The momentum from winning Game 3 of the series was like a shot of strong liquor that burned right through Boston's throat.
Until the start of the fourth game, the entire city was still immersed in a dizzying euphoria and hangover-like excitement.
In the sports bar, young people were still wearing "WE CRAWLED OUT" hoodies, raising their glasses and shouting; the local radio station was still tirelessly playing Eddie Jones's go-ahead mid-range shot on repeat; Gaston even sent Lin Qi a rare "Well done" fax of praise.
But Lin Qi didn't even bother to glance at the fax.
He flung open the blinds and coldly looked down at the sea of black and green people below, a sight that seemed to burst the street.
All of Boston was basking in the glow of that miraculous night of comeback victory, alongside this young team.
The television was showing the Chicago Bulls ' pre-game interview. Jordan remained silent, Pippen looked indifferent. Phil Jackson even wore his signature smile, praising the energy of Boston's young players in the interview.
Lin Qi sat in his office watching TV, staring intently at Jordan's unwavering eyes on the screen.
He snapped the TV off, turned around, and strode towards the court.
Game 4 of the series, FleetCenter.
The crowd roared to their loudest point, everyone wanting to witness a second miracle.
Standing on the sidelines, Lin Qi crossed his arms, his eyes fixed on the court. After only three rounds, his gaze turned extremely cold.
The Chicago Bulls didn't make any major lineup changes. But once that 72-win machine started spinning, Lin Qi keenly noticed that the defensive gaps that the Celtics had desperately torn apart in the previous game had been completely wiped out by the Chicago Bulls ' terrifying ability to adjust.
Sam Cassell was the first to suffer.
The Boston Celtics' playmaker had just dribbled the ball across half-court when he was met not by Harper, but by Pippen. Standing at 2.03 meters tall with a 2.21-meter wingspan, Pippen was like a moving iron gate blocking Sam Cassell's path. Sam Cassell tried to call a pick-and-roll, but Pippen blocked his way with his chest half a step ahead; Sam Cassell tried to push towards the elbow area, Pippen blocked his power side.
Every time the Celtics passed the ball, they were a fraction of a second late. Against the 72-win Chicago Bulls, that fraction of a second was enough to completely disrupt an entire tactical system. At the end of the first quarter, 27-20, the Chicago Bulls had a hand gripping the Celtics ' throat tightly.
In the second period, it was Garnett's turn to be taught the lesson when he was nineteen.
The crucial rebound in the previous game gave this young man the illusion that he could rival Dennis Rodman. But tonight, Dennis Rodman quickly shattered that arrogance.
Jordan missed a mid-range shot, and Garnett, anticipating the first bounce, jumped early, hoping to force a penalty kick using his jumping ability. But as soon as he landed, Dennis Rodman's tattooed body had already ghost-like circled around to the second bounce point. Dennis Rodman didn't even try to outjump Garnett; he simply and subtly nudged Garnett from the side with his thigh the instant Garnett took off, causing the young man's center of gravity to shift by half an inch in the air.
The ball bounced off the back of the rim and rebounded; Dennis Rodman caught it with both hands and easily secured the offensive rebound.
Once, twice, three times. Garnett's leaping ability seemed like that of a clumsy greenhorn next to a guy who barely jumped. Dennis Rodman, holding the ball with one hand, chewed gum next to Garnett's ear with a blank expression, making a clicking sound. This ghostly psychological torture was more chilling than any shouting.
At halftime, the score was 50-42. Every Celtics player felt like they were being dragged along by an invisible gallows.
In the third quarter, Radja, whose knee was on the verge of collapse, stepped up. He scored six points in a row with a mid-range jumper from the high post and a turnaround jumper after a tough challenge on Luc Longley in the elbow area, keeping Boston alive. Finley also got red-eyed, and in a transition, he forced a layup over Kukoč to complete a 2+1 play, bringing the score difference to just 4 points.
The entire FleetCenter came to life instantly.
But the Chicago Bulls didn't even call a timeout. Jordan immediately activated his decoy mode. He dropped to the right side to receive the ball, and the moment Jones and Garnett instinctively moved to double-team him, Jordan didn't even look at the basket. With a flick of his shoulder, he accurately flicked the ball to the weak-side corner.
Steve Kerr, three-pointer, and it's done.
In the next possession, Jordan used the same tactic to draw the defense, Kukoč made a high pass, and Pippen made a meteor-like cut to the basket for a thunderous dunk.
In just three possessions, the Chicago Bulls extinguished the Celtics' hard-won spark. The Chicago Bulls entered the fourth quarter with a 10-point lead, 75-65.
With five minutes remaining in the fourth quarter, the score difference remained a deadlock of 7 points.
Sam Cassell dribbled hard against Pippen, but was forced to pass the ball through the impenetrable defense. The ball fell to Jones, Jordan long arms were already right in front of him. With only seven seconds left on the shot clock, the ball finally landed in Garnett's hands at the free-throw line. Garnett tried to force his way past Kukoč, but the latter had already positioned himself defensively a second earlier.
Bang! The two collided. The referee blew his whistle; it was an offensive foul.
In a moment of anger, Garnett was about to turn around and argue when Thibodeau on the sidelines yelled, his voice cracking, "Get back on defense! Get the hell back here!"
In the next possession, Jordan's mid-range shot missed. This was the Boston Celtics' best chance for a fast break. Garnett boxed out Luc Longley, and Radja also held his position. But Dennis Rodman somehow appeared behind Radja. He didn't even grab the rebound; he just reached out and gently tapped the ball to a spot he could reach.
He got back up, grabbed the rebound, put it back in, and drew a foul from Radja.
Radja stood under the basket, hands on his hips, eyes closed, breathing heavily. He was exhausted, utterly exhausted.
Dennis Rodman made one of two free throws, making it 93-85. That offensive rebound, snatched away in the physical battle, was like a heavy hammer, shattering the Celtics ' hopes. With three minutes remaining, Jordan gave them no further chances. A low-post turnaround fadeaway and a steal from Jones on the fast break sealed the game for the Celtics.
The final whistle blew, the score was 98-87, and the series was 1-3.
There were no hisses in the FleetCenter; only a heavy, clear, and unmistakable suffocation remained.
The young Celtics slumped onto the bench, Finley pulling a towel over his head. Garnett, hands on his knees, stared motionless at the wooden floor. Dennis Rodman walked past him without a word. This indifference hurt Garnett more than any trash talk, because he knew that Rodman had utterly crushed him tonight with sheer superior skill.
The locker room was deathly silent.
Lin Qi pushed open the door and stood in the doorway, looking at the group of exhausted young people who didn't even have the strength to move a finger.
Radja slumped into a chair, letting the team doctor wrap huge ice packs around his already swollen knees. He stared blankly at the ceiling, too weak to even move a finger.
In the corner, nineteen-year-old Garnett hunched over, scratching his scalp with his hands. Sweat dripped from between his fingers onto the floor. Under the spotlight of the nationally televised broadcast, Dennis Rodman, with his shoving, blocking, and various underhanded tactics that went unpunished by the referees, shattered all of his talent and pride in front of the entire American audience.
Sam Cassell leaned against the wardrobe, biting the towel in his mouth.
" The Chicago Bulls didn't miss a single defensive rotation tonight."
Head coach Adelman stood in front of the tactics board, his eyes betraying his exhaustion. Mark fell to the ground, but he didn't even bother to pick it up. The materials in his hand had been crumpled into a ball of waste paper. He knew the team's problems, knew all the loopholes, but he simply had no more cards to play.
This is the Chicago Bulls in 1996.
They didn't just win games. Their system, which perfected both offense and defense, was like a giant hydraulic press, crushing their opponents' pride and spirit into dust.
"Raise your heads, everyone."
Lin Qi pushed open the door and walked in without anyone noticing. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the top button of his shirt, and stood straight in the center of the locker room, stepping over the bandages and scraps of paper scattered on the floor.
Sam Cassell wiped the sweat from his face, looked up at him, his eyes somewhat vacant. "Lin, we really tried our best tonight... but, after all, that's Michael Jordan..."
"I know."
Lin Qi looked at the group of young men who were almost completely subdued and subjugated by the Chicago Bulls, his voice calm and without a trace of emotion.
"Don't you all feel that stealing one game from the 72-win Chicago Bulls this year is already a worthwhile trip?"
" Sam, Kevin, don't you guys also think that losing to Michael Jordan isn't shameful?"
No one spoke in the locker room.
"Ten years ago, in 1986, in Boston, the Celtics had a record of 67 wins and 15 losses, ranking first in the Eastern Conference."
Lin Qi took a step forward, his gaze sharp as a knife, staring at Garnett remained motionless in the corner.
" Michael Jordan faced Larry Bird Larry Bird and Kevin McHale in the first round..."
Lin Qi paused, raised his right hand, and pointed straight to the deepest corner of the locker room in the deathly silence.
"... and Robert Parish sitting there."
Everyone was startled, and their gazes instinctively focused on the silent veteran.
"He was stripped naked and hung up in the Boston Garden to play," Lin Qi said, his voice echoing coldly between the benches and the floor. "Back then, he also experienced that kind of despair where no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't see any hope. Twenty-three-year-old Jordan gave it his all, but in the end, we swept him clean, and he couldn't even take a single victory from Boston."
Lin Qi let out a cold laugh, his voice particularly jarring in the deathly silent locker room.
"Back then, everyone was advising Jordan to accept his fate, to accept that losing to the greatest Celtics of all time wasn't shameful. If that 23-year-old Chicago kid had listened to them and worn down his spirit on the Boston court, the name Michael Jordan would never exist in this league today!"
Just then, Robert Parish, who had been silently covering his eyes with a towel, slowly pulled the towel off his head...
"Lin is right. That was Game 2 of the first round series. That kid went crazy at Boston Garden, scoring 63 points, which is still a playoff record to this day. Larry Bird ( Larry Bird ) even said after the game that he was God playing in a #23 jersey. But so what?"
Old Parish gave a self-deprecating twitch, a glint of old-school Boston Celtics and pride flashing in his eyes.
"But when Larry Bird walked back to the locker room, closed the door, sat down, and started unwrapping the bandage on his foot, he sneered and said, 'God was certainly in good spirits tonight. But it was really boring; I barely broke a sweat. I'd like to see what tricks that kid can pull next.'"
"Later, in the third game, that kid didn't even score twenty points. Three to zero. Even if he were God, he'd have to buy a plane ticket back to Chicago for vacation that summer. The Michael Jordan who's crushing you on the court today paid his dues in Boston back then."
Old Parish extended his large, calloused hand, which had won three championship rings, and patted Garnett's stiff shoulder.
" Kevin, if you don't think losing to the 72-win Chicago Bulls tonight is shameful, then I can go and submit your retirement application to the league right now. Because your career is over."
boom.
Garnett's brain felt like it had been hit hard by a sledgehammer.
Lin Qi looked at Old Parish's granite-like profile, a chilling admiration flashing in his eyes. He gave the locker room no chance to breathe, taking a step forward and forcefully grabbing Garnett's jersey collar.
With a tearing sound, the rough fabric groaned under its own weight. Lin Qi used one hand to forcefully pull the nineteen-year-old boy up.
"Did you understand?!" Lin Qi stared at him, each word seemingly squeezed out from between his teeth, "Don't stand here like a coward, secretly thinking... thinking you've lost with honor!"
"Didn't you guys see the state of those hundreds of thousands of Boston fans outside tonight?! Huh?! Fans from all over the city spent real money, time, and energy! They practically shouted themselves hoarse outside, just to see you here indulging in some self-righteous sentiment of 'the 72-win Chicago Bulls lost but were still glorious'?!"
"Next game in Chicago, to hell with reason, to hell with tactics! Even if they all foul out and have to be carried out on stretchers, we'll skin them alive!"
" Kevin, Dennis Rodman liked to ram his thigh into you tonight, didn't he? Next game, he'll bite and claw at you, and you'll tear a piece of flesh off that tattooed bastard! Sam, if Pippen dares to put those long arms in front of you again, smash your own bones and punch a hole in his chest! Got it?!"
"Tell me loudly, did you understand?!"
"--I understand!!"
"Didn't you eat?! Speak louder!!" Lin Qi roared.
"Got it!!" In the locker room, Finley, Sam Cassell, and Garnett roared in unison, their veins bulging, the violent sound almost shaking the ceiling.
Lin Qi snorted coldly, yanked open the locker room door, and strode out. Outside, the corridor lights lengthened his shadow, making him appear cold and resolute.
The score is 1-3.
Next game, United Center, Chicago.
They were standing on the edge of a cliff.