At 10:00 AM on November 2nd, at the Boston Auerbach Training Center, in the home team's locker room.
There were still ten minutes until the morning's video debriefing meeting, but the atmosphere was inexplicably tense.
Head coach Rick Carlisle stood in the center of the room with a grim face, holding two league fine notices that had just been torn from the fax machine, and slammed them down on the round table in the middle.
"Only two regular season games have been played," Rick Carlisle said, pointing to the two sheets of paper. " Rasheed has two technical fouls, Ron has one. Last night in New Jersey, if Rasheed hadn't dragged Ron away, Ron would have been ejected and suspended. Are you two planning to reach the league's automatic suspension quota before Christmas?"
Artest sat in front of his locker, carefully wiping the silver casing of a Walkman with a handkerchief. A pair of large, thickly padded professional studio headphones hung around his neck, and he appeared distracted.
Hearing Rick Carlisle call his name, Artest looked up, muttering with a wronged expression, " Rick, it really wasn't my fault last night. When I got to New Jersey this afternoon, I cut out a $30 coupon for an electronics store in Circuit City from the local newspaper, thinking the recording studio needed a pair of monitoring headphones, so I ran to the store two blocks outside the arena in the blazing Suns. But the cashier insisted my coupon had expired last week, and I argued with the manager for a full twenty minutes. By the time I got back to the arena, pre-game warm-ups were almost over, and my Walkman got broken by the door frame in my bag. I was already furious, and then that baseline referee kept glaring at me like that last night..."
The locker room fell silent for two seconds.
Sitting next to Artest, Pierce looked at him like he was an alien, his lips twitching slightly. " Ron, you're making over four million dollars a year on a guaranteed salary, and you went and argued with the electronics store manager for twenty minutes just to save a thirty-dollar coupon, almost ruining the team's pre-game strategy?"
"So what if it's thirty dollars? Thirty dollars is still money, Chris Paul," Artest retorted earnestly. "Do you know how many blank CDs you can buy with thirty dollars? I'm releasing my first solo studio album next month, and the mixing and mastering alone will cost a fortune. I have to be careful with my money!"
Rasheed Wallace, sitting on the other side, rolled his eyes and interjected irritably, "Stop using your crappy Walkman and coupons as excuses. If I hadn't slapped you shut last night, you would have been sent off and suspended for one game, resulting in a $60,000 salary deduction. That money would have been enough for you to buy two thousand pairs of these crappy headphones. What's going on in your head?"
"Didn't you also yell at the referee and get a technical foul?" Artest retorted, turning his head away. "Why are you only talking about me?"
"I was discussing the referee's officiating standards on the field, understand? How is that the same as you clenching your fists, looking ferocious, and rushing up to beat the referee up?" Rasheed retorted confidently, hands on his hips.
Just as these two troublemakers were about to start arguing in front of the whole team again, the locker room door was pushed open from the outside.
Lin Qi strode in. Behind him followed Gary Payton, wearing a flashy silk shirt and a gold chain, and Dikembe Mutombo, carrying a five-gallon clear plastic bucket.
When the players saw the owner enter, they all stopped laughing and joking, and the locker room fell silent.
Lin Qi knew exactly what kind of personalities Artest and Rasheed were. Historically, the more old-school coaches used high-pressure tactics to punish Artest, the stronger his rebellious streak became. While Rasheed was talkative and prone to complaining, he was actually very measured and loyal on the court. Dealing with these two wouldn't work if the head coach just banged on the table and yelled in the locker room; some "off-court tactics" were necessary.
" Rick, just have the finance department deduct the fines from the league's notice; don't get worked up over them," Lin Qi said, walking to the center of the room and looking around at Rasheed and Artest. "Since you two seem to enjoy handing the league so much money on the court, the team might as well take this opportunity to establish a new system within the team."
Lin Qi reached out and gently patted the huge, transparent plastic bucket with its top sawed off that Mutombo was holding. A piece of white paper was pasted on the outside of the bucket, with a line of eye-catching words written in thick black Mark: Kinshasa Children's Hospital Construction Fund.
"The charity hospital that Dikembe built in his hometown in Congo is facing a tight cash flow situation recently and is currently purchasing a batch of urgently needed MRI and operating room equipment," Lin Qi explained calmly to the team. "From today onwards, this transparent bucket will be permanently placed at the front entrance of the locker room. Anyone on the team who receives a technical foul on the court, or is called for a flagrant foul for arguing with the referee, must, in addition to paying the league's fine, put two thousand US dollars in this bucket on the spot when they return to the locker room. No bank transfers or checks accepted, only hundred-dollar bills just withdrawn from the bank, or twenty-dollar bills are also acceptable."
Mutombo slammed the heavy plastic bucket down on the bench, patted the transparent container, and chuckled in his distinctive deep, husky voice. " Rasheed, Ron, the children in Congo will forever remember your generous donations."
A suppressed burst of laughter erupted in the locker room. Garnett and Ben Wallace leaned against the lockers, wearing expressions of anticipation.
Rasheed stroked the stubble on his chin and shrugged nonchalantly. "Two thousand rupees it is, consider it charity. I can afford it."
"Wait, Rasheed, I haven't finished speaking yet," Lin Qi looked at him, a half-smile playing on his lips. "Last night, your quick reaction in grabbing Ron and covering his mouth on the court was remarkable. The coaching staff and management just had a meeting and decided that you have an exceptional talent for managing the emotions of young players. So, starting today, you will be fully responsible for managing Ron's emotions and discipline on the court."
Rasheed's expression froze instantly. Pointing to his own nose, he asked incredulously, "Me? Under my jurisdiction?"
"Yes, from now on, you two will be subject to a team-wide penalty," Lin Qi said firmly. "From now on, every time Ron receives a technical foul or is ejected from the game, he'll put two thousand dollars in cash into Dikembe's bucket, and you'll have to put two thousand dollars in your pocket too. Conversely, if you receive a technical foul for yelling at the referee, Ron will have to run fifty full-court shuttle runs with you at the end of practice the next day."
Upon hearing this, all the players in the room could no longer contain themselves and burst into laughter. Ben Wallace sat on the bench, laughing so hard he was doubled over, and even the usually serious Rick Carlisle couldn't help but turn his head away.