pdf-ebookys Chapter 45: Prelude to the Battle of Oakland! The Entire League Focuses on Oakland
Chapter 45: Prelude to the Battle of Oakland! The Entire League Focuses on Oakland
A light drizzle was falling in the early morning in Auckland. In the team doctor's room at Oracle Arena, the smell of disinfectant mixed with the sweet aroma of canned yellow peaches, creating a strange odor.
Lin Hao sat on the physiotherapy bed, his left ankle wrapped in a thick ice pack. Team doctor Old Tom held the MRI report, his face scrunched up like a walnut: "Lin, I'm saying this one last time, it's a grade one sprain. You'll be out for at least a week. If you dare to play Game 3 with this injury, the ligament tear will worsen, and you'll be out for the rest of the season, which could even affect your career!"
He slammed the report on the table, pointing to the images: "Look at this! How swollen are the ligaments here? Bowen's kick was designed to cripple you!"
Lin Hao didn't speak, but simply unscrewed the can of yellow peaches in his hand, forked off the largest piece of peach, and stuffed it into his mouth. The sweet juice slid down his throat, suppressing the throbbing pain in his ankle. He looked down at his ankle, which was swollen like a bun, then looked up at Old Tom, grinned, and said in a slow but incredibly determined Northeastern accent, "Uncle Tom, I know you're doing this for my own good. But I can't miss the crucial battle at Tianwang Mountain."
"Our Warriors fought hard all season to get this far. If I backed out now, I'd be letting down my teammates, the 20,000 fans in attendance, and all the people back home who stayed up all night to watch the game." He slammed a can of food on the table. "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. It's just a sprained ankle. We Northeasterners are no big deal. If it gets too bad, I'll play even if it's painful."
Old Tom, seeing the stubbornness in his eyes, sighed and finally relented: "Fine, I can't stop you from fighting. But you must receive six hours of treatment every day, and get a fixation injection before going on stage. If you feel anything is wrong, get off the field immediately, understand?"
"Alright!" Lin Hao gave an OK sign, then forked a piece of peach and handed it over. "Try it? It's a special medicine from Northeast China, it works better than anything else."
Just then, Harris pushed open the door with a dark expression, his knuckles white as he gripped his phone tightly: "The league's punishment is out. Bowen is fined $2 and suspended."
"What?!" Old Tom exploded on the spot. "He deliberately tripped me! He was aiming to cripple someone! And he only gets a $2 fine? Is the league blind?"
Lin Hao paused, his smile fading, but he wasn't angry. He had expected this outcome—Bowen was the Spurs' defensive anchor, and the league couldn't possibly suspend him in the first round of the playoffs.
"It's nothing." Lin Hao wiped his hands, picked up the tactical board placed to the side, and said, "Whether he's banned or not, it's the same. He'd better have the ability to cripple me. Game 3 is on our home court; it's time to pay the price."
Harris nodded, took a deep breath to suppress his anger: "I've already sent the slow-motion video of Bowen's foot-planting to all the media outlets, and now the entire internet is condemning him. Also, Jordan, Kobe, Iverson, Carter, and Yao Ming have all spoken out in support of you on social media."
He handed over his phone, the screen filled with updates from legendary figures:
Jordan: "Fouls are a disgrace to basketball. The league should protect players, not condone those who commit injuries. Lin Hao is a great player, and I look forward to his performance in Game 3."
Kobe: "Bowen's behavior is unacceptable. Lin Hao, winning the game despite his injury, is the best response."
Allen Iverson: "Beat them! I'll be cheering for you in Philadelphia!"
Yao Ming: "Brother, be careful, we're all behind you."
Domestic public opinion exploded. The hashtags #LeagueProtectingBowen and #LinHaoPlayingInjured immediately topped the trending topics list, garnering over 10 billion views. Countless fans left protest messages on the league's official Weibo account, and fans from Bowen's hometown of Fengtian, Liaoning Province, even spontaneously organized a petition with tens of thousands of signatures demanding that the league severely punish Bowen.
The atmosphere inside the Warriors' training facility was so tense it was almost palpable.
Gone was the usual banter; everyone was engrossed in extra practice. Richardson practiced his three-pointers over and over again, shooting until his arms were sore he could barely lift them, yet he still wouldn't stop; Dampier punched the sandbag furiously, venting his frustration; even the usually laziest substitute player was practicing his defensive slide.
Seeing Lin Hao limping in, everyone stopped what they were doing and surrounded him.
"Canned Food Bro, are you alright?" Richardson was the first to rush over, his face full of guilt. "It's all my fault. If I had been more accurate in G2, you wouldn't have gotten injured."
"What are you talking about?" Lin Hao patted him on the shoulder. "Basketball is a team sport. We shoulder the burden together when we lose, and celebrate together when we win. Game 2 is over, let's get back at Game 3."
He walked to the tactics board, picked up a marker, and although his left foot was still throbbing, his hand holding the pen was as steady as if it were frozen in place: "Come here, everyone, let's talk about G3's tactics."
"The Spurs will definitely target my ankle, having Bowen guard me closely the whole time, forcing me to use my left foot. So in Game 3, I won't drive too much, focusing on off-ball movement, catch-and-shoot, and high-post playmaking." Lin Hao quickly drew running lines on the whiteboard. "Jason, you drive with the ball more, drawing their interior defense; Dampier, you move up to set high screens, then immediately cut to the basket, I'll get the ball to you precisely; everyone else, keep moving off the ball, and if you're open, shoot decisively, if you miss, it's on me."
"On the defensive end, focus on shutting down the connection between Duncan and Parker. Don't worry about Ginobili's drives; let him shoot threes, as his three-point shooting percentage is less than 30%. As long as we stop Duncan's inside scoring and Parker's drives, the Spurs' offense will be half-crippled."
His teammates nodded repeatedly, their eyes filled with trust and respect as they looked at Lin Hao. This rookie, who was still explaining tactics to them despite his injury, had long since become an irreplaceable leader in their hearts.
"Don't worry, Canned Fruit Bro!" Richardson slammed the basketball to the ground, his eyes gleaming with malice. "If I miss again in Game 3, you can take all my canned peaches!"
"I'll screen Bowen for you inside! If he dares to stick his leg out again, I'll knock him flying!" Dampier shouted, clenching his fist.
"Crush the Spurs! Take Game 5!" The whole team roared in unison, their voices shaking the glass of the training facility.
Meanwhile, the San Antonio Spurs arrived in Oakland two days earlier and checked into a hotel near the arena, where they held closed training sessions, with even reporters not allowed to get close.
In the hotel's conference room, Popovich, holding a tactical board, looked grim. Pointing to Lin Hao's game replay on the screen, he said to his players, "We won Game 2, but don't get too excited. Lin Hao isn't an ordinary rookie; his willpower is much stronger than you imagine. He will definitely play Game 3 despite his injury."
"Our strategy for Game 3 is simple: continue to have Bowen guard Lin Hao closely, focusing on attacking his left ankle and forcing him into turnovers. Duncan will guard the paint and cut off his passing lanes. As long as we shut down Lin Hao, the Warriors will fall apart."
He paused, a ruthless glint in his eyes: "We must win Game 3 to end the series. I don't want to see a fifth game."
Duncan sat in the corner, expressionlessly wiping his protective gear. Hearing Popovich's words, he simply nodded slightly. No one knew that his phone contained highlights of Lin Hao playing through injury in Game 2.
The streets of Auckland have long been submerged in a sea of yellow from the Warriors.
On landmark buildings in the city center, highlights of Lin Hao's games and the slogan "Warriors will win" were played on a loop; in the square outside the arena, fans spontaneously organized support activities, some set up a canned peach stall and distributed it to fans for free; others brought a truckload of suonas, ready to distribute them to fans at the Game 3 venue.
"We've prepared 1000 suonas (traditional Japanese horns). When Lin Hao scores, everyone blow them together!" The organizer shouted into the camera, holding up a suona. "Let the Spurs hear the voice of Oakland! Let them hear the voice of Northeast China!"
Far away in Fengtian, Liaoning Province, landmarks throughout the city were lit up with lights that read "Go Lin Hao!" Children at the Xinghuo Youth Training Camp held up small basketballs and shouted "Go Lin Hao!" to the camera; on the school playground, students wore Lin Hao's No. 6 jersey and held banners that read "Our hometown will always support you"; even the barbecue stalls on the street hung up signs that read "Watch Lin Hao play against the Spurs and drink beer for free."
That evening, Lin Hao returned to his apartment. Zhang Qingying was sitting on the sofa, brewing traditional Chinese medicine to promote blood circulation and remove blood stasis for him. Seeing him return, she immediately went to greet him, helped him sit on the sofa, carefully untied the bandage on his ankle, and gently applied a hot towel to it.
"Are you tired from today's treatment?" Zhang Qingying's voice was as gentle as water, her eyes full of heartache. "If it really hurts, don't force yourself to keep going."
"It's okay, it doesn't hurt at all." Lin Hao smiled and pinched her cheek. "With you here, no pain matters."
Zhang Qingying rolled her eyes at him and handed him the brewed Chinese medicine: "You're always talking nonsense. Drink it quickly and get some rest afterward."
Lin Hao pinched his nose and finished the terribly bitter Chinese medicine, then quickly stuffed a piece of canned yellow peach into his mouth to mask the taste. He looked out the window at the brightly lit Oracle Arena, his eyes filled with determination.
The next morning, all eyes in the league were on Oakland.
Major sports media outlets such as ESPN and TNT all brought their live broadcast trucks to the Oracle Arena; all sports channels across the United States were playing promotional videos for Game 3 on a loop; and domestic live streaming platforms saw over 4000 million pre-registrations, once again breaking the record for NBA playoff live broadcasts.
An hour before the game, Lin Hao, wearing his training clothes, limped into the empty stadium.
He picked up the basketball, stood outside the three-point line, adjusted his breathing, and raised his hand to shoot.
Swish!
Hollow-core netting.
One after another, the basketball swished through the net with a crisp swish. Sweat streamed down his face, soaking his training clothes, and a sharp pain shot through his ankles, but his eyes grew brighter and brighter.
After hitting the final three-pointer, Lin Hao picked up the basketball, looked up at the championship banner hanging in the arena, and clenched the can of yellow peaches in his hand.
Tianwang Mountain, here we come.