter known for his sharp tongue gave the Boston Celtics a nickname right on the front page.
"Ladies and gentlemen, let's talk about Boston's ' Misters Almost,'" a host on local Boston WEEI radio said glibly over the Late Night airwaves. "They almost beat the Chicago Bulls, almost beat Hornets Pacers, almost beat the Hornets, almost beat the Hawks, and last night almost beat the Minnesota Timberwolves. I counted, since losing to the Chicago Bulls, our Boston Celtics have 'almost' won seven games. At this rate, by May they'll probably 'almost' win the championship. Oh, sorry, I forgot, at their current winning percentage, they might only 'almost' make the playoffs."
A burst of shrill laughter came from the radio.
The nickname " Misters Almost " spread like wildfire throughout New England overnight.
Even scalpers selling resale tickets at Boston's home games have started using this as a sales tactic when soliciting customers on the street. "Hey buddy, buy a ticket, the Boston Celtics will definitely 'almost' win tonight."
The originally inflated ticket prices gradually returned to normal amidst ridicule.
The atmosphere in the locker room grew more and more somber each day.
When they win, they're brothers in arms; when they lose, those hidden emotions from their success begin to surface. But those emotions aren't about blaming each other... they're a kind of frantic helplessness.
Radja became extremely silent. This man, who once commanded respect and was hailed as a king in Europe, felt utter despair for the first time at the NBA's inhumanly grueling schedule. Four games a week, endless red-eye flights.
"This isn't basketball." He once gave Lin Qi a wry smile in heavily accented English, pointing to his waterlogged knees. "Manager, this is a slow murder of your joints."
And Garnett, the boy who always loved to show off on the training field, was the most subdued.
The training session had ended long ago, and most of the lights in the gym were off, leaving only a dim, cold glow on the empty wooden floor.
Garnett was huddled on the bench, motionless for a long time. Lin Qi tiptoed over and found the kid biting hard at the collar of his training uniform, his clothes soaked with cold sweat. He was gritting his teeth and stretching out his arm, struggling to pull a thick cotton sock onto his foot.
But the moment his fingertips touched his ankle, and his upper body leaned forward just two centimeters, the muscle in his lower back suddenly spasmed, like a string about to snap. The pain made him arch his back instantly, and the veins on his forehead bulged.
"Alright, stop pretending."
Lin Qi sighed, stepped forward, grabbed the boy's arm, and without saying a word, dragged him open the door to the chief medic's office.
The team doctor lifted Garnett's training shirt, and when his fingertips pressed on a spot on Garnett's right lower back, he applied a little pressure, causing Garnett to gasp in pain and almost jump off the physiotherapy bed.
The team doctor clapped his hands and turned to Lin Qi, indicating, "Don't worry, it's nothing. It's just protective muscle spasms."
"How long will he need to rest?" Lin Qi frowned, his face extremely grim.
"With some shortwave diathermy and deep stretching, he'll be back to his old self in a week." The team doctor sighed, his tone unusually serious, as he pulled off his latex the Glove. "But manager, Kevin is too light right now. He needs to work on his core muscles around his lower back."
Garnett lay face down on the treatment bed, his cheek pressed against the cool leather, his eyes vacant and lost in thought.
"Back in high school... I could jump so high that my eyes would be level with the rim. If I wanted to block someone, I could just swatt the ball all the way to the back of the stands."
"But that old guy just elbowed me in the lower back. Seriously, it was just a light bump, not even a foul... I couldn't even hold the damn basketball anymore."
For the first time, Garnett's eyes showed a look of near-fearful confusion.
"Rest now," Lin Qi said softly, then turned around and closed the door to the medical room for him.
Late Night that night, Lin Qi stayed alone in the president's office.
On the table were videos of all the matches the past month had lost.
Outside the window, a heavy snowfall was falling in Boston, its patter echoing against the glass.
He didn't turn on the lights, but relied on the cold light coming in from the huge billboard outside the stadium to replay those "near miss" rounds over and over again.
In the afternoon, Adelman and the scouting director both said that the schedule was too tight and they were indeed a bit unlucky.
These are all correct. But Lin Qi always felt that they weren't entirely correct.