Chapter 23 The Respected Green Shirts

(Starting today, I want to switch to the first-person perspective; I feel it makes expression a bit easier.)

I simply can't stand the way Rondo plays basketball, and every time I see him, I want to destroy him.

The reason Lin Fei was able to become one of the premier ankle-breakers in the league today was undoubtedly because he once broke Rondo's ankles with a crossover. Rondo had always harbored thoughts of revenge, but in their last match, when he ran into Lin Fei, he was brutally blitzed by Lin Fei's scoring prowess. This time around, Rondo was fully charged with determination. Then there was the legendary marksman Ray Allen. If not for the emergence of Lin Fei, Ray Allen might still be regarded as the greatest shooter in NBA history, but that title had been shattered by a mere second-year rookie. Moreover, it was precisely during a game against the Celtics last season that Lin Fei effortlessly broke the previous single-season three-point record. Now it seemed that even if Ray Allen exhausted the entirety of his career, he would still find it difficult to reach that towering height established by Lin Fei.

As the most illustrious franchise in the history of the NBA, the Celtics possessed a noble pedigree. Though aged now, that beating heart would never speak of defeat.

Right at the tip-off, Ray Allen, famously known as "Gentleman Sword," became the first Celtics player to run up and embrace Lin Fei. Perhaps this veteran simply adored a player like Lin Fei—whose fierce individuality on the court was so strikingly similar to his own back in the day, including the very obsession with the three-point shot. Next came Pierce, another veteran who always took good care of the younger players.

This game was nationally televised, and even the commentators confessed before tip-off that their hearts were pounding wildly.

For me, Lin Fei, there was actually another wonderful thing about tonight: Avril would be there in person to cheer me on, accompanied by her entourage of gorgeous friends, forming a dazzling lineup that easily rivaled any squad of basketball cheerleaders.

At the opening tip, the Celtics snatched possession. It seemed Clausen's form had been somewhat lackluster lately; he rarely won jump balls. With Rondo handling the ball, I could practically see the desire in his eyes to humiliate me, yet I remained utterly calm. I knew he was regarded as one of the most representative young point guards in the league precisely because he focused on passing rather than scoring. But the truth was, even when he wanted to score, it was quite difficult for him. He wasn't the type of player like James or Wade who could take over scoring at will, because his jump shot was simply too poor. Almost every guard in the league knew they could just sag off and give Rondo the perimeter shot with complete peace of mind.

His wingspan was massive, which was his greatest asset. At the same time, once he exploded out of his first step, he became extremely difficult to stop. Therefore, what I needed to do was to prevent him from launching that initial stride. At the top of the arc, I gave him a step of cushion. Left? Right? I could read the firm resolve in his offensive posture. I wondered why Rose always suddenly developed such an intense urge to score whenever he matched up against me, and I also wondered why a player like Rondo inspired such an obvious yearning for points the moment he met me. Could it somehow be that my very presence inherently stimulated the scoring desires of others?

Rondo accelerated to the right, and right on cue, Garnett stepped up to set a high pick-and-roll. I knew Garnett was also a player capable of knocking down mid-range jumpers who possessed exceptional ball-handling skills; back in his prime, he was once hailed as the most versatile player since Magic Johnson. I had to navigate around the screen. At this moment, Jobs stepped up as well, perhaps intending to switch assignments, but I knew I was helpless against Garnett. Fortunately, I was certain Keynes had my back. I decisively abandoned Rondo, and Jobs, reading my intent instantly, switched onto him. As a top-tier point guard in the league, Rondo would never let such an opportunity slip by, easily feeding the ball to Garnett, who had rolled to the high post. Garnett caught the pass, now facing little old me—standing around 180 centimeters tall. With a long-striding dribble, he drove straight into the paint. Just as I had anticipated, Keynes rotated over from the help side to body up Garnett. Garnett pivoted and continued his assault toward the rim. However, even though I had been beaten by Garnett's initial move, knowing full well that he would instinctively go for a turnaround jump shot against Keynes's contest, I reacted with lightning speed and swiped the ball directly out of Garnett's hands. I secured the steal, knowing that if I squandered this opportunity, it would be a sin. Rondo was still trailing far behind me. I scooped up the ball, and before any of the other players even processed what had happened, I was already sprinting down the floor at full tilt. Out of the corner of my eye, I spotted Rondo making a frantic recovery run, along with Pierce. Because Keynes had rotated over earlier, Pierce had been left somewhat open, and realizing the danger early, he was also sprinting back. I accelerated, knowing they could at best match my top speed. My only potential threat now was that split second of the layup attempt; my hand had to cushion the ball gently in mid-air to soften the touch and guide it more easily through the hoop. I sliced effortlessly to the basket. At this point, Rondo was two steps behind me—less than three meters away—while Pierce was three steps back, roughly four meters. They were slower than I had anticipated, committing a slight miscalculation along the way. Why wasn't I choosing to dunk this ball?

As I reached the three-point line, I made a slight adjustment to my dribbling cadence and rhythm because I needed to throw down a slam. I lengthened my stride. One step! Two steps! I attacked the rim! Takeoff!

Suddenly, I noticed how quiet the arena had fallen. I knew my moment was about to arrive. It had been so long since I felt the rim that close. I channeled every ounce of my strength and leaped high into the air. I knew Rondo behind me could no longer catch up, and he certainly wouldn't risk a desperate chase-down block now, because doing so would almost certainly draw a foul. I raised the ball, holding it in one hand. The air at that altitude felt entirely different.

Whoosh! I hammered the ball forcefully through the net! I hung from the rim for a fleeting second, and the gentle vibration of the basket beneath my hands was an exquisite sensation.

To my surprise, there wasn't an overwhelming wave of applause as I landed—just scattered cheers from my teammates. That couldn't be right! Ah, I forgot—I rarely dunked during games. I raised my hand, signaling to my fans that it was time to cheer. In an instant, the applause of the crowd broke loose like a breached dam, flooding the arena. I loved this feeling—being worshipped by tens of thousands. It turned out my steal and coast-to-coast dunk hadn't lacked brilliance; my fans had simply been too mesmerized by the play to risk missing a second of the action by clapping prematurely, or perhaps they had been so caught up in anticipating the beauty of my slam that they forgot to applaud altogether.

As I jogged back on defense, I glanced at Rondo and Ray Allen. Rondo looked deeply envious. What was he jealous of? Perhaps just the sheer speed of my dribbling! He still couldn't comprehend why his speed without the ball couldn't outpace my speed with the ball. Well, tough luck—that was my secret. Back in the day, I used to practice the hundred-meter dash while dribbling a basketball every single day. How many people could say they'd done that?

I also caught the look of admiration in Ray Allen's eyes. What was he envious of? It might have been my speed, but I preferred to believe he was envying my youth. To a large extent, my explosive pace was meant to compensate for my lack of height, whereas he had great size and didn't need blinding speed to easily pull up and shoot. I knew he was the greatest three-point shooter in league history—at least one of the absolute best—yet I also knew I would inevitably shatter his records, because by my second season, I had already left his peak-era numbers far behind in the dust. It was just a pity that our eras might not overlap for very long; a real shame that we could never truly cross swords at our absolute bests. Sometimes I genuinely envied legends like Larry Bird and Magic Johnson, because they had a formidable rival accompanying them on their journey. As for me, the rival I longed to face most—a prime Ray Allen—was no longer there. Defeating him now held very little profound meaning anymore; perhaps my only recourse was to challenge the milestones he had left behind. That was the ultimate way for me to pay tribute to him.

Rondo drove again. This time, without relying on a screen, he tried to dribble straight through to disrupt our defensive rotation. He collided slightly with me as he drove past. I was astonished; despite looking like a beanpole, the guy actually possessed deceptive strength. Shrugging me off, he executed a quick spin move, evading Jobs's help-defense, and fired a behind-the-back pass out to Ray Allen on the perimeter. Because Keynes had momentarily abandoned his assignment to help me bottle up Rondo, and aided by Ray Allen being a crafty veteran who moved exceptionally well without the ball, he had managed to shake loose into open space. Rondo's pass arrived with pinpoint accuracy, and Ray Allen caught and shot in one fluid motion. The three-pointer swished cleanly through the net. This used to be my favorite shooting motion of his to watch, but facing it live from the opposing side felt entirely different.

The score remained locked in a tight battle! I knew I had to step on the gas.

I brought the ball up the court. It was time to unleash my signature weapon.

I knew Rondo would try to intercept me in the frontcourt, and I was wary of his wingspan. I used Keynes's cutting movement as a temporary screen to slip past. Near the centerline, I knew I was just a single step away from shooting range. Ray Allen was glued to me; as an elite shooter himself, he understood the rhythmic cadence of another marksman's dribble and could anticipate the exact moment of release. I shifted one step to the right, using Keynes's body to completely shake off Rondo. Right as Ray Allen closed out, I accelerated with a quick secondary burst of speed while maintaining my dribble. Rondo shifted laterally to the right, and so did Ray Allen. Sensing the opportunity, I crossed over sharply to the left, elevated, and let fly. I knew the shot was going in the moment it left my fingertips, because the release matched my most practiced rhythm precisely.

And sure enough! The explosion of sound from the arena floor rivaled the roar of my earlier dunk! To be honest, I felt this classic jumper of mine deserved to become the iconic logo of the league, because even I was intoxicated by it—much like how so many people remained utterly infatuated with Kareem Abdul-Jabbar's skyhook.

Yet the stubborn resilience of the Celtics took me completely by surprise! Right after my basket, it was their turn on offense. Garnett, dragging his aging body, bullied his way into the paint against Jobs and somehow managed to convert a grueling three-point play. In terms of pure competitive spirit, the Celtics were the team I respected above all others in the league. The ultimate sign of respect for an opponent was to unleash your absolute highest level of play and battle them tooth and nail until the very end.