On the evening of November 25th, at the Fairmont Hotel in Copley Square, Boston.
In the banquet hall on the second floor, all the crystal chandeliers were on, and thirty round tables covered with white linen tablecloths were neatly arranged. The backdrop in the center of the stage featured an architectural rendering of Kinshasa Hospital.
At 6:40 p. m., with only twenty minutes left before the banquet was to begin, the hall was awkwardly quiet. Only seven or eight of the thirty round tables were occupied, mostly by public relations staff who were just filling in the numbers, representatives from a few local small sponsors, and three or four sports reporters who were there to meet their reporting deadlines.
Dikembe Mutombo, dressed in a tailor-made black tuxedo and a neat red bow tie, stood with his wife Rose inside the banquet hall entrance to greet guests. He glanced at his watch every two minutes.
His wife, Rose, gently squeezed Mutombo's broad hand and softly comforted him, "Don't worry, Dikembe. It's Thanksgiving Eve, and Boston usually stay home with their families, so it's normal for fewer people to come."
Despite saying that, the PR manager hired by the foundation still came over, wiping the sweat from his brow, and said in a low voice, " Dikembe, I just confirmed with the tables in the front row, and that's about all the people who will be here tonight. Should we ask the hotel to remove those fifteen empty tables in the back row, so the photos don't look bad when the reporters are taking pictures later?"
Mutombo glanced at the empty white tablecloth at the back of the hall and sighed softly. He had spent twelve years in the league, was fluent in English, French, Spain, Portuguese, and five Africa dialects, and had met all sorts of politicians and wealthy businessmen. He knew very well the saying that once someone leaves, they are forgotten. But thinking of the empty operating room in the hospital back home, he felt a little choked up.
"No need to move," Mutombo said in his deep, husky voice. "Even if there are only a few tables of guests, it's a token of everyone's appreciation. Let's go inside..."
Before he could finish speaking, the four guest elevators at the end of the banquet hall corridor suddenly sounded their arrival announcements one after another.
Immediately afterwards, a series of rapid footsteps and loud laughter echoed down the red-carpeted corridor.
Mutombo stopped and turned to look down the corridor.
At the corner of the corridor, Lin Qi walked at the front, dressed in a well-tailored dark gray bespoke suit, with head coach Rick Carlisle and Sam Presti beside him.
Behind them was a dense, tall crowd.
Kevin Garnett, Chris Paul Pierce, Ben Wallace, Rasheed Wallace, Dwyane Wade, Tyson Chandler Chandler, Mehmet Okur, and all the way to Brian Scalabrine at the end of the bench—all fifteen players on the Boston Celtics roster, along with the coaching staff and management, were dressed in sharp suits.
Ron Artest, walking in the middle of the group, wore a tight-fitting black suit and carried a five-gallon clear plastic bucket with a white note attached, which was stuffed with colorful hundred-dollar bills.
" Dikembe!"
Gary Payton, dressed in a flashy dark red silk suit, swayed his shoulders and stepped forward first, slapping Mutombo's arm hard and grinning, "You old geezer, that's pretty underhanded of you. You're treating us to steak at the Copley Plaza Hotel, and you didn't even call out in the locker room? Trying to sneak a bite all to yourself behind our backs?"
Mutombo stood there stunned for two seconds, looking at his teammates who had completely blocked the wide corridor, and shouted in a hoarse voice, "Why are you all here? Aren't we flying to Detroit for an away game tomorrow?"
"The Detroit flight to Detroit has been rescheduled to tomorrow afternoon," Rick Carlisle said, patting Mutombo on the back. "Anyone who dares to skip your dinner tonight will have to run fifty round trips around the arena tomorrow."
"Stop standing at the door like a gatekeeper, old buddy," Pierce stepped forward, smiling and hugging his old partner. "You took so many iron elbows for Kevin and me back then, how could we not come to your place tonight? Quickly lead us inside to find a place to sit, I only ate a plate of vegetable salad at noon to save room."
Mutombo looked at Lin Qi, Lin Qi smiled and stepped forward, reaching out to straighten his red bow tie. "Go in, Dikembe. There are quite a few guests tonight; your registration desk will be overwhelmed later."
Before Mutombo could even process what Lin Qi meant, the elevator doors behind him jingled open again.
Sean McGree, president of New England Sports Network, strode out of the elevator with three executives. Immediately afterward, the vice president of Fox Sports, a director of State Street's private banking division, a fund partner at Fidelity Investments, and two executive directors from Boston Scientific, a global medical device giant, all dressed in evening gowns and accompanied by female companions, emerged from the elevator.
These business tycoons, usually only seen on the front page of the Boston Financial News, all greeted Lin Qi with beaming smiles as he stood at the entrance of the banquet hall.
"Mr. Lin, what a coincidence! I heard that Mr. Mutombo is raising funds for Kinshasa Hospital tonight. Our New England Sports Network has always been a strong supporter of charitable causes!"
"Mr. Lin, Mr. Mutombo, this is a small token of our appreciation from Boston Scientific..."
The once quiet registration desk quickly became a long queue within ten minutes.
To make an impression on Lin Qi, the executives were quick to sign checks, starting with $10,000 in entry donations. The 15 empty tables that the public relations manager had been worried about removing were filled within 20 minutes, and the hotel lobby manager had to sweat profusely as he directed the waiters to temporarily set up eight round tables along the aisles on both sides of the banquet hall.
At 8 p. m., the banquet hall on the second floor of the Fairmont Hotel Copley Plaza was brightly lit, and the air was filled with the sounds of people clinking glasses and making merry.
Several senior sports reporters from the Boston Globe and the Boston Herald, who had originally planned to just go through the motions, take a few photos, and leave, had already packed their notebooks and telephoto lenses into their bags, replacing them with urgent communication devices that were constantly sending faxes to the editors' offices. Tonight's charity gala not only brought together the entire Celtics team, who were currently leading the league with a 12-1 record, but also attracted executives from most of Boston's financial sector, medical device giants, and mainstream media, making it even more prestigious than Boston City Hall's annual charity gala.
At the head table, Dwyane Wade, dressed in a well-tailored dark blue custom-made suit, awkwardly tugged at his tie. This suit had been custom-made last week at a long-established tailor shop on Newbury Street, dragged by Gary Payton after dealing with the thugs in Chicago South Side.
"Take your hand off, stop fidgeting with your tie like some country bumpkin, Dwyane," Gary Payton, sitting next to Wade, casually slapped Wade's hand away and popped a piece of delicate foie gras into his mouth. "Stand up straight. Look at those bankers and TV bosses at the table across the street. No matter where you are, you have to dress presentably for them to respect you."