The press conference hall at Staples Center was ablaze with flashes of light.
Phil Jackson sat in front of the microphone, still smiling, showing no sign of frustration at being dragged into a Game 7.
"When I get back, I have to go through the league's rulebook again." Jackson's voice was calm but tinged with a sense of helplessness. "I thought we were playing basketball tonight, but the Boston players displayed excellent tackle skills. Shaq was being clung to by several players in the paint, and Michael was dealing with pulling and physical contact off the ball the entire game. If the officiating in Game 7 is still this kind of, then I suggest the league should provide the players with medical insurance in advance."
The " Zen Master's " first post-match outburst was precisely directed at the referee team.
Meanwhile, in the home team's locker room, the Los Angeles Lakers ' veteran players were naturally not idle either. Los Angeles reporters surrounded the lockers.
Charles Barkley, shirtless, grumbled into dozens of microphones while applying ice packs to his knees.
" Rasheed Wallace? Don't be ridiculous." Barkley curled his lip, dismissing Rasheed's game-winning block. "He was just lucky tonight. The Boston guys were relying on underhanded tactics tonight. If this were basketball, I would have won three championships back in Philadelphia. In Game 7, I'll teach him how to score in the paint instead of hiding in the corner shooting threes."
Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal sat nearby, struggling to put on an oversized suit. When the reporter mentioned Ben Wallace, O'Neal rolled his eyes.
"That afro was clinging to me like a koala all night!" O'Neal complained loudly, spreading his arms wide. "I felt like I was playing with a 200-pound sandbag on my back. If David Stern was watching, he should do something about it. If the referees don't call these fouls, I'm thinking of learning some China Kung Fu this summer. Ah-ta! Watatata!"
O'Neal yelled and gestured dramatically.
Michael Jordan's response was much simpler. Dressed in a tailored dark suit, with an unlit cigar in his mouth, he walked through the crowd of reporters, surrounded by security.
When a Los Angeles Times reporter loudly asked him for his opinion on Artest's defensive moves, Jordan simply stopped and glanced back.
"I've seen much tougher defense than this; the Detroit Bad Boys were far more aggressive," Jordan said calmly. "Game 7. They'd better pray they make another lucky shot."
Lakers Lakers' post-game comments quickly went viral in the media. The next morning, the Los Angeles Times sports section featured a headline in bold: "Hitman or Player?", the entire article criticizing Artest's relentless harassment and Ben Wallace's fouls. Television commentators also began to analyze Boston's defensive approach at length.
This was clearly a premeditated psychological battle. The Lakers wanted to use Los Angeles' vast media resources to pressure the league and the referees before the decisive Game 7, thereby securing favorable officiating in the final game.
Far away in Boston on the East Coast, Lin Qi sat in his study, looking at several Los Angeles newspapers that had just been delivered to his desk.
He picked up the phone, his fingers already on the shortcut key for PR director David. He already had a whole counterattack plan in mind: buy the front pages of media outlets in New York and the East Coast, edit out all the slow-motion replays of Shaq's shoulder bump and elbow, and Barkley's screen-setting, stir up trouble, and defeat magic with magic.
But Lin Qi stopped a second before pressing the dial button.
He put the phone back on the landline.
His league suspension doesn't end until August, and it's June now, so there are still about two months until he's released. That old fox David Stern is definitely watching his every move. Using public relations to manipulate public opinion against the Lakers ' head coach is a very blurry line between "interfering in team affairs" and using public relations to manipulate public opinion against him.
If Stern seizes on this and rules him out for a violation, using it as an excuse to continue harassing him or even extend his suspension, it would be counterproductive. He has poured so much effort into this team, and now they are just one step away from the championship. He must restrain himself.
Lin Qi took a deep breath and threw the Los Angeles Times into the trash can. He had no choice but to trust the group of people in front of him.
Meanwhile, at a hotel in Beverly Hills, Los Angeles.
The Boston Celtics had booked the entire floor. The atmosphere in the tactical meeting room was somber, with Phil Jackson's press conference replaying on the television screen.
Rick Carlisle pressed the mute button on the remote and rubbed his temples.
" Phil is starting to put pressure on the referee." Rick Carlisle looked at his players, all of them bruised to varying degrees. Big Ben had a thick ice pack wrapped around his shoulder, and Artest's legs were soaking in an ice water tub. "Game 7, we may face a very tough officiating environment. You need to be mentally prepared."
The room was silent for a few seconds.
Chris Paul Pierce leaned back in his chair, let out a long sigh, and suddenly blurted out, "If Lin Qi were here, that would be great."
Upon hearing this name, the previously dull locker room suddenly came to life.
"Yeah," Rick Carlisle smiled, a rare occurrence. "If Lin were here, Phil probably wouldn't have time to worry about the referees; he'd have to deal with all the negative press from the Los Angeles media."
Kevin Garnett grinned, revealing his white teeth, and chimed in, "That guy is absolutely capable of it. He might even hold a press conference, subtly or overtly mocking Phil."
"And Barkley," Rasheed Wallace chewed his gum hard and sneered, "If Lin Qi hadn't been suspended, he could have found a million ways to expose Charles's dirty laundry in the media, making that fatso remember how he got swept by Michael in the NBA Finals. He wouldn't have had the audacity to spout nonsense."
Chauncey Billups Billups chuckled and shook his head as he adjusted the bandages on his wrist. " Phil's only resorting to underhanded tactics is while Lin's away. If he were really going to confront Lin, he probably wouldn't even dare to look at the Los Angeles newspapers."
Artest lifted his head from the ice water bucket, his eyes blank. "So we don't need to care what the newspapers say. If Lin were here, he would just tell us: Go out there and play well, leave the rest to me."
The players chatted amongst themselves, imagining how ruthless Lin Qi would retaliate at this crucial moment. This playful banter, tinged with a touch of recklessness, miraculously eased the suffocating tension before Game 7.
Although Lin Qi wasn't around, his fearless and uncompromising spirit had already been deeply ingrained in the team's very being.
Rick Carlisle looked at the group of players who had regained their fighting spirit, stood up, and patted the tactical board.
"Alright, since Lin Qi isn't here, let's solve this our own way." Rick Carlisle's gaze swept across the entire arena. "Game 7. No matter what the referees call, no matter what the Los Angeles fans shout, let's give it our all. We're so close to the championship."