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

At 2:45 p.m. the next day, Lin Hao sat alone in a corner of the lobby coffee shop of the InterContinental Hotel.

He arrived fifteen minutes early. This was something Zhao Dabao had taught him: "In negotiations, the person who arrives first has a psychological advantage. Once you're seated and watching the other party walk in, your aura changes."

Lin Hao didn't know what kind of psychology this was, but he did as he was told. He chose the corner seat, with his back against the wall and facing the entrance, offering a panoramic view of the entire coffee shop. There were two cups of black coffee on the table, without sugar or milk, which he had ordered in advance. He had noted Thibodeau's habits in his phone's notes app and checked them three times yesterday.

The café wasn't crowded. By 3 p.m., the check-in rush had subsided, leaving only a few scattered travelers with suitcases in the lobby. Jazz music flowed from the overhead speakers, unhurried and gentle, as if deliberately soothing people's emotions.

Lin Hao placed his laptop on the table, screen down. Next to it was a manila folder containing materials he had worked on until 2 a.m. the previous night. He reviewed these materials three times, confirming that every piece of information, every date, and every proposal number was accurate.

At 2:58, Thibodeau pushed open the glass door of the coffee shop.

He was wearing a dark gray shirt today, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and no tie. He wore khaki trousers and brown lace-up leather shoes. His hair was neatly combed, and his glasses were polished to a shine. He looked a little more relaxed than he had at the airport yesterday, but his lips were still pursed into a straight line, and his face was expressionless.

His gaze swept across the coffee shop, and when he saw Lin Hao in the corner, he walked straight over without hesitation, pulled out the chair opposite him, and sat down.

Lin Hao pushed the untouched cup of black coffee in front of him.

Thibodu glanced at the coffee cup, didn't say thank you, picked it up and took a sip. He put it down and looked up at Lin Hao.

"Old Nelson didn't come?"

"They didn't come. You said it was just you and me."

Thibodeau nodded, slowly circling his finger along the rim of the coffee cup.

"Lin Hao, I'm not going to beat around the bush." ​​His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear as if it had been carved out. "I thought about it all night yesterday. What you're saying—defensive authority, training autonomy, Nelson not interfering—all sound good. But why should I believe it?"

Lin Hao didn't rush to answer. He first turned on his laptop and turned the screen to Thibodeau.

On the desktop is a folder named "Thibaud Rocket Proposal 2000-2005". Opening it reveals thirty-nine neatly arranged files, divided into five subfolders by year. Each file is named in the format "Year + Month + Proposal Name + Proposal Number".

Thibodeau's gaze fell on the screen, and his finger paused on the table for a moment.

Lin Hao didn't say anything, and opened the first file.

In November 2000, the "Optimization Scheme for Pick and Roll Defense System" was published, with the scheme number TIB-2000-001.

The file was opened, revealing scanned copies. Every page of the original proposal had been photographed; the edges were somewhat blurry, but the content was clearly legible. At the end of the proposal was a handwritten comment, the handwriting messy, but every word was recognizable: "Disagree. Too radical."

Sibodu looked at the line of instructions without saying a word.

Lin Hao then clicked on the second one.

In March 2001, the "Weak Side Rotation Defense Training Manual," program number TIB-2001-008, was reviewed with the following comment: "Disagree. It does not conform to the team's existing system."

Thirdly, in July 2001, the "Full-Field Pressing Tactical Change Plan" was reviewed with the instruction: "Disagree. The risk is too high."

Fourthly, in January 2002, the "Screening Schedule After Pick and Roll" was commented with the instruction: "Disagree. Players cannot execute it."

The fifth. The sixth. The seventh.

Lin Hao flipped through the pages one by one, at a moderate pace. Each time he turned a page, Thibodeau's gaze would linger on the screen for a second or two before Lin Hao moved on to the next page.

When it came to the fifteenth document, Sibodu spoke.

That's enough.

His voice was soft, but Lin Hao could detect a hint of hoarseness.

Lin Hao stopped turning the page, turned the computer screen back, and closed it.

The jazz music in the coffee shop changed; the saxophone sounded lingering and deep, like someone sighing.

Thibodeau took off his glasses, pulled a cleaning cloth from his shirt pocket, and slowly wiped the lenses. He was very meticulous, cleaning every nook and cranny from left to right and from top to bottom.

"Where did you get these?" He didn't look at Lin Hao, his voice was directed at the table.

"I had someone find them for me. I can't say exactly who, but I can guarantee that every single one is genuine."

Thibodeau put his glasses back on and looked at Lin Hao again. His gaze was different from yesterday's. Yesterday in the car, it was a coldness of scrutiny, defensiveness, and maintaining distance. Today, beneath that coldness, something was loosening.

"What are you trying to prove by bringing all this up?"

"It's not proof, it's to let you know." Lin Hao opened the manila folder, pulled out the first page, and placed it in front of Sibodu.

It was a hand-drawn table with neat handwriting, clearly not computer-printed. The table's title was: "Warriors' Defensive Problems vs. Thibodeau's Solutions."

The left column lists the defensive weaknesses exposed by the Warriors in the three exhibition games: slow switching on pick-and-rolls, weak-side rotation gaps, inability to keep up with off-ball cuts, and disorganized transition defense against fast breaks. The right column corresponds to the numbers and core ideas of Thibodeau's rejected solutions with the Rockets.

Lin Hao pointed to the table and explained item by item: "Regarding our pick-and-roll switching problem, you wrote a solution in your proposal in January 2001—'strong delay + weak-side low post help defense,' which eliminates the need for the interior players to follow out and relies on the weak-side forwards to rotate in advance. Regarding our weak-side rotation vacuum, you drew a rotation diagram in your proposal in June 2002—'power forward baseline movement,' with the power forward rotating back and forth between the strong and weak sides to help. Regarding our inability to keep up with off-ball cuts, you wrote about it in your first proposal in November 2000—'calling out names when switching,' where everyone must call out the player they are switching to."

He paused, looking into Thibodeau's eyes.

"I read each of your thirty-nine proposals three times. Every single one of your solutions fits perfectly into the Warriors' current defensive problems. Nobody uses these things on the Rockets, but we can. In the entire league, only you can patch this hole for us."

Thibodeau stared at the hand-drawn table and remained silent for a long time.

His hand rested on the table, his fingers slightly bent, as if he had been holding onto something and then let go.

"You've been with the Rockets for five years," Lin Hao said in a lower voice. "Five years, thirty-nine proposals, and three were approved. And those were just minor, harmless changes—changing training time from two hours to two hours and fifteen minutes, and video analysis meetings from three to four times a week. None of the things you really wanted to do were approved."

He paused, his tone becoming very calm, without any sentimentality or fervor, just the straightforward honesty typical of Northeasterners: "Tom, I'm not here to give you empty promises. I'm not going to spout nonsense like 'You'll be remembered in history if you come to the Warriors.' I'm telling you the truth—we need you, and you need us. You need a place where you can pour out everything you've been holding back for five years. We need a person who can bring this pot of porridge together."

Thibodeau raised his eyes and looked at Lin Hao. His lips moved slightly, then he pursed them again.

Lin Hao pulled out the last item from the manila folder and pushed it in front of Sibodu.

It was a letter. Not a printed one, but handwritten. The paper was torn from a notebook, and the edges were a little rough. The handwriting was crooked, with some areas of ink so thick it wouldn't bleed through, and others so faint they were almost invisible.

"This was written by the old man last night. He thought his handwriting was too ugly, so he wrote it twice. This is the second time."

Sibodu picked up the letter.

The letter was very short, only four lines:

Tom:

Come.

You decide on the defense.

The attack is my responsibility.

Let's get the rings together.

—Don Nelson

Thibodeau stared at the four lines of text for a long time. His expression remained unchanged; there was no excitement, no emotion, he simply stared at them quietly. But Lin Hao noticed that the knuckles of his fingers, which were gripping the letter, were slightly white.

The jazz music in the coffee shop stopped. After a brief silence, a piano piece was played, the notes falling like raindrops.

Sibodu folded the letter, placed it on the table, and flattened it with his fingers.

"Lin Hao," he said, his voice low.

"Um."

"Do you know what was the hardest thing about being with the Rockets?"

"Wasn't the proposal rejected?" Lin Hao asked.

"It's common for proposals to be rejected. Which teaching assistant hasn't had a proposal rejected?" Thibodeau's gaze fell on a spot on the table, unfocused. "What's most frustrating is that Van Gundy never tells me why."

He paused, his voice flat, as if he were talking about someone else: "He said 'it doesn't fit the team's system,' but he wouldn't explain what the system requires. He said 'the players can't execute it,' but he wouldn't tell me how to teach them to execute it. He said 'the risk is too high,' but he wouldn't analyze the risk-reward ratio with me. He just said no, and then told me to figure it out myself."

"Five years. I've been pondering this for five years, and in the end I still can't figure it out. Is it that he doesn't believe in my plan, or that he doesn't believe in me as a person?"

After saying this, Sibodu fell silent.

Lin Zhao didn't reply. He knew that at this moment, there was no need to speak; what was needed was to wait.

After waiting for about half a minute, Thibodeau took a deep breath, picked up the letter, folded it twice, and put it in his shirt pocket.

"I'll take this," he said.

Seeing his action, Lin Hao felt a weight lifted from his heart. Not completely, but at least half of it.

"What about the warriors—"

"I didn't say I agreed." Thibodeau raised his hand, stopping Lin Hao from continuing. "I said I need three days. Today is the first day."

Lin Hao nodded and didn't ask any further questions.

Thibodeau stood up and pushed his chair back into place. He picked up the now-cold black coffee, took one last sip, and put it down.

"Lin Hao".

"Um."

"You've done your homework very well. More than any player I've ever seen."

This was the first compliment Lin Hao heard from Thibodeau. It wasn't the enthusiastic kind, or even a compliment; it was more like an objective evaluation from one meticulous person to another.