The air in the corridor of the Beverly Hills Hotel in Los Angeles was so oppressive that it was hard to breathe.
The loss in Game 1 of the NBA Finals completely exposed the pressure cooker in Boston. For the past three years, the reason these troublemakers in the locker room had behaved themselves was entirely due to Lin Qi's tactics. Now, with Lin Qi suspended by the league, Rick Carlisle's lack of authority as head coach was immediately laid bare after the defeat.
The argument in Rasheed Wallace's suite was so loud that it could be heard in the hallway.
"You're just letting Ben take on Shaq by himself? What kind of rubbish tactic is this!" Rasheed slammed his fist on the table in frustration. "Are we just going to stand by and watch Ben get devoured in the penalty area for forty minutes? Even if we had double-teamed him decisively, could things have gotten any worse?"
"Double-team?" Chauncey Billups Billups, sitting on the sofa, interrupted him. "If you go for a double-team, Fisher and Richmond on the perimeter will shoot you to death. Then you'll jump out and yell, 'You know the Lakers have shooters, why leave them open to double-team?' It's like two poisons; Rick can only choose one."
"That's still better than letting that fat guy score so easily in the paint!" On the other side, Ron Artest, shirtless and with bloodshot eyes, was still furious about being substituted by Rick Carlisle in the fourth quarter. "And why did Rick take me out? I'm about to drive Michael crazy! That baseline referee called a hair foul on my body, and instead of protesting to the referee, he just benched me? He can't control the game at all!"
The door wasn't fully closed. Rick Carlisle stood in the shadows of the hallway, listening to the complaints coming from the room, silently clenching the tactical board in his hand.
This is his current predicament. The tactical dilemma is secondary; the most difficult thing is that he finds it hard to immediately calm down this group of disgruntled players after a defeat. In the past, with Lin Qi supporting him behind the scenes, no one dared to question the coaching staff's decisions, but now, he has to deal with these backlashes himself.
Just as Rick Carlisle took a deep breath, preparing to push open the door and forcefully suppress the noise, a series of heavy, dragging footsteps came from the other end of the corridor.
Ben Wallace walked over shirtless. He walked past Rick Carlisle and pushed open the slightly ajar door.
Big Ben, carrying two large bags of ice, walked to the table and slammed them down with a "bang." The arguing in the room instantly fell silent.
Under everyone's gaze, Big Ben pulled up a chair, sat down, tore open two strong pain relief patches, and stuck them on his lower back.
Artest and Rasheed's eyes fell on Big Ben.
Big Ben's left shoulder was unnaturally swollen high. With each heavy, slow breath, his brow would twitch uncontrollably.
That was the price he paid for being isolated in the paint in the second half, having to go toe-to-toe with O'Neal one-on-one.
"That's the price of tactics." Big Ben pointed a thick finger at Artest's nose. "Next game, if you get ejected because you're angry with the coach or can't control your damn temper, then all this suffering I endured tonight was for nothing..."
Big Ben stared at him with his lifeless eyes. "I won't need anyone else to do it. I'll cripple you myself."
After saying that, Big Ben leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and ignored everyone.
Artest stood frozen in place, staring at Big Ben's swollen shoulder. The mania on his face gradually faded, replaced by a fierce look of clenched teeth. The team's defensive linchpin used the most primal method to forcefully stabilize the locker room, which was on the verge of collapse.
In the shadows outside the door, Rick Carlisle silently released his grip on the doorknob.
Big Ben accomplished the most difficult task for him as head coach, and one that he currently lacks the confidence to do: suppressing the troublemakers. Rick Carlisle knows very well that authority is never built by yelling in the locker room. If he, as head coach, cannot provide tactical the Answer to break the deadlock, this high-pressure situation, relying on the players to hold on, will inevitably crumble under the Lakers ' offensive onslaught sooner or later.
He turned around, quietly left the corridor, and walked straight downstairs.
Pushing open the door, the video analysis room was dark, with only the cold light flickering from the screen on the wall. Dwyane Wade, with a towel over his head, sat in a swivel chair, staring blankly at the screen.
The footage shows the play in the second quarter where he attempted to challenge the paint but was swatted out of bounds by O'Neal, ball and all. The video has been rewound and played at least twenty times.
Rick Carlisle pulled up a chair and sat down next to Wade. He pressed the eject button on the remote, ejecting Wade's videotape, and casually picked up another one from the table and pushed it in.
The screen switched to a highlight reel of Michael Jordan from the second half. Rick Carlisle pressed the pause button, and the image froze on the moment Jordan jumped against Artest.
" Dwyane, you're a rookie." Rick Carlisle leaned back in his chair, his voice steady. "Do you know how the Los Angeles Lakers coaching staff described you in their scouting report?"
Wade pulled the towel off his head, paused for a moment, and said, "Then where am I supposed to look?"
"Your fast break is extremely dangerous, and your first step is incredibly fast." Rick Carlisle pointed at O'Neal on the screen. "They'll add another one: a lack of mid-range and long-range shooting ability. Phil Jackson studied your regular season stats; he knows all too well that once you get past the perimeter, all you think about is the basket. So he doesn't need to adjust the defensive formation at all. He just needs to tell Shaq to stay in the Crash area and wait for him to run into him."
Wade fell silent. He recalled his layup attempt, during which O'Neal hadn't even shifted his weight much; he had simply stood still and raised his arm.
"How's your pull-up jump shot coming along?" Rick Carlisle suddenly asked.
Wade looked up, glanced at the frozen image of Jordan on the screen, and then at Rick Carlisle.
"Coach, you mean..." Wade hesitated for a moment, then his eyes lit up, "You want me to play like Michael?"
"Give it a try." Rick Carlisle tossed his pen onto the table. "Next game, when you drive to the free-throw line, if Shaq dares to stay under the basket and not come out, just pull up and shoot. I'll let it slide if you miss a few mid-range shots."
Wade took a deep breath and nodded vigorously. "I understand, Coach."