At 5:20 a. m. on November 15th, it was still dark in Memphis, and a layer of damp, cold mist drifted outside the window.
When Ben Wallace walked into the lobby of the Sheraton Hotel wearing a hoodie, Okur was already waiting there. He was wearing a long-sleeved training uniform with a dark gray vest underneath.
"Let's go, don't keep them waiting." Big Ben waved to him.
The two walked out of the hotel revolving door and jogged two kilometers along the streets along the Mississippi River until they arrived at the Pyramid Arena's auxiliary court, which the team had rented in advance.
Pushing open the heavy soundproof door to the auxiliary court, I saw that half of the lights on the arena ceiling were already on. Besides the strength and conditioning coach Mike Boyle, who was standing next to the scorer's table with a stopwatch, there were two other people standing outside the three-point line at the other end of the court.
Raja Bell was placing cones under the basket, while Rasheed Wallace casually shot a three-pointer from the top of the key, his headband askew on his forehead.
" Rasheed? Raja? Why are you here so early too?" Okur stopped and looked at the field in surprise.
"Last night at 8:30, you two were driving your remote-controlled cars around in the hallway, making a loud buzzing noise, and even crashed into my door frame twice. Did you think I was deaf?" Rasheed took a three-pointer, the basketball swishing through the net. He turned around and raised an eyebrow at Okur. "Ben knocked on my door before going back to his room last night, saying he was bringing you over for some physical training this morning. I just stopped by to check on you, in case you got sick and no one was there to carry you back to the hotel."
Boyle, standing nearby, shook his stopwatch and said, " Big Ben called me last night at ten o'clock, worried that he might injure your knee by training too hard, so he asked me to come over and keep an eye on your heart rate. As for Raja, he heard that there was a gym available at 5:30 in the morning, and he insisted on coming over to practice corner three-pointers."
Raja Bell laughed and tossed a basketball at me, "Don't be shy, Mehmet, I'll shoot my shots and run a few sets with you guys while I'm at it."
In the empty secondary field, Boyle pressed the stopwatch, Big Ben accompanied Okur as they sprinted the entire field seventeen times, starting from the baseline.
By the tenth run, Okur's cotton T-shirt was completely soaked, and his thermal vest clung tightly to his skin, making his lungs burn with every breath. But when he turned around, he saw Big Ben still striding along beside him, silently sprinting alongside him. Okur gritted his teeth and didn't stop for a single step.
After running three sets of shuttle runs, Okur braced his hands on his knees, sweat dripping from his nose onto the wooden floor.
Just then, Rasheed Wallace, who had been warming up with shots on the sidelines, picked up a ball and walked over. "What's the point of just running? It's about being able to make shots when your legs are weak. Come on, according to the team's old rules, two-on-two, a three-point contest at five spots. Ben and I are in one group, Mehmet and you're in the other with Raja. Each spot takes ten shots, and the group with the fewest combined makes an extra hundred three-pointers before breakfast today."
Okur, panting heavily, looked up and glanced at Big Ben, who remained expressionless beside him, recalling the amusing story Big Ben had told in the hallway last night.
"What, you look down on our the Wallace Duo duo?" Rasheed saw Okur in a daze and deliberately provoked him. "Let me tell you, Ben and I have been training together for two years, we're perfectly in sync. If you two lose, you'll have to treat us to barbecue when we get back to Boston."
"Bring it on!" Okur wiped the sweat from his face, his competitive spirit instantly ignited.
Boyle was acting as the referee on the sidelines, counting the shots, with the four players positioned at the two bottom corners.
The first round saw Ben Wallace and Raja Bell pitch first.
As a dedicated shooter, Bell's shots were clean and crisp, making seven out of ten attempts from the left corner. When it was Big Ben's turn, the tough guy in the paint took a deep breath, mustered all his strength, and pushed the ball towards the basket.
Bang! Crash!
Some balls hit the side of the backboard and went out of bounds, while others hit the rim with too much force and bounced off. After ten shots, Big Ben Wallace, covered in sweat, had only made two, one of which grazed the backboard before going in.
"See that? This is my daily routine," Rasheed said helplessly, spreading his hands and shouting at Okur, "Every time I'm in a group with him, I have to let him win five goals first!"
Big Ben wasn't annoyed; he grinned and walked off the field to retrieve and pass the ball to Rasheed.
When it was Rasheed's turn to play, he put away his joking expression. He started from the right corner, received a pass from Big Ben, jumped to the highest point, and gently flicked his wrists with both hands above his head.
Swish! Swish! Swish!
Rasheed's release point was high, and his rhythm was extremely steady. He made eight out of ten shots from the corner, and seven out of ten shots from the 45-degree angle. The five big holes that Big Ben Wallace dug in front of him were completely filled by Rasheed from the first three spots.
Okur was standing at the top of the arc waiting to make his move, was secretly astonished.
"Your turn, rookie," Rasheed said, wiping the sweat from his neck with a towel as he walked off after throwing the last point. "We made forty-two in total. Raja just made thirty-one. If you can't make more than a dozen from the top of the key and the left side, you're better off staying here for extra practice today."
At this moment, Okur's legs were still sore, and the plastic vest made his whole body feel hot.
He walked to the top of the arc, beyond the three-point line, and received the first ball from Bell. Because his calf muscles were tight when he jumped, the first ball lacked power and bounced off the front of the rim.
"Just admit your legs are weak, Mehmet!" Rasheed clapped and egged on from the sidelines. "Is your stomach filled with Turkey desserts?!"
Big Ben picked up the ball under the basket and forcefully bounced it back to Okur.
Okur caught the ball, closed his eyes, took a deep breath, ignoring the sticky sweat inside his clothes, lowered his center of gravity by half an inch, and jumped up to meet the incoming ball.
The basketball leaves the hand and swishes into the net.
Once he found his rhythm, Okur's advantage in touch with both hands immediately became apparent. Even with his stamina nearly depleted, his wrists remained supple. The second, the third, the fourth... Okur sank eight consecutive three-pointers from the top of the arc.
When he moved to the left 45-degree angle, Okur's calves began to tremble slightly, but he gritted his teeth and maintained a standard shooting form, making six of his ten shots.
As the last ball grazed the Nets and fell into the pocket, Boyle glanced at the scoreboard on the sidelines and announced with a smile, "45 to 42, Mehmet and Raja win!"
Okur's legs buckled, and he plopped down on the floor, lying on his back and panting heavily, a carefree smile on his face.
Rasheed grumbled as he walked over and kicked Big Ben in the butt, "I'm fed up with you, Ben! Every time I team up with you, I still end up having to do a hundred extra reps!"
Big Ben chuckled twice, walked over, stretched out his big hand, and pulled Okur up from the ground.
For the next hour, Rasheed accepted his gamble and stayed on the court to shoot an extra 100 three-pointers, while Boyle, along with Okur and Bell, continued to refine Boston Pick-and-Roll -roll technique with continuous movement and catch-and-shoot.
Okur must first box out Big Ben three times in the paint to grab the rebound and pass it to Bell. Then he must sprint to the frontcourt, set a back screen for the top of the key, and immediately bounce out to the three-point line to receive the ball and shoot.
The sounds of basketballs hitting the ground, sneakers rubbing against the floor, and heavy breathing echoed in the auxiliary court for a full two hours.
When the team bus arrived at the arena at 7:30 a. m. with the other players ready for their morning shooting warm-up, Okur was sitting on a folding chair on the sidelines, looking as if he had just been pulled out of the water. He took off his vest, wrung it out, and a puddle of sweat immediately appeared on the floor.
Garnett walked onto the court carrying his bag and immediately noticed the puddle of water on the floor, as well as Okur, whose eyes were slightly bluish but whose complexion was noticeably more energetic.
Boyle took the portable scale and walked over, letting Okur step on it to check the record. "You've emptied the water and glycogen, you're four pounds lighter than yesterday, and your muscle reaction speed has returned to normal."
Garnett paused, glanced at Ben Wallace, Rasheed, and Raja Bell who were drying their heads with towels, and instantly understood what was going on.
Garnett didn't say anything. He walked to the water dispenser on the sidelines, filled a large glass with warm water, tore open a packet of potassium and sodium electrolyte powder, poured it in, shook it well, and then walked over and shoved it directly into Okur's hand.
"Tonight against the Grizzlies," Garnett, looking at Okur, his tone regaining its usual composure, "When you're paired with me, if you get open, the ball is guaranteed to be in your hands."
Okur took the water glass, tilted his head back and took a big gulp, wiped his mouth and nodded heavily. "Understood, Kevin!"