Late Night on the third day of the training camp.
This extra practice session was requested by Steve Nash himself. Two hours after the official practice ended, the skinny Canada rookie stayed behind alone, practicing his shots in front of the basket again and again.
As usual, Lin Qi asked the manager to leave the lights on. But this time, there were a few more figures in the empty stadium.
Mark Price changed into a Celtics training uniform and walked onto the floor with somewhat heavy steps. The thick bandages on his knees, which had just been treated with ice packs, looked glaringly bright under the lights.
"Kid," Price said calmly, "Play with me. One-on-one, bullfight."
Nash was taken aback, somewhat flattered. "Mr. Price, I can do it anytime."
Nash took a deep breath, bent down, and slammed his sneakers into the wooden floor. He sized up the man shorter than himself, feeling a sense of awe, but the young man's innate desire to win still made him lower his center of gravity.
He knew who the man in front of him was... a four-time All-Star and a founding member of the 180 Club.
But... that was the old Price.
Nash suddenly lowered his shoulder, attempting to use his speed to force his way past Price on the left.
But the next moment, his view was blocked by a wall.
Price didn't move quickly to the side. But he seemed to have anticipated Nash's intention to break through half a second in advance, and his not-so-strong body positioned itself perfectly at Nash's center of gravity.
Nash was startled and quickly attempted a back-to-the-basket dribble to change direction. However, Price had already subtly placed one hand on Nash's lower back, forcing Nash to stop the ball in place.
Just as Nash's ball control revealed an opening, Price's right hand, like a viper striking, precisely "pecked" the ball away from Nash's grasp.
It was a clean and decisive play; Nash didn't even see how the ball was lost.
"Again." Price kicked the ball back to him, expressionless.
In the next three offensive possessions, Nash tried to shake off his opponent with a series of fancy crossover dribbles. But Price didn't even look at the ball in his hands; his cold eyes were fixed on Nash's waist, abdomen, and center of gravity the entire time. No matter how fancy the young man's hand movements were, Price's footwork always kept up steadily.
In three one-on-one attempts, Nash failed to score, not even getting a chance to make a shot.
"Watch closely, this is how the NBA plays."
It was Price's turn to attack. The 32-year-old superstar barely dribbled; he simply leaned against Nash with his side, and after sensing the young man's weight distribution, his shoulder suddenly twitched very slightly.
With just a realistic look in his eyes and a sudden shift in his center of gravity, Nash instinctively took a half-step back.
That short half-step was enough for Price. He stepped back, rose, and with a near-perfect, textbook flick of his right wrist.
Swish! The basketball cuts through the net.
"You rely too much on your physique and speed." Price picked up the basketball, looking coldly at the panting young man. "Kid, your speed is enough in college. But in this league, which is half monsters, your physical strength is no match for a point guard like Sam Cassell. He could just sit on you and kill you."
Nash wiped the sweat from his brow, the awkwardness in his eyes gradually fading, replaced by an almost greedy thirst for knowledge. "Mr. Price... teach me."
Price looked at him and remained silent for a moment. In the eyes of this skinny Canada boy, he saw something exactly like his own back then... that hunger for pure basketball IQ and technique driven by mediocre physical abilities.
"Pick and roll," Price began slowly. "It's the simplest tactic in the world, yet also the most difficult art."
He turned his head and shouted towards the distant bench, "Ben! Come lend a hand!"
Ben Wallace, who was quietly acting as a practice partner on the sidelines, let out a roar and ran over shirtless and covered in sweat, blocking the free-throw line like a black giant.
Just as Big Ben ran over, two tall figures quietly approached from the other end of the court.
20-year-old Kevin Garnett put his head in his hands, took long steps, chewed gum in his mouth, and although he didn't say anything, his eyes were fixed on the details of Price's feet when he just took off. Behind him, Bo Otero, who was holding a basketball in his hands and with a simple face.
"Hold the ball, follow Ben's screen." Price stood beside Nash, explaining the essence of the pick-and- Nash, "Look at that fleeting gap between the two players. Use your footwork to create a slight pause, then pass through that gap..."
For the next half hour or so, Nash, with the ball fed to him by Big Ben and Price, searched repeatedly for that perfect moment to break through.
Outlaw had been sitting to the side, watched for a while, then, probably getting a little bored, walked to the free-throw line, stuck out his butt, and raised the basketball above his head with both hands...
Clang!
A deafening clang of a ball hitting the metal echoed throughout the stadium.
Price's brow furrowed sharply, and his lecture abruptly stopped. He turned and watched as Outlaw picked up the basketball, stuck out his rear end again, and, in an extremely strange posture, like someone putting the shot put on a track, tossed the ball straight out.
Clang! The basketball slammed against the front edge of the rim again, without even a slight arc.
As the 180 Club sharpshooter with the most standard shooting form and the most obsessive-compulsive aesthetics in history, Price felt like his eyes had been severely violated. He took a deep breath, veins bulging on his forehead, and finally, unable to bear it any longer, he rushed over.
"Bo! What are you doing?! Are you throwing a bomb?!" Price snatched the basketball from Outlaw's hand, his voice trembling with anger. "Why is your elbow turned outwards? Where's your wrist? Is it glued to the ground? Take the ball, like this! Support the ball with your right hand underneath, just use your left hand for support, and follow my arc to shoot!"
Outlaw shrank back somewhat aggrievedly, his large, fan-like hands forcibly bent into a standard shooting posture by Price, and he clumsily threw the ball out.
Swish. Goal!
"Oh my God, Mark's magic!" Garnett clapped wildly and bounced over with an almost magical gait. The 2.11-meter-tall rookie prodigy abandoned his usual arrogance, sidled up to Price, and shouted at the top of his lungs:
"Old man, stop teaching that guy Bo who has no shooting instinct. Look at me, that drive-and-pull technique you just taught Steve ( Nash ), if I get the ball at the high post and that bastard Sam Cassell is blocking me with his big ass, how am I supposed to use that move to create space for a shot?"
Price looked at the tall, long-armed Boston Celtics' future core player in front of him, whose eyes were full of desire for victory, and then looked at Nash, Big Ben, and Outlaw, who were humbly learning from him.
The 32-year-old veteran superstar subtly clenched his fist in his pocket. These young men all possessed a chilling wildness and tenacity.
" Kevin, come here." Price patted the basketball, a teacher's pride shining in his eyes for the first time. "Your lateral movement is quick, but you're always too hasty in your movements. When you get the ball in the low post, you need to learn to use your back to feel the defender's center of gravity..."
In the training hall Late Night, the dull thud of basketballs hitting the floor mingled with the hoarse voice of the veteran superstar giving instructions.
In the shadows at the stadium entrance, Lin Qi, hands in his pockets, watched the young people huddled in a circle under the lights, frantically absorbing knowledge, and a slight smile played on his lips.
Lin Qi didn't disturb them and quietly turned and left the cold, howling corridor.