radicalducati Chapter 76 I'll Pay His Salary
Chapter 76 I'll Pay His Salary
The sea fog in Oakland was like an unyielding paste, clinging tightly to the glass facade of the Warriors' headquarters.
The air conditioning in the conference room was blasting, making the "2002-03 Season Summary Report" on the table rustle. General Manager Gary Mullin gripped his diamond-encrusted Montblanc pen so tightly his knuckles turned white, and slammed it hard on the table.
"Shut up, all of you!" Mullin slammed a stat sheet on the table, the ashtray piled high with cigarette butts. "Last season, our three-point shooting percentage was 32.1%, third worst in the league! What's the use of averaging 105 points a game? When it comes to crucial moments, those soft guys on the perimeter just can't make their shots. In the playoffs against the Spurs, our open three-point percentage was less than 28%! That's the root of our losses!"
The meeting room was filled with smoke, and the assistant coaches and management were whispering amongst themselves, making a racket like a marketplace.
"I think we still need to pursue Ray Allen. The Bucks are willing to negotiate, as long as we offer Richardson plus a first-round pick."
"Peja is more stable. With the King rebuilding, the stakes shouldn't be too high."
"I think Carter is a better fit; he can drive and shoot, and he complements Lin Hao perfectly..."
The discussion grew louder and louder, everyone was immersed in the fantasy of bringing in an all-star superstar, and no one noticed the young man in the corner who hadn't said a word.
Lin Hao was wearing an ordinary black T-shirt, with half a box of canned yellow peaches he had brought back from China at his feet. He twirled a pen between his fingers, his eyes calmly scanning each list on the table, until Mu Lin was about to make a final decision, at which point he suddenly moved.
"Snapped!"
With a crisp sound, Lin Hao slammed a stack of printed A4 papers heavily onto the conference table.
The force was so great that the water glass next to it bounced three times, instantly drowning out all the noise.
"No need to look anymore," Lin Hao's voice wasn't loud, but it struck everyone's hearts like a hammer. "None of these people are suitable."
Mullin frowned, his face full of impatience: "Lin, what do you know? These are top shooters analyzed by data, don't interfere."
Lin Hao ignored him, simply picking up the top sheet of paper with two fingers and tossing it in front of Mullin: "Open your eyes and look carefully. Dell Curry. I recommend him to be our dedicated shooting coach."
The air froze instantly.
For a full five seconds, you could hear a pin drop in the conference room.
Mullin's eyes widened as if he'd heard the funniest joke of the century, his face twitching: "You... what did you say? Dell Curry? That Hornets veteran who just retired? That role player who spent his whole life as a substitute?"
"It's him." Lin Hao nodded, his tone as certain as if he were announcing the truth.
"Hahahaha!" A bald management member next to him laughed so hard he slapped his thigh. "Lin Hao, are you still asleep? He's never even been an All-Star, what makes him qualified to coach NBA players on shooting? We need a renowned coach who can immediately improve our team's performance, not a rookie just for practice!"
"Exactly," another executive immediately chimed in, "If he were truly capable, why didn't he become a superstar himself? Why would he need to retire and become an assistant coach?"
"I think he's been outplayed in the playoffs," said lead scout John Bayless, adjusting his glasses with a sarcastic tone. "If word gets out that he's recommending a retired veteran as a coach, the whole league will laugh at our Warriors for having no one to rely on."
A torrent of criticism poured in. Mullin leaned back in his chair, looking at Lin Hao with disappointment and scrutiny in his eyes: "Lin, I know you played against him last season and thought he had a good shot. But playing basketball and coaching are two different things. He has no coaching experience whatsoever, and we can't gamble with the team's future."
Lin Hao sat there, neither speaking nor moving.
He slowly pulled a can of yellow peaches from the box, held the lid up with his finger, and snapped it open. The cloying sweet smell clashed with the cigarette smoke in the conference room.
He scooped up a spoonful of fruit pulp and stuffed it into his mouth, chewing it with a crunching sound, before raising his eyelids and scanning the group of clowns jumping around.
(Thinking to myself: These people are as shallow as the bottom of my sauerkraut jar. Besides playing with stats, they know nothing about basketball.)
"Are you done talking?" Lin Hao tapped the spoon against the edge of the jar, the metallic clang ringing out clearly.
Mulin snorted coldly: "I haven't finished yet! This is absolutely impossible..."
"Impossible my ass!" Lin Hao slammed his fist on the table.
"Bang!"
The solid wood table made a dull thud, and water splashed high from the glass. The group of people who had been so aggressive just moments before instantly fell silent, like roosters being choked.
Lin Hao stood up, his imposing height instantly enveloping the entire room. He pointed at Mu Lin's nose, his Northeastern accent blaring like a machine gun:
"Gary Mullin, listen to me! Who was third-worst in three-pointers last season? It was you! Who ruined the team with their failed signings? It was you! Now I've found you someone who can solve the problems, and you're giving me this bullshit resume?"
He grabbed the stat sheet from the table and slammed it down in front of Mullin: "Open your damn eyes and look at this! Dell Curry, 16-year career, 1245 three-pointers! 40.2% shooting percentage! He knows more about basketball than all of you so-called experts combined! All you guys do is sit in your offices enjoying air conditioning and playing with stats, how many of yours can you actually make on the court? Huh?"
Mullin's face flushed red and then turned pale as he pointed at Lin Hao, "You...you're making a personal attack! We need an experienced and renowned coach!"
"Experience? Reputation?" Lin Hao sneered, pulling a thick, worn-out notebook from his bag and slamming it on the table. "Look at this! My notes from six months of discussions with Dell Curry! Your lousy knowledge isn't even worth a look!"
The slap on the solid wood conference table made an even louder sound than when Lin Hao slapped the data sheet earlier.
Lin Hao stood up. His height and long arms cast a shadow over half of the table, and the gangster-like aura he exuded from the Northeast basketball court instantly filled the pretentious conference room.
The management team, who had been clamoring and questioning things, were silenced by this shout.
General Manager Mulin's Montblanc pen fell to the table with a "clatter," splashing ink all over the table.
"Bullshit!" Lin Hao's voice boomed in a thick Northeastern accent, making the crystal chandelier sway. "Have you guys rusted your brains from drinking so much coffee? What are you babbling about? Saying Dell Curry has no coaching experience? Not famous enough? Afraid he'll disrupt your crappy training system?"
Lin Hao walked around the table, took a few steps to stand in front of Mu Lin, and almost poked his nose with his finger:
"Let me break this down for you! Dell Curry, 16-year career, 1245 three-pointers! 1245! How many did our entire team make last season? A little over 900! He made 300 more than the whole team! You bunch of guys who can't even make open shots have the nerve to complain about his lack of experience?"
The entire room fell silent.
Mullin's face flushed red and then turned pale as he was bombarded with criticism. He wanted to retort, but found himself at a loss for words. The data was there for all to see, stark and uncompromising.
Lin Hao snorted and took out a black hard-shell notebook with frayed edges from his backpack.
"Clang!"
The notebook was slammed heavily onto the data sheet in front of Mullin.
"Open your eyes and take a look!" Lin Hao roared. "These are notes I've been taking since last season's game against the Hornets! Every page is the result of me and Dell Curry staying up all night discussing them! You think he can only shoot? Let me tell you, his understanding of shooting is deeper than all of you office workers combined!"
Mulin instinctively picked up the notebook.
Turning to the first page, the handwriting is neat and strong, with some sections even mixing English and Chinese. It details the shot selection options under different defensive intensities:
*Catch and release rhythm: Completed within 0.8 seconds, reducing the probability of defender interference by 47%.
*Drifting three-point power point: The critical point is a 35-degree twist of the waist; exceeding this will drastically reduce the hit rate.
*Extremely long-range three-pointer parabolic trajectory: The release arc must reach 55 degrees or more, otherwise it will definitely be blocked.
Each page features a hand-drawn breakdown of the shooting motion; the lines are rough, but the annotations are extremely professional.
Mulin flipped to the middle, his brows furrowing more and more, his disdain gradually turning into surprise, and finally into an incredulous solemnity.
"This...this is all what he said?" Mulin raised his head, his voice hoarse.
"Otherwise what?" Lin Hao said, hands in his pockets, chin slightly raised. "After last season's game against the Hornets, I specifically went to their house for three days. You guys thought I went on vacation? I went to learn something! You guys spend all your time studying how to run plays, how to set screens, how to pass the ball. But you've forgotten the simplest, most damn simplest principle—the ball is ultimately meant to go in the basket!"
Lin Hao pointed to the notebook, becoming more and more excited as he spoke:
"Dell told me my release point was too high, causing a 0.2-second delay in my shot. That 0.2 seconds is the difference between an open shot and a block in the NBA! You coaches have been studying this for half a year, and has anyone noticed it? No! All you do is tell me to shoot more, practice more, practice until my hands are almost broken, but you haven't solved the fundamental problem!"
Mullin fell silent. He turned to the last page of his notebook.
On that page, it was no longer Lin Hao's handwriting, but a different, elegant, and fluent English handwriting. It was a complete shooting training plan specifically designed for the Warriors' current guards.
The plan was so detailed that it included what to practice each day, who to target, and even anticipated potential problems with the players and how to correct them.
"This is..." Mulin's voice trembled slightly.
"This was written by Dell Curry himself." Lin Hao's tone calmed, but his confidence only grew stronger. "He's never been a coach, but he taught his son Stephen how to shoot for three years. That kid's only eight years old, and his shooting form is better than half the guards on our team. You think that's innate? That's coached!"
At that moment, the screen of Lin Hao's phone, which was on the table, lit up.
A WeChat pop-up appeared; it was a voice message from Zhang Qingying.
Lin Hao didn't immediately click to listen, but he knew it was definitely meant to calm him down. He pressed his temples, suppressing his anger slightly, and continued speaking to Mu Lin:
"Chris, I know you're afraid of taking responsibility. Fine, I'll take the risk for you."
Lin Hao suddenly did something that made everyone's jaws drop.
He pulled out his checkbook, tore off a check, signed a number on it, and tossed it to Mullin:
"Dale Curry's annual salary is $10, right? I'll cover it! I'll pay for it! If he doesn't coach well and the team doesn't perform well, consider this money as dog food. I'll personally bow and apologize to you bunch of trash, and treat the whole team to a month's worth of Northeastern-style stew, all you can eat!"
"boom!"
The meeting room exploded.
$10 may not seem like much to an NBA team, but their confidence and sense of responsibility impressed everyone.
Assistant coach Tom Smith stared, mouth agape for a long time. He had seen countless star players, but he had never seen one who was willing to pay out of their own pocket to hire a coach for the team.
"Lin Hao, you're being too impulsive..." Mu Lin said, his hands trembling as he held the check.
"Impulsive my ass!" Lin Hao snatched the notebook back, stuffed it back into his bag, and did so with the efficiency of someone cleaning up a mess. "It's settled then. Let him try out for a week. If you still think he's not good enough after a week, I'll eat this check!"
Meanwhile, on the other side of the Earth.
Fengtian Xinghuo Youth Training Camp.
Guo Ailun had just finished running five laps and was exhausted. He plopped down on the ground, clutching an empty peach jar in his hand, his eyes filled with resentment.
"Uncle Zhao, I'm not convinced!" Guo Ailun shouted at Zhao Dabao, panting heavily. "What's the use of just running? Let's compare skills!"
Zhao Dabao, a cigarette dangling from his lips, glanced at him sideways and asked, "What are we competing in?"
"Let's have a dribbling contest between our legs! Whoever loses has to treat everyone to canned peaches!" Guo Ailun stood up, his neck stiff.
Several junior students gathered around. Guo Ailun took a deep breath and began dribbling. His playing style was flashy, fast, and his changes of direction were sharp. Although there were still some unnecessary movements, his talent was undeniable.
As Zhao Dabao watched, the cigarette in his mouth fell to the ground. This kid's sense of rhythm was practically a carbon copy of Lin Hao's back in the day.
"Well done, kid," Zhao Dabao had to admit, "you're pretty good. But if you dare tell Lin Hao that I came to complain, I'll make you run 20 laps as punishment."
Guo Ailun chuckled, revealing two tiger teeth: "Uncle Lin loves me the most, he would never punish me."