Artest swallowed hard, his rough fingers scratching furiously along the edge of the table.
"It reminds me of Game 6 of the NBA Finals two years ago. With two minutes left in the fourth quarter, Gary was controlling the ball at the top of the key to run down the clock, and the 20,000 fans in the stands were stomping their feet and yelling for defense, even the overhead light fixtures were shaking."
Artest rolled up the left sleeve of his hoodie, revealing an old, scabbed-over scar on the outside of his forearm.
"In Game 7 of the NBA Finals, Michael had never lost a game in the NBA Finals in his career, and that night he was completely red-eyed. I only found out later that I had broken his ribs in that collision..."
"In the fourth quarter Rick assigned me to guard him one-on-one, and he didn't even talk trash on the court. Every time he received the ball with his back to the basket on the right side, he would drop his left shoulder and elbow his way into my chin and chest. Shaq was setting a screen for him, and the impact felt like my internal organs had shifted..."
" Michael received the ball in the right elbow area and went to isolate me, using two consecutive shoulder fakes before pulling up for a forced fadeaway jumper..."
"I didn't think about anything at the time, I just lunged forward with all my might to block his attack, and when I landed, my right calf cramped up..."
"When the final whistle blew, Michael stood at the free-throw line, hands on his knees, panting heavily..."
"That was the first time in his life he'd lost in the NBA Finals. I lay on the floor watching his back, and suddenly the roar of 20,000 people went completely silent, leaving only the pounding of my own heart..."
"I found a local Indiana musician who played old-fashioned drums, and we removed all the gunshots, sirens, and nightclub music. We just played the bass drum based on the rhythm of our footwork and heartbeats when we were defending in our own half. We also spent two hundred dollars to hire a Black girl from a church choir to sing the chorus, and recorded this demo."
Artest looked at Lin Qi and whispered the lyrics he had recorded at the beginning of the demo.
"Do you know how much it takes to win a championship? You have to roll around in the mud where nobody can see you, swallowing your broken teeth and blood. Even if the God of Basketball is standing opposite you, you still have to drag him down from the sky and bury him in the dirt."
Lin Qi's fingers, which were holding the cassette case, paused for a moment.
In another timeline, in the summer of 2010, after the Lakers won Game 7 of the NBA Finals, Artest released the hit single "Champions," which swept across the United States. Lin Qi never expected that his push for Artest, using the soundtrack of " Kingmaker " as an excuse, coupled with the setbacks he experienced at the bottom over those fourteen days, would actually allow this kid to squeeze out this song six years ahead of schedule, relying on his memory of defeating Jordan and O'Neal.
Lin Qi opened the drawer on his right, placed the cassette tape next to the Walkman, and then closed the drawer. "Tonight, the whole team is taking a chartered plane to Los Angeles. Kevin and Chris Paul are playing in the NBA All-Star Game, Dwyane is going to play in the Rising Stars Challenge, Rick is taking his coaching staff to coach the Eastern All-Stars team. You weren't on the All-Star roster this year, so you should have four days off."
Artest scratched his head. "I was planning to stay at the Auerbach Center and train on my own."
"No need to stay in Boston. You'll be on the team's chartered plane to California tonight." Lin Qi took a sip of his coffee. " David Fincher and Warner Music's music director are in Burbank, Los Angeles these days. As long as this demo is usable, I'll have Warner Music provide you with a professional recording studio and two soundtrack producers during the four-day All-Star Weekend. Take advantage of these four days off to record the official master tape of this song and put it directly into the end credits of the second part of ' Kingmaker.'"
Artest rubbed his hands vigorously on his thighs in his sweatpants, then his voice suddenly rose. "Lin, are you serious? You don't want me to pay for the chart rankings?"
" Warner. releases the movie soundtrack, so they pay you royalties." Lin Qi put down his cup, then changed the subject, "But Ron, there's something I need to remind you. You were out there for fourteen days, and Tayshaun Prince and Gerald Wallace both played incredibly hard. Tayshaun held Reggie Miller to just 9 points, Gerald grabbed five offensive rebounds in one game. Whether your song becomes a hit along with the movie depends on whether you play as hard as you used to on the court. If you become an unknown on the court, unable to even get playing time, no one will listen to even the best songs."
"Those two want to steal my spot? In your next life!" Artest stiffened his neck, his fierce aura immediately rising. "I'm bursting with energy right now. When we go downstairs for practice later, I'll show them who's the boss of the second unit."
After saying that, Artest stood up, bent down to pick up the black canvas bag at his feet, and prepared to go downstairs.
"Wait a minute." Lin Qi pointed to the bag in his hand, "Is that all the CDs you printed before?"
Artest paused, scratching the back of his head somewhat awkwardly. "Ah... we printed three hundred copies in New York, and there are still over two hundred left unsold."
Lin Qi opened the middle drawer of his desk, counted out ten hundred-dollar bills, placed them on the corner of the desk, and then pulled a silver Mark pen from the pen holder and handed it over. "Keep ten for me. Sign your name and write the date on each one."
Artest stood there, staring at the thousand dollars on the table, hesitant to reach for it for a long time. "Lin, these are just some lousy songs I recorded before. I'll give them to you for free if you want to listen. You couldn't even sell these for ten dollars a copy on the street..."
"They're blind." Lin Qi pushed the banknotes and Mark forward. "Once you've collected seven or eight championship rings, these earliest signed first-edition DVDs of the 'Black History' series can fetch at least tens of thousands of dollars each at Sotheby's. I'm making a long-term investment, so don't delay my profits. Sign them quickly."
Artest stared at the banknotes on the table for several seconds, his nose starting to sting.
During those fourteen days, everyone he met tried to steal the money in his pocket, treating him like a brainless idiot. But the shopkeeper dutifully pulled out ten hundred-yuan bills and bought his worthless homemade CD.
Artest didn't refuse again. He squatted down, counted out ten well-sealed CDs from his bag, uncapped his pen, and carefully signed his name on each one, one by one, while leaning over the corner of his desk. Then he neatly folded the ten hundred-dollar bills and put them into the innermost pocket of his hoodie.
"Thanks, boss. I'm going downstairs to train now."
Artest picked up his canvas bag, pushed open the office door, and walked out with a much lighter step than when he came in.