NBA: Northeast China's spectacular dunks sweep the entire league.

Some meals just end up being eaten and then the meal is over.

Musselman's "defense-first" philosophy is completely stale; even dogs won't smell it. The Warriors are about to hit an iceberg, and the helmsman is still figuring out how to make the deck shine even brighter. That's not dedication; that's idiocy.

In the evening in Auckland, sea fog poured into the training facility as if it were free. Usually at this time, the facility would be bustling with noise, but today it was deathly quiet, so quiet that you could hear the echo of basketballs hitting the ground, one after another, making your heart race.

Lin Hao sat at the back of the locker room, his feet propped up on a locker, reading the news on his phone. ESPN was ripping the Warriors off again, with headlines that were increasingly scathing: "The Self-Cultivation of a Pseudo-Strong Team: What's Left for the Warriors Besides Lin Hao?"

He swiped away, clicked on an old photo, a picture of him with Musselman when he first entered the league. The old man's hair wasn't completely white then, his face was full of wrinkles as he smiled, patted him on the shoulder and said, "Lin, defense wins championships."

Lin Hao believed it at that time.

Now he understands that this statement is correct, but it depends on the era in which it is said.

In front of this group of lunatics, if you only think about defense, it's like trying to outdo someone with clothes on while you're naked—purely asking for trouble.

"Hey, Lin." Peyton pushed open the door, not shouting as usual, but moving quietly as if afraid of stepping on a landmine. He threw his bag on the ground, took out a toothpick and chewed on it, then leaned close to Lin Hao and said in a low voice, "Something's not right, something's really not right. I just saw that old fox Mullin carrying a briefcase into Musselman's office, his face as long as a donkey's. This looks like something big is about to happen."

Lin Hao tossed his phone into his bag without a word. He knew exactly what was going on. He'd seen this kind of thing countless times with the factory managers and directors back in his hometown in Northeast China. If business was bad, they'd replace the factory manager. If the sports team was struggling, they'd replace the coach. The logic was always the same; nothing new.

"Old Pei," Lin Hao stood up, cracking his neck, his knuckles popping, "our team is like a Ferrari engine with a tractor driver. Tell me, can this car go fast?"

Payton was taken aback, then burst into laughter, laughing so hard tears were almost streaming down his face: "Damn, that's a brilliant analogy! Tractor driver! Hahahaha, if Musselman heard that, he'd be choked with rage."

"So," Lin Hao picked up his jersey and pulled it over his head, "we should just get on with our business. This old house is on fire, there's no way to save it, so let's not get caught in the smoke."

Just then, the loudspeaker blared, and Musselman's dry, hoarse voice came through: "Everyone, assemble in the tactics room immediately. Immediately."

The tone was devoid of its usual gentleness; it sounded more like a death sentence.

The atmosphere in the tactics room was so heavy it could be wrung out. Musselman stood in front of the projector, his face ashen, like plaster on a wall. On the screen behind him was the same intricate defensive diagram, its dense lines making one dizzy.

"As everyone knows, we've been struggling lately, mainly defensively," Musselman began, his voice trembling slightly. "But I believe that as long as we stick to training and strictly execute our tactics, we'll definitely get back into form. Defense is always..."

"What's 'always'?" Lin Hao leaned back in his chair, interrupting the old man. He didn't look at Musselman, but at the ceiling. "Defense is always the ticket to the playoffs, right, Coach? I've heard that a million times. But Coach, can we look at reality? Our defense is like a sieve; anyone on the other side can come over and wreak havoc on us. Who can we guard?"

Musselman's face instantly turned a deep purplish-red. He pushed up his glasses, his finger trembling as he pointed at Lin Hao: "Lin! Watch your attitude! I'm making long-term plans for the team! Who do you think you are? Without defense, even if you average 50 points per game, it's useless!"

"I have no opinion, I have the data." Lin Hao sat up straight, his eyes shining frighteningly in the dim light. "Coach, let's not talk about those superficial things. Let's talk about the Dampier thing. If you tell him to camp, he really camps, and he camps like a rock. Once the opposing guard gets past him, it's a smooth road. If you tell him to come out and set a screen, he'll be out of breath after a couple of steps, like an old ox from Northeast China. This isn't a problem with the players, it's a problem with the tactical thinking. Your system can't keep up with these young guys anymore."

"You!" Musselman was trembling with anger. He was about to say something when the office door was pushed open.

General Manager Mu Lin walked in, followed by two assistants in suits. He didn't look at anyone, went straight to the podium, and held a folder in his hand.

"Excuse me, everyone," Mullin's voice was calm, but every player sensed the chill in it. "Regarding the team's recent performance, the management has conducted a deep reflection. We believe that the current tactical system is unable to maximize the team's potential."

He paused, his gaze sweeping across the room before finally settling on Musselman. There was no sympathy in his eyes, only a cold, businesslike indifference.

"As decided by the board," Mullin opened the folder, "Eric Musselman is relieved of his position as head coach, effective immediately. He will be temporarily transferred to the scouting department for a three-month evaluation."

The entire room fell into a deathly silence.

Musselman seemed drained of all his strength, his whole body hunched over. He opened his mouth, wanting to argue, but found his throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. His proud "defensive philosophy" was nothing but a fart in the face of capital.

Lin Hao watched this scene without much emotion. Competitive sports are cruel; it's all about winning and losing, nothing more to say. He was just wondering, who would take over this mess?

Mullin seemed to read his mind and continued, "As for the new head coach, we already have a preliminary idea. He's an old friend, and also a madman who can handle 'speed'."

madman.

The word reached Lin Hao's ears, and he abruptly looked up, meeting Mu Lin's gaze. Mu Lin nodded almost imperceptibly, his eyes conveying a "you just wait" message.

The meeting adjourned. Everyone filed out, no one daring to speak. Musselman remained alone in the empty tactics room, staring at the whiteboard covered with defensive tactics, like a statue.

Lin Hao stopped at the door. He glanced back at the lonely figure and sighed. He walked back and pulled an unopened box of cigars from his pocket—it was a gift from Zhao Dabao, that old bastard, when he last returned to China, who said it was "for getting things done."