The plane's engines roared monotonously at 30,000 feet. The cabin lights were dimmed to their lowest setting. The five-plus hours of the flight from Los Angeles back to Boston felt exceptionally long for the team, which was trailing 0-2.
Most of the players pulled down the sunshades on the portholes and pulled their hoodies up over their heads, trying to force themselves to sleep.
But Chris Paul Pierce didn't sleep.
He sat in a large chair by the window, a heavy laptop resting on the small table in front of him. The screen emitted a faint blue glow, reflected in his bloodshot eyes. He pressed the rewind button on the laptop, the plastic button making a crisp "click," and the image on the screen rewound before resuming playback.
That was Game 2 of the NBA Finals, a highlight reel of his individual offense. To be precise, it was a compilation of turnovers, missed shots, and setbacks.
As Boston's star player and the team's true offensive leader, Pierce endured two of the most humiliating games of his career in Los Angeles. After the first two games of the NBA Finals, he averaged a paltry 13.5 points per game, with his field goal percentage dropping below 35%. Even his usually formidable skill of drawing fouls proved completely ineffective at Staples Center, managing only seven free throw attempts in total across the two games.
He's known as " The Truth," a nickname bestowed upon him by Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal himself. But now, facing O'Neal's Lakers, he feels like he's playing like trash.
What made him particularly frustrated was that he was a native Los Angeles resident who grew up on the streets of Inglewood, and most of his family members were sitting in the stands at Staples Center these past two days. As a result, he was brutally beaten by the Lakers ' perimeter defense in front of his hometown folks.
The image on the screen froze again. It was a half-court set play in the middle of the second quarter.
In the video, Pierce had just crossed half-court and was preparing to position himself outside the three-point line at a 45-degree angle on the right when Jason Kidd's solid, barrel-like body rammed into him.
With great difficulty, Pierce used Garnett's off-ball screen to cut past Kidd. But just as he received the pass and tried to turn around and attack the basket, the defender in front of him had become Michael Jordan.
Jordan's lateral quickness is indeed not what it used to be, but his defensive positioning is still very sophisticated. In the video, Jordan didn't even deliberately close in; he just stepped half a step ahead and blocked Pierce's usual driving path. As soon as Pierce exerted force, Jordan's center of gravity would naturally shift.
That seemingly casual half-step and squeeze completely disrupted Pierce's offensive rhythm, forcing him into the corner of the paint. There, Sean Marion's long arms and O'Neal's massive frame had already created a formidable net.
Click.
Pierce pressed the pause button in frustration. He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands, feeling a burning anger in his chest that he couldn't vent.
"They're using the highest level of defense against superstars against you."
A deep voice suddenly came from beside him. Pierce turned his head and saw Rick Carlisle sitting down on an empty seat on the other side of the aisle, holding a cup of slightly sour airline coffee.
Rick Carlisle didn't come over and pat Pierce on the shoulder like some coaches do, spouting cheap platitudes like "We believe in you." He simply stared calmly at the frozen image on the computer screen.
Pierce ripped off the bulky headphones hanging around his neck, making no attempt to hide the frustration in his voice.
"My rhythm is completely messed up, Coach." Pierce stared at the screen, his voice a little hoarse. " Dwyane ( Wade ) punished Shaq at the free-throw line, and Ben and Ron gave them trouble on the defensive end. And me? As soon as I crossed half-court, Jason and Michael took turns sticking to me. I didn't even have a chance to receive the ball comfortably."
Rick Carlisle took a sip of coffee, his brow furrowing slightly. " Phil Jackson's meaning is clear: anyone in Boston can score, except you, Chris Paul Pierce. He knows that if he shuts you down, our half-court offense will drop a level."
"I need the ball, Rick." Pierce's inherent pride was ignited. He sat up straight and looked directly at the head coach. "Next game back in Boston, give me more double screens, or have Chauncey Billups feed me more balls on the strong side... I can't just watch that Lao Liumang and Jason swagger around on my turf."
This is the most instinctive reaction of an extremely confident top scorer. If your touch isn't good, then shoot more, keep shooting until you make them.
But Rick Carlisle shook his head decisively.
"If you're still thinking, 'I have to get the ball on the perimeter to prove myself,' then in the next game, you'll still get devoured by them." Rick Carlisle pointed to the positions of Kidd and Jordan on the screen. "They're messing with your mentality. The more you try to prove yourself, the more you try to force shots under double teams, the more you're playing into Phil Jackson's hands."
Pierce frowned. "What do you mean? Just say it."
"What I mean is, don't push yourself too hard." Rick Carlisle leaned back in his chair, his gaze cold and rational. " Chris Paul, you're a guy with extremely high basketball IQ. Don't just be a scoring machine. If the opposing team puts all their best defensive resources on you, take advantage of that. The more they fear you, the more you'll draw attention."
Rick Carlisle put down the paper cup and gestured with his hands in mid-air to form the shape of a half-space.
"If Kidd is guarding you, go to the corner and draw their best perimeter defender away from the main battle, creating space for Dwyane and Chauncey Billups. If Jordan tries to double-team you, pass the ball to an open teammate on the weak side. Even if you're shooting poorly all game, you can still box out, fight for rebounds, and wear down Michael's stamina on defense."
Rick Carlisle stared into Pierce's eyes, his tone becoming more forceful. "You have ways to help this team win. You're a smart man, Chris Paul. I don't need to remind you."
Pierce remained silent. As one of the team's leaders, asking him to give up ball possession to do the dirty work and draw attention away from the defense would be unthinkable on any other team, but this was the Boston Celtics, a tradition that was naturally present.
"That doesn't sound like something a star player should do." Pierce stared at his reflection on the screen and chuckled self-deprecatingly. "If Kobe or Shaq scored only a dozen points in two NBA Finals in Los Angeles, the Los Angeles media would be tearing them apart on the front page the next day."
"But this isn't Los Angeles." Rick Carlisle reached out and closed the laptop in front of Pierce, cutting off the glaring blue light, and the cabin went dark.
Rick Carlisle looked at the unruly young man before him, his tone becoming more serious than ever before. " Chris Paul, do you know what it means to be a leader on this team?"
Pierce looked up and stared directly at the head coach.
"A leader isn't someone who carries the entire team on their shoulders every game, proving their unstoppable nature with one-on-two shots," Rick Carlisle pointed to the dark night sky outside the cabin. "That's Hollywood- style individualism. In Boston, leadership means you can sacrifice everything for victory, including your damn pride."
Rick Carlisle lowered his voice, but every word was crystal clear. " Michael and Jason are focusing all their defensive attention on you; that's your badge of honor as a top star. Since you have such a strong pull, take them away from the main battlefield. Go set off-ball screens for Dwyane, go for every loose ball, go tear the defense apart."
"Your individual stats will look bad, the media might laugh at you for being weak, and fans might question your core role. But in the locker room, every brother who sees you doing the blue-collar work to win will be willing to fight tooth and nail for you." Rick Carlisle patted Pierce on the shoulder. "Use your gravity to make the team work; that's what leadership is. When this team truly starts functioning because of your sacrifice, that's when the Lakers' defense will crumble."
Pierce listened quietly. The anxiety in his mind, the urge to prove himself, miraculously subsided.
He turned to look out the window. The glitz and glamour of Los Angeles and the lone heroism of the streets were fading away, replaced by the cold, ruthless, and ruthless nature of New England.
"I understand, Coach."
More than ten hours later.
The plane landed at Logan International Airport. As the Boston players stepped off the gangway, they were greeted by the cool, overcast sea breeze typical of early June in New England.
That evening, the Los Angeles Lakers ' grey team bus, escorted by police cars, slowly drove into downtown Boston.
In stark contrast to the sunny, Hollywood -esque glitz and glamour of Los Angeles, this old East Coast town exudes a rugged charm, a blend of steel and red brick. As the bus drove into the underground passage of the New Garden, the streets were already packed with enthusiastic Boston fans.
Wearing green jerseys and holding up various highly insulting signs written on rough cardboard, they frantically gave the middle finger to the slowly passing Lakers bus, the deafening boos and curses unable to be blocked even by the thick bus windows.
Game 3 of the NBA Finals is about to begin at the Boston Celtics' home arena, a place brimming with fervor, rivalry, and the tough, working-class spirit of Glasgow's East Side.