MM Racing Chapter 77 If I Lose, I'll Treat You to a Stew in an Iron Pot
Chapter 77 If I Lose, I'll Treat You to a Stew in an Iron Pot
"Lin! I can't sign him directly."
The moment Mulin uttered those words, the air in the conference room seemed to drop several degrees.
Lin Hao's brows furrowed into a tight knot, his fists clenched unconsciously, his knuckles cracking softly. Just as he was about to explode, Mu Lin raised his hand and pressed him down, signaling him to calm down.
"But I can give him a chance."
Mulin abruptly changed the subject, his eyes gleaming with businessman's shrewdness: "Here's the arrangement: we'll invite him to Jinzhou for a one-month trial. Just one month. During this month, he'll give the players some lessons and organize shooting drills. If everyone thinks he's good enough after a month, we'll officially sign him. If not..."
Mullin's gaze pierced Lin Hao, his tone as stern as a pronouncement: "You must bow and apologize to the management in front of the entire team. Furthermore, you are not allowed to utter a single word regarding the team's future player recruitment and coach selection."
"OK."
Lin Hao agreed without hesitation.
Mu Lin was taken aback by Lin Hao's straightforwardness. He had prepared a whole bunch of excuses to deal with Lin Hao's bad temper.
"Now that we've reached an agreement," Lin Hao clapped his hands and looked around, "I'll call him now."
After saying that, he pulled a Nokia flip phone out of his pocket, flipped it open with a "snap," and quickly typed a number on the keypad.
"Lin, what are you doing?" Mu Lin asked anxiously. "This needs to go through procedures; the public relations department needs to contact us first..."
"Bullshit," Lin Hao said without even looking up. "By the time you finish the process, it'll be too late. I hired these people myself, and I made the calls myself."
The meeting room was deathly silent.
Everyone stared at Lin Hao. This group of white-collar workers in suits had never seen such a brutal and direct way of doing things before—calling a candidate and offering him a job right in front of management.
Lin Hao held the phone to his ear, and his expression changed instantly.
One second he was a hot-tempered young man with a thick Northeastern accent, the next he was focused, professional, and speaking fluent, clear English.
"Hi Dell, this is Lin Hao from the Golden State Warriors."
The call was connected.
The sounds from the other end could be faintly heard, accompanied by the "thump thump" of a basketball hitting the ground and the giggling of children.
Lin Hao's voice softened, carrying a rare respect and sincerity: "I don't know if you'd be interested in coming to the Warriors as their full-time shooting coach? We need you, Dell. After playing against you last season, I knew you were the world's best three-point shooter. Come to Golden State, and let's build a historic shooting team together."
There was a few seconds of silence on the other end of the phone.
Lin Hao waited patiently, his fingers tapping lightly on the table.
"Lin...really? Coaching? I just retired?" Dell Curry's voice sounded surprised, even a little bewildered.
"Yes, Dell. I know you're not ready, but your abilities are more than ready." Lin Hao's tone was firm. "What you teach Stephen is better than what any NCAA coach teaches. Give it a try, just for a week. If it's not a good fit, you can always go back."
"I need to talk to my wife and kids. Give me half an hour."
"No problem, I'll wait for your call."
Lin Hao hung up the phone.
He looked up at the room full of dumbfounded management, a wicked smile playing on his lips. His previous international air vanished instantly, and he reverted to the familiar Northeastern Lin Hao.
"How's that? My efficiency is pretty good, right? Direct connection, eliminating middlemen and their markups."
Manager A stared, speechless for a long time: "You...you just invited me like that?"
"What else can we do?" Lin Hao tossed his phone onto the table. "We still have to write letters? Business opportunities are fleeting, don't you understand?"
"You can't be so hasty!" Mulin slammed his fist on the table in frustration. "What if he doesn't agree? How embarrassing would that be if word got out!"
"What's so embarrassing about that?" Lin Hao scoffed. "If he actually comes, we've come out ahead. If he doesn't come, it just means he's cowardly, and we won't lose out either."
He paused, his gaze sweeping over the crowd, before throwing out that familiar bet:
"But since we've mentioned the risks, let's raise the bar. If he passes the trial, you guys treat the whole team to steak for a month. If he doesn't pass, I'll not only apologize, but I'll also treat the whole team to Northeastern-style stew for a month. How about that?"
"Pfft—" The assistant coach next to him sprayed out all the coffee he had just drunk.
Treat the whole team to iron pot stew for a month? How much would that cost? Lin Hao really doesn't care about money.
"You really don't suffer any losses." Mu Lin was both amused and exasperated, his tension greatly reduced by Lin Hao's actions.
[Ding! Host detected defying public opinion; the title "[Iron-Blooded Leader]" is activated, increasing team locker room control by 20% and management prestige by 15%.]
Just then, Lin Hao's phone, which was on the table, vibrated.
It was an email from Harris, which included the final design drawings for the "Yellow Peach Generation".
Lin Hao clicked on the picture and squinted at it. The bright red and green floral print on the side of the shoe was already printed on, quite eye-catching and festive.
But he still frowned and replied with a message:
"Harris, the tongue looks too bare. Add a 3D canned yellow peach design, the kind where you can see the fruit when you open the lid. Remember, this is the 'First Generation Yellow Peach,' what's it without the peaches?"
After sending the message, he switched back to WeChat and opened the video sent by Zhao Dabao.
In the video, Guo Ailun is practicing his shooting on the court.
It was already evening, and the streetlights were dim. The boy was covered in sweat, his clothes soaked through, yet he kept throwing. He'd miss, pick it up, and throw it again. His movements were still quite clumsy, but his indomitable spirit was palpable even through the screen.
Zhao Dabao's voice came through the video: "This kid's a stubborn mule, just like you. He won't eat if he can't score. The lunchbox I bought for him just now is cold, but he absolutely refuses to eat it."
Lin Hao watched the video, his eyes softening for a moment before he put his phone away.
The waiting time always feels long.
The clock in the conference room ticked away, each tick striking a chord in everyone's hearts.
Mullin kept checking his watch, while the assistant coaches whispered amongst themselves. Only Lin Hao remained calm and composed, even leisurely scooping out a spoonful of canned yellow peaches to eat.
Half an hour, not a minute off.
"Ring ring ring—"
Lin Hao's phone rang right on time.
All eyes immediately focused on his phone, and the atmosphere became as tense as if a bomb was being defused.
Lin Hao answered the phone, his voice still fluent in English: "Dell?"
On the other end of the phone, Dell Curry's voice was full of laughter and anticipation: "Lin, we accept the invitation. We will fly to Oakland in three days."
Yes!
Lin Hao's fingers gripped the phone so tightly they turned white. He jumped up from his chair and shouted into the phone, "Welcome to the Bay Area, Dell! See you in three days!"
After hanging up the phone, Lin Hao's smile hadn't even faded when he looked at the room full of people with complicated expressions.
Some people breathed a sigh of relief, some were terrified, and others had disbelief in their eyes.
"Did you all hear that?" Lin Hao shoved his phone into his pocket, his voice booming, "Dale Curry is landing in Golden State in three days! A week-long tryout! Anyone who dares to spout nonsense again, I'll make them compete with Guo Ailun in a between-the-legs dribbling contest, and the loser has to go to the airport to pick him up!"
Meanwhile, at a backyard basketball court in Charlotte.
Eight-year-old Stephen Curry, clutching a basketball, watched his father hang up the phone and excitedly rushed over: "Dad! Was that Uncle Lin Hao you mentioned? Are we really going to Jinzhou?"
"Yes, Steph." Dale Curry patted his son's head, his eyes sparkling. "We're going to go see if the stage we want is really there."
Three days.
It only takes three days.
The shooting revolution in Golden State is about to begin.