September 1996, fourth day of training camp.
After three days of physical and tactical training, head coach Adelman decided to hold a real intra-squad training match.
The game was played entirely according to the rules of a regular NBA game, with the starting lineup wearing green training uniforms and the second unit wearing white training uniforms.
Starting lineup: Sam Cassell, Eddie Jones, Robert Horry, Kevin Garnett, Dikembe Mutombo.
Second team: Mark Price, Michael Finley, Chris Mullin, Bo Outlaw, P.J. Brown.
"I want to see," Adelman said, standing at center court and slamming a brand-new basketball onto the floor. His gaze swept over the star players and rookies gathered in a circle. "What kind of team can you guys actually play together?"
Lin Qi stood on the sidelines as usual, arms crossed, dressed in a well-tailored suit. Assistant coach Tom Thibodeau stood beside him, clutching a tactics notebook.
This issue was sown from the very first day Mark Price joined the team. When Adelman brought in this four-time All-Star who was plagued by injuries, he promised "absolutely fair competition"... As long as Price's knees held up, the starting point guard position could be opened up for free competition, and no one should think about having any special privileges.
Sam Cassell, on the other hand, had already secured a starting position with the Celtics last season. He won a championship with the Rockets in his rookie season and proved his toughness as a point guard in the playoffs. In his opinion, the starting position was a matter of course and he didn't take anyone else seriously. Sam Cassell chewed gum, tilted his head, and his signature bulging eyes were full of undisguised aggression.
Price took it all in. The four-time All-Star showed no anger; his cold face simply tightened a little more before he bent down and calmly adjusted the thick, somewhat conspicuous white bandage on his knee.
The tension was palpable from the moment of the jump ball. Mutombo, the 2.18-meter Africa tower, leaped into the air and, without a doubt, headed the ball over P.J. Brown to the starting lineup.
In the first attack of the first round, Sam Cassell dribbled the ball and slowly advanced to the frontcourt. He deliberately stopped at the top of the arc, using his thick backside to block Price, and began his signature trash talk barrage.
"Dude," Sam Cassell grinned, revealing two rows of white teeth, "Can you handle me? Should I slow you down so you don't have to go for ice packs tomorrow?"
Price remained expressionless, not even lifting his eyelids. He simply lowered his center of gravity, using his legs, which had undergone two major surgeries, to brace himself.
Two seconds later, the pace of the game was instantly shifted to a near-playoff intensity. Just as Price was about to reach for the steal, Sam Cassell suddenly made an extremely rough tackle, placing his left hand horizontally against Price's side and forcefully pushing Price inward with his side body.
The heavy protective gear made a harsh scraping sound on the wooden floor.
" Mark," Sam Cassell's voice was almost close to Price's ear, "Your lateral movement is as slow as my grandma in line for coffee."
Price didn't retort; he simply gritted his teeth and, just as Sam Cassell was about to turn and dribble past him, used all his strength to chest him down. Sam Cassell didn't gain the upper hand and had to pass the ball to the wing.
The ball started spinning on the starting lineup's side, and the most terrifying suffocating feeling of this lineup completely descended when the second lineup launched its first attack.
Price dribbled the ball across half-court, and facing Sam Cassell's almost relentless close defense, he didn't force a drive. Instead, with his masterful passing intelligence, he delivered a subtle bounce pass to Michael Finley, who was cutting to the basket.
Finley took off with the momentum, this second-year student showcasing his physical prowess by leaping through the air and arching himself into the basket!
"Don't cause trouble on my turf!"
A roar like that of Africa lion suddenly exploded. The black iron tower Mutombo leaped up from under the basket, his long arms, which blotted out the sky, were like a heavy hammer in the air. With a loud "crack!", he forcefully knocked the ball out of Finley's hands. Finley lost his balance in the air and staggered to the floor after landing.
The training hall echoed with muffled thuds of flesh colliding and gasps of shock.
Undrafted Ben Wallace, sitting at the end of the bench, suddenly stood up, veins bulging on his thick arms, staring at Mutombo's defensive stance. He wondered: if it were him, could he use even more ferocious power to push Finley down, ball and all? On the other side, Bruce Bowen was watching Eddie Jones's footwork as he positioned himself on the perimeter, frantically simulating the route for a close-marking defense in his mind.
On the field, Mutombo looked down at Finley lying on the floor, his wrinkled face expressionless. Then, he slowly raised his thick index finger and waved it unhurriedly in front of Finley's eyes.
Before the ball had even bounced far enough, 20-year-old Garnett let out a nervous, wolf-like howl.
"Hey! Fast break! Run!!"
Garnett displayed a level of mobility rarely seen in players of his stature, scooping up the basketball with one hand before anyone else could react, and taking incredibly long strides as he dribbled forward. Bo Outlaw of the second unit tried to get back on defense, but Garnett executed a guard-like crossover dribble while moving, his massive strides leaving Outlaw far behind.
When he reached the free-throw line, Garnett didn't try to score. Without turning his head, he gently sent the ball into the air with his right hand.
Eddie Jones, following up, understood perfectly. He leaped into the air, grabbed the basketball with both hands, and completed an alley-oop dunk that ignited the entire arena!
Boom! The rim shook violently, and the Nets made a crisp popping sound.
2-14. In just four minutes, the second unit was forced to call a timeout by the first unit's suffocating, coordinated defense.
As Sam Cassell retreated on defense, he passed Price, who was panting and leaning on his knees, and laughed unrestrainedly, shouting loudly towards the sidelines, "Call them a timeout! That's the difference between a starter and a substitute!"
Price ignored him. The veteran superstar who had battled Jordan for three hundred rounds in Cleveland simply stepped back to the sidelines, bent down to tighten his shoelaces again, and wiped his forehead with his sweaty palms.
At the end of the first quarter, the score remained at a double-digit difference.
As Sam Cassell left the court, he deliberately walked past Price, patted him on the shoulder, and said with a forced smile, "You played well. Learn from me."
Price didn't look at him, but simply took the ice pack handed to him by a staff member, applied it to his badly injured knee, and replied casually, "The game is only a quarter of the way through."
Sam Cassell chuckled dismissively, stepped over the floor, and walked back to the starting bench. What could an old man with a lingering foot injury, who only played seven games last season, possibly pull off with a bunch of substitutes?
On the sidelines, Thibodeau frantically scribbled in his notebook, his voice low but unable to contain his excitement. "Lin, this starting defense is incredible. Eddie's on the perimeter, Kevin's in the middle, and Dikembe's in the paint. It's like three All-Defensive First Team monsters. Mark ( Price )'s too slow; he can't break through these three layers of defense. It looks like Sam Cassell's starting position is definitely not going to change."
Lin Qi stood with his hands in his pockets, his fingertips rubbing together slightly in his trouser pockets. He looked towards the second-string bench in the distance, where Mark Price sat quietly with a towel draped around his neck.
But Lin Qi noticed that Price's eyes never left the field.
He wasn't looking at the scoreboard, but rather at the brief gap in the baseline behind Mutombo during those few possessions when Garnett instinctively lunged to the perimeter to delay the shot.
It was so short that even the young Garnett himself didn't realize it, so short that Finley on the court couldn't catch it at all.
But Price, with the eyes of a top-tier point guard, saw through it all.
A subtle, almost imperceptible smile curved the corners of Lin Qi's lips.
" Sam is getting ahead of himself," Lin Qi said calmly, his voice very soft.
Thibodeau was taken aback. "What?"
"The main players defended well just now because their physical talent is too explosive; they were running purely on instinct and passion." Lin Qi watched the silent veteran point guard who was starting to remove the ice packs from his knees and stand up again. "But the body gets tired, and the momentum fades. Once that initial burst of energy is gone..."
Lin Qi's gaze met Price's calm, unwavering eyes.
"Once Mark figures out the flaws in this defensive system, he'll use his surgical skills in the next quarter to dismantle this seemingly perfect defense."