November 23, evening, Boston's New Garden.
The Celtics defeated the Indiana Pacers 108-92 at home, improving their record to 12-1 for the new season. After the game, head coach Rick Carlisle gave the team two days off to spend with their families and prepare for the upcoming Thanksgiving.
The home team's locker room was filled with jubilation after the game. The young players hummed songs as they stuffed clothes into their travel bags, planning where to go for turkey during their holiday.
On a bench in the corner, Dikembe Mutombo patiently demonstrated defensive moves to Tyson Chandler Chandler. Tonight, facing Pacers star Al Harrington, Chandler, who came off the bench, fell for two consecutive pump fakes in the second quarter and picked up his third foul in less than six minutes.
" Tyson Chandler, when Al receives the ball with his back to the basket on the left side, he likes to drop his right shoulder slightly and do a jab step," Mutombo said in a deep, husky voice, mimicking Al Harrington's ball-handling posture by extending his thick arm. "As long as his left heel doesn't leave the ground, no matter how much he shakes his shoulder, don't jump. Raise both arms straight above your head, use your chest to brace against his lower body, and wait until he actually gathers the ball and jumps before reaching out to block his release point."
Chandler gestured a couple of times, then nodded in sudden understanding. "Got it, Dikembe."
"A block isn't about jumping high, it's about timing," Mutombo said with a smile, patting Chandler on the back before removing the ice pack from his knee and standing up to get his suit jacket from the closet.
Just as he took the suit off the hanger, several dark blue invitations with gold lettering slipped out of the inside pocket and scattered on the floor mat.
Chandler, who was standing next to him, bent down to pick it up for him, glancing curiously at the cover. " Dikembe, Fairmont Hotel Copley Square? Are you hosting a dinner party the day after tomorrow?"
Mutombo paused, smiled gently, took the invitations from Chandler, and stuffed them back into his suit pocket. "It's just a regular dinner for a private foundation, all that boring fundraising stuff. You young guys have been playing away games for half a month and you're all exhausted. Take a couple of days off to rest with your families and go take a shower."
Watching Chandler hum a tune as he walked into the shower, Mutombo looked down at the stack of invitations he hadn't yet sent out in his suit pocket, sighed softly, picked up his bag, and walked out of the locker room alone.
At 10:30 p. m., the lights were still on in the president's office on the third floor of the Auerbach training center.
Lin Qi sat behind his desk, reviewing the November home game ticket sales report and local cable TV ratings statistics that Sam Presti had sent him.
There was a knock on the office door twice, and the security director, Old Jim, walked in, holding a dark blue invitation card with gold lettering.
"Boss, this invitation was delivered to the front desk this afternoon by Dikembe Mutombo's foundation," Old Jim said, placing the invitation on his desk. "The day after tomorrow night, the eve of Thanksgiving, Dikembe is hosting a charity fundraising dinner on the second floor of the Fairmont Hotel in Copley Square. He wants to raise funds for the purchase of medical equipment for the hospital under construction in his hometown of Congo Kinshasa."
Lin Qi picked up the invitation and glanced at it. The cover bore the logo of Bianba Mary Mutombo Hospital, a charitable hospital named after Dikembe's late mother.
In this Celtics, 37-year-old Mutombo has a very special status.
When Boston embarked on its four-peat, Mutombo was the undisputed defensive anchor of the team's interior defense for the first two seasons, helping the New Garden raise two championship banners. Later, as Mutombo aged, he urgently needed a large sum of money to build a hospital in his hometown of Congo. At that time, Dallas Mavericks owner Mark Cuban had just bought the team and was waving his checkbook to strengthen the team.
Considering the team's desire to promote Ben Wallace, Lin Qi readily sent him to Dallas to secure the last big contract of his career.
This summer, Mutombo returned to Boston on a veteran's minimum contract, willingly accepting a mentor role at the end of the bench.
"Such a big thing, how come Dikembe didn't mention it at all in the locker room?" Lin Qi put down the invitation and looked up at Presti.
" Dikembe is shy," Presti sighed. "I heard his agent, David Falk, mention it last week. Many people don't know that when Dikembe went to Georgetown University on a scholarship, he was originally studying pre-med. His initial dream was to become an internist and return to Congo to treat patients. Later, he was pulled into the basketball team by Coach John Klay Thompson because he was too tall."
"In 1997, his mother, Bianba Mary, suffered a stroke in her hometown of Kinshasa. At that time, Kinshasa had not built a new hospital for forty years. Due to the curfew and lack of medical supplies, his mother died before she could be taken to the emergency room in time. From that year on, Dikembe vowed to build a modern comprehensive hospital in his hometown."
"He personally invested a considerable amount of money in the hospital construction site in Kinshasa. Although the hospital building has been topped out, the Congo war in Congo means that all the MRI machines, CT scanners, sterile operating room equipment, and independent power generation systems have to be purchased from Europe and the United States and then airlifted over, resulting in a budget overrun of more than four million US dollars."
" Dikembe felt that you had already helped him make a lot of money in Dallas back then, and this summer you even offered him a minimum salary to retire back in Boston. He was too embarrassed to ask the club to use its official resources to help him get sponsorships. So he spent his own money to hire a public relations company and quietly arranged this fundraising dinner the day after tomorrow."
Lin Qi tapped his fingers lightly on the table, then turned to old Jim: "How's that PR firm doing? How many local Boston celebrities and business tycoons did they manage to get?"
Old Jim chuckled coldly and shook his head. "Boss, that PR firm doesn't understand Boston's circles at all. You know the temperament of those old-money families in Beacon Hill and Back Bay. They only donate to Massachusetts General Hospital, the Boston Symphony Orchestra, or Harvard's foundations—it's tax-deductible and buys them prestige. They've always scoffed at a black basketball star's project to build a hospital in the Africa Congo, thinking it's a bottomless pit that leaves no sound."
"I inquired with the Fairmont Hotel's food and beverage manager this evening. The PR firm sent out over three hundred invitations, and so far, fewer than twenty-five guests have confirmed their attendance for the day after tomorrow. Most of the invited bankers and corporate executives claimed they had private parties before Thanksgiving and simply sent a check for two thousand dollars through their secretaries. At this rate, the banquet hall won't even be a third full the night after tomorrow. Including venue and beverage costs, Dikembe will have to pay tens of thousands of dollars out of his own pocket."
After hearing this, Lin Qi's expression turned somewhat cold.
Mutombo once suffered a broken eyebrow and needed eight stitches to defend Boston's paint, and he even dislocated his finger but managed to straighten it on the sidelines to continue playing. For such a hero who helped the team win two championships to return to Boston for a charity gala to save a team's future, if it ends up being a flop and a laughingstock among local celebrities, it would be a disgrace to Lin Qi and the entire Celtics.
" Sam," Lin Qi began, "Tomorrow morning, post a notice in the locker room on behalf of the team's management. The day after tomorrow at 6:30 PM, all Celtics coaches, fifteen players, and management personnel must gather at the Fairmont Hotel in formal attire. No one is allowed to be absent."
Presti immediately took out his notebook and wrote down, "Understood, boss."
"It's not enough for just our own people to go; we need to make those who usually beg us for favors bleed a little too," Lin Qi glanced at the thick stack of television broadcasting rights bidding documents on the table and continued in a calm tone, "Haven't Sean McGrell, president of New England Sports Network, and the vice president of Fox Sports New England been running to your office every day for the past two weeks, trying to extend the team's local television broadcasting contract for the next five years?"
"Yes, both companies are trying to use their connections to invite you to dinner, hoping to find out your bottom line." Presti nodded.
"Call both families back tomorrow morning," Lin Qi said, taking a sip of his tea. "Tell them I won't be able to go to a restaurant before Thanksgiving, but I'll be attending Dikembe's charity gala on the second floor of the Fairmont Hotel the day after tomorrow. Also, give a heads-up to State Street's wealth management department, Fidelity Investments' public relations department, and the board of directors of Boston Scientific Medical Devices. Tell them I'm planning to purchase a batch of medical equipment for Kinshasa Hospital at the gala, and ask if they'd be interested in coming for a glass of champagne."
Presti's eyes lit up, and he instantly understood his boss's plan.
The Celtics are currently averaging 112 points per game, boast the highest viewership in New England, and hold a lucrative broadcasting contract worth over $200 million. Add to that the hundreds of millions of dollars flowing into Converse and the players' trust fund through State Street and Fidelity Investments, Lin Qi is one of Boston's biggest business tycoons. He announced his appearance at the Fairmont Hotel, and those usually arrogant financial executives, medical moguls, and television station owners would even cancel their Thanksgiving turkey dinners at home to come and support him.
"I'll call at nine o'clock sharp tomorrow morning," Presti said with a smile, closing his notebook. "I guarantee the Fairmont Hotel manager will be busy adding tables the night after tomorrow."