The Golden Age of Basketball-Chapter 368 - 101 Give Me the Ball_2

Ramsay wore a pair of fancy plaid bell-bottoms that he often donned in his youth. Since entering the 1980s, the aged Jack had seldom dressed like this, but today he wanted to bring some change to everyone.

In the strategy room, Jack took off his shirt, put on his glasses, grabbed a bottle of rum, and thought about the strategies for the night’s game while he looked at data reports.

The past couple of days had been tormenting for Ramsay, because, tactically and in terms of rotation, the Trail Blazers couldn’t find a solution to the Celtics’ five-star starters, not a single one.

This was especially true for Marques Johnson, who was causing immense trouble for the Trail Blazers on both offense and defense. Even Gan Guoyang could no longer afford to be distracted by Marques.

Taking care of Parrish and McHale on the inside, as well as Bird one-on-one in critical moments, was already Ah Gan’s limit, unless another one of him could be cloned, which was clearly impossible.

When facing the Rockets, the Trail Blazers had cards in hand and remained calm, even after trailing 2:3; they could still win two consecutive games to turn the tables. By game six, the Rockets had run out of moves.

Now the situation was different. The Trail Blazers still had cards in hand, but almost none they could use. Was it possible to sneakily pull Ah Gan back from the card table and play him again?

After a season of torment, Bill Walton’s knees and ankles were swelling more severely, and now he could only last 20 minutes per game.

Even if they started with three big men, what about the more than twenty minutes without Walton? And starting with three big men still wouldn’t solve the problem with weak backcourt defense.

He thought to the very end and came up with only one word: Fight.

Other than fighting for form and luck, there seemed to be no other plan.

Usually by this stage in the Finals, both sides would have played most of their cards, and it would be a desperate struggle.

Jack Ramsay felt anxious, and at noon, he hadn’t eaten anything, and he drank another bottle of rum to suppress his anxious mood.

When Dr. Ogilvy saw Ramsay in the treatment room at the arena, noticing his red face and haggard look, he hurriedly asked, "Jack, have you been drinking?"

Ramsay nodded his head, and Dr. Ogilvy said, "Is your anxiety acting up? I told you, don’t numb yourself with alcohol; it’s not good for you."

Ramsay collapsed onto a chair and said, "I can’t control myself. I thought I was better, but...no, I can’t do it. I feel like we’re going to lose tonight, and I can’t accept that..."

Dr. Ogilvy patted Ramsay’s face and said, "What are you talking about? You need to have confidence. Everyone is waiting for the team to win. Do you still remember 1977?"

"1977 was 1977, now it’s 1986. Experience tells me that the initiative of the series has shifted to the Bostonians; we have no countermeasures against their five-star starters, and I can’t think of any countermeasures. They are not the Philadelphia 76ers of 1977. The 76ers were a mess; Gene Shue was an idiot. He couldn’t handle the players’ relationships, and they screwed up. The Celtics are different; I understand this team..."

"You’re being defeatist before the battle! Jack, you’re not like this, you...you’re under too much pressure. You can’t be like this. You should just sleep it off in the treatment room now. I’ll come wake you at 3:30, and then you’ll get ready to get into the game."

Ramsay’s head was spinning from the alcohol as he lay on a bench with his eyes closed. Dr. Ogilvy turned off the lights, closed the door, and let Ramsay have a good sleep.

For the past two days, Ramsay had hardly had a full night’s sleep, with the immense pressure of the Finals and the fervor of Portland people torturing him.

His obsessive-compulsive disorder and anxiety, which had improved substantially, erupted once again in this extreme environment.

Under the influence of alcohol, Ramsay dozed off, incessantly dreaming. He dreamt of the grand celebration of winning the championship in 1977, the disappointment of Portland fans after losing the key game.

He dreamt he was back on that refrigerated cargo ship with hull number YP643, appointed as its captain. By that time, America had already dropped two atomic bombs on Japan, and World War II had ended. Their plans to land on the Japanese mainland were canceled, and his final mission was to take this ship, along with 2 officers and 25 soldiers, back home and conclude his military career.

The refrigerated ship was loaded with too much cargo and, being a wooden-hulled vessel, could not reach the fleet’s required speed of 10 knots. Once separated from the fleet, they would not be able to arrive at Pearl Harbor on time and would have to be sent to the desolate and barren Marshall Islands.

Heeding the advice of the crew member Wright, he discarded some ballast to reach a speed of 10 knots. The cost was a very bumpy ride, but they kept up with the fleet until the fourth night when he was awakened by a violent knocking on the door. It was Wright, informing Ramsay that something had gone wrong.

The two went up to the deck; the night Pacific Ocean was pitch black. The distant twinkling lights were from the fleet that had changed course. Due to the lookout’s negligence, they had strayed from the group; they wouldn’t make it back to Pearl Harbor on time.

Drifting on the endless dark ocean with no direction, no guidance, and no fleet to follow, the old wooden ship couldn’t find its way home. A great anxiety and tension, like the darkness, filled Ramsay’s heart. He felt his chest was about to explode, he wanted to roar, but no sound came out; he wanted to call for help loudly, but who could save you in the Pacific Ocean?

Just then, a light broke on the horizon—it was the sun’s glow. The sun rose slowly from the east, dispersing the darkness. Suddenly, he saw the distant fleet; they could still catch up...

"Jack, Jack, wake up, Jack!"

Ramsay awoke from his sleep, sweat-drenched. Standing beside him was none other than Gan Guoyang.

"What’s wrong, Jack? You’re sweating profusely, did you have a nightmare?" Gan Guoyang asked.

"Oh... how come you’re here?"

"Dr. Ogilvy sent me to get you. How can you still be in the mood to sleep here?"

"I... I had some drinks, sorry, just thinking about tactics."

"Thinking about tactics? At this time, just give me the ball and that’s it!"

Ramsay looked at Gan Guoyang, who was very serious.

"Give me the ball, I’ll score 50 points, we can definitely win the game, stop thinking nonsense, Jack."

"Oh right, that outfit you’re wearing today is quite flamboyant, trying to recapture the feelings of your youth?"

"This isn’t the most flamboyant one, just regular plaid pants. I brought an even flashier pair, I’ll go change into those."

Ramsay got up and went to his office to change his clothes, as his sleeping attire and the waist of his pants were all soaked with sweat. 𝒻𝑟𝘦𝘦𝘸ℯ𝒷𝑛𝘰𝓋ℯ𝘭.𝘤𝘰𝘮

Gan Guoyang wore a long white shirt, and together they proceeded from the corridor to the locker room, ready to start tonight’s game.

"Prepare yourself to play for 48 minutes tonight, Sonny."

"If you take me out, I’ll hit you."