Five minutes later, in the players' locker room on the first floor.
The team had just finished the first phase of tactical positioning and was gathered in the locker room drinking water and wiping away sweat, preparing for the final half-court scrimmage.
The locker room door was pushed open, and Artest, who had changed into a dark green training vest with the number 37, walked in carrying a huge black canvas bag and casually put the bag on the floor in front of his locker.
Because the zipper wasn't closed, the bag opened wide, and a dozen or so brightly colored CD cases slid out with a clatter and scattered on the floor.
Kevin Garnett, who was wrapping his wristbands in front of the closet next door, glanced down, immediately yelled, grabbed two CDs from the floor, and held them above his head. "My God! Look who's back! Isn't this our Queensbridge Platinum Record Superstar?"
The locker room fell silent for a second, then erupted in uproarious laughter.
Chris Paul Pierce walked over with a banana in his mouth, snatched a CD from Garnett's hand, squinted at the words on the cover, and deliberately swung his arms in a pretentious manner, mimicking rap gestures. "Yo, yo! Ron, where did you take this cover photo? It looks like an Indiana Police Department detention photo. Your tour's been going on for over ten days, have you even made it into the Billboard Top 100 yet?"
Gary Payton, sitting on a bench icing his knees, slapped his thigh and laughed heartily, pointing at the pile of CDs on the floor and shaking his head. "I told you these basketball players would go bankrupt if they went into music! Shaq lost a fortune when he released his record, and Kobe's song with Sony didn't even sell 500 copies before he was fired. Ron, tell me honestly, how many times did those recording studio swindlers rip you off this time?"
Rasheed Wallace and Tyronn Lue were also whistling and cheering from the sidelines.
Artest's face turned bright red from everyone's laughter, his neck and ears glowing red. He grumbled as he squatted down, reaching out to sweep the scattered CDs back into his bag and hide them at the bottom of the metal wardrobe. "Get lost! They don't know anything about music, they're all a bunch of bumpkins, I'll keep them for myself!"
The moment his hand touched the CD on the ground, a large hand suddenly reached out and pressed down on the back of his hand.
Garnett bent down and, without a word, grabbed more than thirty CDs from his canvas bag, tucking them under his long armpits. Then, Garnett turned around and pulled a large wad of hundred-dollar bills tied with rubber bands from his leather bag in his closet, pulled out half of them, and slapped them into Artest's chest.
"Alright, stop hiding them in the cupboard." Garnett's grin faded, and he tossed his chin. "I'll take all thirty. I need to give one to each of my cousins and the neighborhood kids. Get me a pen, and sign your name on every single one. Write it big, don't smudge it."
Artest froze, looking down at the thick wad of cash on his chest, then looking up at Garnett.
Before he could react, Pierce, who was next to him, swallowed his banana in a few bites, threw the peel into the trash can, and bent down to grab more than thirty CDs from his bag. "Count me in. I'll take them back to Inglewood to give away. But Ron, let me make this clear first, my mom only listens to gospel music. If there are any swear words on this disc that upset her, I won't let you off the hook."
After Pierce finished speaking, he also took a roll of banknotes out of his pocket and stuffed it into Artest's canvas bag.
"Hey, leave some for me!" Rasheed Wallace squeezed through the crowd and grabbed more than twenty discs. "I just upgraded the subwoofer in my car stereo, so I'll use your discs to test the sound quality."
Everyone else in the locker room crowded around. Ben Wallace silently took ten bills and put down a wad of cash. Dwyane Wade, Tayshaun Prince, and Gerald Wallace also joined in with grins, each taking five or six bills and lining up to stuff the money into their canvas bags.
Even Gary Payton, the team's notoriously stingy guy, slowly stood up, pulled two crumpled hundred-dollar bills from his wallet, bent down to pick up five CDs, and held them in his hand. "What are you looking at? Five for two hundred dollars, no change needed. Hurry up and write 'For Big Gary ' on the covers, or I'll take the money back!"
In less than three minutes, the black canvas bag, which had been bulging, was emptied, and the teammates had snatched up all two hundred or so unsold homemade CDs. In their place was a thick layer of colorful US dollars at the bottom of the bag.
Raja Bell produced two black Mark from somewhere and shoved them into Artest's hand. "What are you standing there for, big star? Get to work! You're not allowed on stage to practice until you've signed all the autographs!"
Artest stood in the center of the locker room, holding a plastic Mark in his hand, looking at the dozen or so familiar faces surrounding him, laughing and joking.
After running around for fourteen days, those musicians who usually called him brothers threw his CDs into a back alley like trash. But these foul-mouthed, most nasty teammates emptied their wallets and robbed him of all his crudely burned CDs.
Artest lowered his head, sniffed hard, and forced back the tears welling up in his eyes. He yanked the cap off his Mark and yelled, "The songs on these discs don't count! You can hear the end credits song when The Kingmaker Part II comes out! I wrote a new song for the NBA Finals two years ago, and I'm going to record the master tape in Warner's studio in Los Angeles tonight!"
"Write about the NBA Finals two years ago? The one where we beat Michael?" Gary Payton got excited and leaned over, patting the CD and shouting, "Do the lyrics mention how I defended Michael? If they don't, I'm returning all five CDs!"
"Line up! One by one, no one can get a signature if they haven't paid enough!"
Another burst of laughter erupted in the locker room as everyone noisily handed him the CD.
Ten minutes later, at the main training ground number one.
Head coach Rick Carlisle stood in the center of the sideline, a silver whistle in his mouth, and threw a gray vest at Artest, who had just walked out of the tunnel.
The vest slapped against Artest's broad chest and was grabbed by his hand.
"Get back to work now that the book signing is over," Rick Carlisle said crisply. " Gerald, come down and rest. Ron, put on your vest and go defend Chris Paul's elbows."
Artest quickly put on his gray vest, stuffed the red plastic mouthguard into his mouth, bit down hard, and strode confidently into the three-point line.
Pierce received the pass with his back to the basket in the left free-throw line elbow area, and Artest closed in. Artest's shoulder pressed against Pierce's back ribs, and the muscles collided with a dull thud.
" Chris Paul, hold onto the ball!"
Artest shifted his weight downwards, his left forearm pressing against Pierce's lower back, his breath hot on his face. "Since you just paid for my album, I'll only steal five balls from you today!"
Pierce chuckled and cursed, then slung his shoulder and dribbled the ball forcefully inside. On the sidelines, Rick Carlisle puffed out his cheeks and blew his whistle sharply.