Champion Creed
Chapter 287 - 287 124 The Battle of Hypocrisy Vote for monthly ticket!

287: 124: The Battle of Hypocrisy (Vote for monthly ticket!) 287: 124: The Battle of Hypocrisy (Vote for monthly ticket!) A insignificant opponent made Roger’s 42 points in three quarters seem less explosive.

Jerry Stackhouse coined himself a new nickname tonight: Duke Duck.

The nickname was given by the young Philadelphia fan Kobe Bryant who came to the game, “Because Jerry’s got nothing tough about him except his beak, just like a duck,” he told reporters.

Even Roger himself didn’t care much about the victory, “If it had been against another team, those 42 points in three quarters would have been impressive.

But…

damn, only managing that little against a complete piece of trash like Jerry is just embarrassing.

If it were Michael, he might have scored 50!

It proves that I still need to strengthen my left hand!”

Roger’s comments seemed to praise Jordan on the surface, but in reality, he belittled Stackhouse as being worthless.

“Would you like to talk about your next opponent, the Miami Heat?” the reporter changed the subject.

The smile on Roger’s face vanished instantly, “I’ve said, my right hand is waiting for Pat Riley!”

Pat Riley is a coach who truly treats basketball like a war.

He came to the Miami Heat to make the team stand out through bloody competition.

But every form of war has one thing in common—it’s brutal.

The maniac who regarded basketball as war also brought this trait into his team.

Today, Heat chief physician Harlan Selesnick walked into Pat Riley’s office, as usual, to report the players’ recent physical condition.

Ever since Riley took full control of the Heat, the medical team had been under immense pressure.

They were constantly worried about the players’ health every single day, every single training session.

Everyone knew Riley’s training was extremely dehumanizing, but it turned out that Pat Riley’s treatment of his own players was no different than treating them like animals.

In the mid-18th century, Florida was home to the first known community of free blacks in North America.

Escaped slaves established their own camps and strongholds in St.

Augustine, creating a refuge for themselves.

To the black slaves desperate at that time, Florida was their promised paradise.

But the blacks of that era could never have imagined that in the 21st century, this holy land under the leadership of Pat Riley would be the first to restart the serfdom system.

Under Riley’s iron-fisted rule, the intensity of the scrimmages and training sessions terrified Harlan Selesnick.

He once thought about calling the Pentagon to have them kidnap Patrick Ewing, the center whose knees were already ruined in college.

How could he possibly play for so long under Riley?

Ewing must have some sort of Neutron Star technology in him!

At this moment Harlan Selesnick was holding the health report in his hands, reporting to Riley one by one.

Most members of the Heat were still reasonably healthy, but precisely the team’s core player, Mourning, had some issues.

“His back muscles are a bit sore.

To avoid further injury, I suggest letting Alonzo rest for a few games and reduce his training load,” Harlan informed Riley.

Riley’s gaze was icy, “Does this injury require surgery?”

“No, that’s not necessary.

If it’s just muscle soreness, we have many methods to alleviate it.

It hasn’t reached the point of needing surgery.”

“Good, then give Alonzo some painkillers, let him continue to train, continue to play, continue to fight,” Riley’s tone was as indifferent as if he was telling Harlan Selesnick to buy a bottle of Gatorade for Mourning, as if playing while injured was no big deal to him at all.

“What?”

“You heard what I said.

An injury that doesn’t require surgery doesn’t need a rest.

A problem that can be perfectly solved with painkillers, why go through so much trouble?

Just tell Alonzo directly like I said, he’ll understand.”

Harlan Selesnick was just a team doctor, and he had to listen to the team’s general manager.

But as a doctor, he still reminded Riley, “Painkillers are not a panacea, Pat.

Overuse can cause irreversible damage to a player’s kidneys.

Painkillers can only relieve symptoms; they’re not a solution to the problem.”

Riley waved his hand, not really listening, “You always exaggerate things, Harlan.

Back when we played, taking painkillers was as common as eating and drinking, and I’ve never heard of anyone having kidney problems.”

“Of course, I’m not saying it will definitely lead to problems, but there is indeed such a probability.”

“Such probability is a risk that a professional player should assume.

Every player has a probability of being injured before every game, so what?

Do they refuse to play because of that?

The game against the Magic Team is coming up, and we can’t be without Alonzo!”

Pat Riley was adamant, and Harlan knew he couldn’t persuade him.

Riley was cold like a vampire, and now Harlan could understand why the Lakers had driven him away.

But that’s also why Riley was so favored by the team owners.

A manager like Riley, who squeezes every last drop out of his employees, is what every owner craves.

So whatever Riley does, however he grinds down the players, he’ll always have the support of the management.

Even if a former President of the United States was found guilty, the management wouldn’t blame Riley.

In the afternoon, Harlan Selesnick did as Riley ordered, handing the painkillers to Mourning.