The visiting team's locker room at the United Center was filled with a sense of ease and relief unique to winning a game.
A resounding 58-point victory was not only the most powerful response to the death threats made by extreme fans before the game.
Young Wade and Gerald Wallace were excitedly discussing the dunks they had just executed. Billups sat quietly in front of his locker, cutting the bandages on his ankle. Chris Paul Pierce, meanwhile, was stuffing large mouthfuls of pizza to replenish his energy.
Just as everyone was getting ready to take off their jerseys and go for a hot shower, Kevin Garnett, who had just finished a brief interview with a reporter on the sidelines, walked in through the door.
He walked to the center of the locker room, but instead of rushing to his locker to remove his protective gear, he suddenly stopped. He looked up, his eyes fixed on a corner of the locker room ceiling, as if trying to remember something.
"What's wrong, Kevin?" Chris Paul Pierce noticed Garnett's unusual expression and looked up to ask, "Is your neck bothering you?"
"No, Chris Paul. I just suddenly remembered something from long ago."
Garnett muttered something to himself, and then, amidst the puzzled gazes of all the players in the locker room, he strode to the center of the locker room, dragged over a sturdy square metal table that the physiotherapist used to store his first-aid kit, and placed it directly under the air conditioning vent.
Immediately afterwards, to everyone's astonishment, this 2.11-meter-tall center stepped directly onto the table wearing only his sneakers.
"My God, Kevin, are you checking if the United Center has been bugged?" Tyson Chandler Chandler stared wide-eyed at his boss's bizarre actions.
Garnett ignored the rookie's teasing. He stretched out his long arms and pushed open a white square partition on the ceiling. Instantly, a cloud of dust that hadn't been cleaned in years fell down, covering Garnett's head and face.
Garnett shook his head dismissively, then peered half his body into the dark, gaping recess in the ceiling, his long arms groping around inside.
"It's right here... I remember it was placed in this corner that year..." Garnett muttered to himself as he fumbled around.
About half a minute later, a smile suddenly appeared on Garnett's face.
"Ha! Found it. As long as Chicago don't renovate this arena, it'll still be there!"
Garnett yanked hard, and a wad of dollars covered in a thick layer of dust was pulled out of the ceiling.
Garnett jumped off the table and dusted off his hands.
"What's this? The Chicago ' tactics manual?" Raja Bell asked curiously, leaning closer.
Garnett smiled, walked to the tactical board in the middle of the locker room, and carefully opened his hand. There were fifteen hundred-dollar bills in total, no more, no less, exactly fifteen hundred dollars.
"Wow! Did we just rob a Chicago bank?" Ron Artest's eyes lit up when he saw the money, and he exclaimed dramatically, "Or did you find some dirty money that some Chicago gang had hidden here?"
The players in the locker room all gathered around, even the usually composed Billups put down his scissors and looked curiously at the stack of dusty US dollars.
Garnett didn't laugh; he gently stroked the yellowed creases along the edge of the stack of dollars with his large thumb. A heavy emotion gradually crept into his eyes.
"This isn't dirty money, Ron." Garnett let out a long sigh. "It's our own money. More precisely, it's the money from the 1996 Boston Celtics."
Seeing the puzzled looks on the young players' faces, Garnett pulled up a chair, sat down, and slowly began to explain the origin of the money.
"That was the 1996 playoffs, my first season in the league." Garnett pointed to the ceiling, his voice tinged with a wistful nostalgia. "Back then, the Chicago Bulls had a terrifying 72-win record. We fought to the last Bullets. Robert Parish, while fighting for a rebound, was diagnosed with a ruptured Achilles tendon in that medical room over there."
The locker room fell silent. The Chief's name carried significant weight in Boston.
"We were eliminated. The atmosphere in the locker room was absolutely terrible. At that time, we felt that Michael Jordan and this Chicago Bulls were an insurmountable Mountain." Garnett looked at the US dollars in his hand, his eyes narrowing slightly. "That's when Lin walked into this locker room."
He pulled a hundred dollars from his own wallet, and then made all of us exhausted men— Sam Cassell, Jones, Finley, and Radja ... each pull out a hundred dollars.
Garnett waved the wad of dusty US dollars in his hand.
"Lin stacked the money together, stood on the table, and stuffed it into the ceiling of the locker room. He told us, 'Leave this money here, and take it out on the night you cross Michael Jordan. Nobody is allowed to take it beforehand.'"
Hearing this story, rookies Wade and Chandler felt a chill run down their spines. They could almost see the scene seven years ago, when a young Lin Qi and a group of disgruntled players swore an oath of brotherhood in this very locker room.
"Last year's NBA Finals, you all know that. Michael made his second comeback and joined the Los Angeles Lakers. And we beat Los Angeles, we finally overcame Michael Jordan."
Garnett looked at the dollars in his hand, his smile gradually fading, replaced by an indescribable sense of emotion and a feeling of loss for what was lost.
He looked up and surveyed the locker room filled with laughter and chatter.
Here we have Chris Paul Pierce, Chauncey Billups, Ron Artest, and the Wallace brothers. They are champions, the most fearsome and intimidating force in the league right now.
But none of his old buddies who stood in this locker room in 1996, pulling out their money and vowing to beat Jordan, are still here.
Robert Parish retired a long time ago. Radja went back to Europe. Sam Cassell went to the Seattle SuperSonics. Eddie Jones is with the Sacramento Kings. Finley is with the Mavericks...
When Boston finally fulfilled that promise, only Garnett remained from that team that had been suffocated by the Chicago Bulls.
"We won, brothers. We did it." Garnett's voice was soft, yet carried a weight of experience.
The atmosphere was slightly heavy, and Ron Artest couldn't stand such sentimental scenes. He strode over and put his arm around Garnett's shoulder.
"Hey Kevin! Since this is the spoils of victory, let's spend it tonight!" Artest suggested excitedly. "Fifteen hundred dollars! That's enough for a few bottles of champagne at the best nightclub in Chicago! Let's celebrate to smash Chicago!"
Upon hearing Artest's suggestion, the young players joined in the commotion, and the atmosphere in the locker room became lively again.
But Garnett smiled and shook his head, carefully placing the wad of dollars into his backpack.
"No, Ron. This money can't be spent."
Garnett looked at Artest, his tone firm yet gentle. "This money belongs to those old buddies. When we get back to Boston, I'll call them all, even if they're wearing other teams' jerseys now. I'll return every penny they put in the ceiling back then, along with Lin's money. That's our vow."
Seeing the somewhat disappointed looks on everyone's faces, Garnett suddenly grinned, revealing his signature, wild smile.
"But don't spoil the fun, guys!" Garnett zipped up his closet and shouted triumphantly, "This money is off-limits, but I've got plenty! Tonight, all the fancy restaurants and drinks in Chicago are on me, Kevin Garnett! For Boston!"
"For Boston --!!!"
A deafening cheer erupted in the away team's locker room.
Meanwhile, in the home team's locker room, separated only by a wall, the number 24 player, who had scored a whopping 43 points but sat alone in a corner, created a stark and ironic contrast with the cheers and laughter on the other side.