The door to the away team's locker room at the New Garden was slammed open with a loud bang.
Mark Cuban ripped open the collar of his dark blue hoodie and strode in, his face ashen. The air in the room instantly turned cold, and the players, who were shirtless and removing the tape from their ankles, froze in their tracks.
"34 points! We lost by a whopping 34 points in Boston!" Cuban stood in the center of the locker room, hands on his hips, chest heaving. "It's on national television! The whole league is watching! People will think we're just extras who flew in from Dallas to support Lin Qi's new movie!"
Sitting in the corner, Steve Nash had his head down and his hands on his knees. Two heavy ice packs were pressed against his back, and the dull pain from his slipped disc radiated up his lumbar spine. Cold sweat still clung to his forehead. The scenes of being repeatedly outplayed by Wade and Gary Payton on the court tonight flashed through his mind like a revolving lantern.
Head coach Don Nelson casually tossed his clipboard onto the bench, pulled a piece of chewing gum from his pocket, popped it into his mouth, and said calmly, " Mark, Boston's shooting percentage tonight is close to 60%. Dwyane's impact is top-tier in the league, Gary is fully recovered, and we're playing on the road, so this is normal."
"Normal? Tang, you call this normal?" Cuban whirled around, pointing towards the basketball court outside the door, spitting almost onto Don Nelson's face. "The whole of United States is watching us make a fool of ourselves on TV! Is Boston playing basketball? It looks like they're playing football! What was that Ben Wallace doing in the paint? Was that wrestling?!"
Don Nelson chewed his gum, his expression indifferent. "The league's referee committee didn't call a foul, which means it was within the rules. Lin Qi and Rick Carlisle exploited the blind spot in deep post play, and we didn't collapse our defense in time. That's a problem with tactical execution; there's no need to bring up anything else."
"Tactical execution?" Cuban's voice suddenly rose eight octaves, his gaze sweeping across Don Nelson's face before finally settling on Nash in the corner. "Don, how long are you going to keep deceiving yourself? Why does Lin Qi dare to let Wade drive so recklessly inside? Because he's already seen through our weakness! As long as our backcourt defense is a cash cow, any strong team can skin us alive in the playoffs!"
Nash tensed slightly and lowered his head even further.
Don Nelson's brow finally furrowed. He took a half-step forward, blocking Nash's path. " Mark, Steve dished out ten assists on offense tonight. He's the brain of this team. We can go toe-to-toe with any strong team in the league on offense. You can't negate the whole system because of one regular season loss."
"Ten assists? How many points did he get scored on tonight? Twenty-eight or thirty?" Cuban sneered, pointing to the ice pack on Nash's back. "He's almost thirty, Don! He has lower back spondylolisthesis and needs injections every month! In this condition, he can't possibly withstand the physical battles of a seven-game playoff series! Everyone knows that, can't you, a veteran of decades in the league, understand?"
Finley and Nowitzki sat to the side, their faces grim, but neither dared to interrupt.
Don Nelson's voice carried a hint of suppressed anger. " Steve has given everything for Dallas. We're currently in the top four in the Western Conference. As long as we continue to gel the roster and give this core group enough time, we definitely have a chance in the playoffs. Having people calling around trying to sell players is just creating chaos in the locker room."
"Get them to gel? Give them time? And then get swept out of the playoffs by the Spurs or Lakers in May?" Cuban sneered, waving his hand forcefully. "How many years has Lin Qi been with the Celtics? He won a championship, then assembled the league's best defensive roster, and now he can rake in hundreds of millions of dollars in a movie! And what about us? We pay some of the highest luxury taxes in the league every year, and all we get in return is to be humiliated on national television?!"
Cuban took a deep breath, looked around the locker room, and finally fixed his gaze on Don Nelson's face.
"I'm fed up with this soft, mushy game. We need tough guys who can protect the rim, we need real centers who can dominate in the paint, not a bunch of shooters who can only hit threes and get devoured on defense."
Don Nelson shook his head. "If we don't play according to the system and just throw any clumsy big man into the lineup, our run-and-gun offense will be completely ruined."
"Then to hell with run-and-gun offense!"
Cuban threw down those words, turned around, kicked open the locker room door, and strode towards the post-game press conference room.
The press conference room was already packed with cameras and microphones from major sports media outlets across the United States. The reporters below the stage originally thought it would just be a formality, but to their surprise, Cuban didn't even change his coat before grabbing a microphone from the table and firing away.
"I only want to say one thing tonight: what are the league's referees even looking at?" Cuban glared at the dozens of cameras below the stage. " Boston's actions in the paint tonight were completely beyond the bounds of basketball! Ben Wallace's screens weren't legal moves at all! He was using his body to forcibly block the defender's path while off the ball! This completely violates the original intention of the NBA's defensive principles!"
The flashbulbs of cameras went off wildly, and reporters excitedly typed away on their laptops.
" Mark, do you mean the Celtics ' tactics involved violations?" A reporter from the Boston Globe immediately stood up and asked.
"Isn't that right?" Cuban slammed his fist on the table, his voice trembling with emotion. " Lin Qi is a smart man; he knows how to exploit loopholes in the rules! But David Stern and the league's referee committee can't turn a blind eye to these ugly wrestling moves! If every center can use this kind of gray-area physical play to block defenders under the basket, then this sport might as well be called football! I've already submitted a formal protest to the league; they must give a clear explanation for this kind of screen!"
A dozen minutes later, in the VIP box on the second floor of the New Garden.
Lin Qi, holding a glass of iced soda, leaned back on the leather sofa, watching Cuban furiously raging on the television screen.
Presti stood to the side, holding the newly printed post-game statistics, and couldn't help but chuckle, "Boss, once Cuban sends out this protest, tomorrow's morning sports news headlines across the US will all be ' Wallace's cover.' All the major tactical analysis programs will definitely cut and analyze those last few plays frame by frame, which means the entire coaching staff in the league will have to attend a free tactical analysis class."
Lin Qi took a sip of soda water, his gaze calmly falling on Cuban's flushed face on the television screen.
" Mark is an emotional businessman. The more he yells and screams in front of the camera," Lin Qi put down his glass, "The more it shows that the Dallas locker room is about to break down."
" Nash's contract expires this summer," Presti said, his eyes gleaming. " Cuban has been bothered by his back injury, and even tentatively hinted at it to Phoenix and Golden State."
" Cuban's only thought right now is to find a physical, dominant center. He's desperate to save himself, so he'll definitely try anything." Lin Qi stood up, walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, and looked down at the crowd of green-clad fans gradually leaving the stadium. "Let's send a message to Golden State and Toronto. We'll pretend to be bidding against them and help them out. The more desperate he is, the more outrageous his offers will be."
Presti nodded and quickly jotted down a few notes in his notebook.
Light snow was falling in the Boston night sky outside the window, and the cheers at the New Garden gradually subsided.
Lin Qi gazed at the distant night view, his eyes devoid of any emotion.