Once Media Day wrapped up, preseason training camp got underway.
Typically, training camp lasted about a week, followed immediately by the NBA preseason.
For a team like the Lakers, who had undergone massive offseason upheaval, this week was particularly crucial.
Before camp officially tipped off, the Lakers held a Phil Jackson-style meditation session. Inside the film room, the players reclined on flat-lying chairs with the lights off and curtains drawn, while sage was lit.
Yang Shuai learned the whole story of the meditation session later from Garnett.
According to Garnett's description, he had smelled something resembling marijuana, and then heard someone snoring.
Once it was over, Phil Jackson asked the team to share their reflections on the meditation.
Kobe was the first to raise his hand, and his answer made the deepest impression on Garnett.
"I didn't think about anything."
"I didn't think about winning. I didn't think about our opponents. I didn't think about today's practice, or even basketball."
"But when I opened my eyes, I felt ready to face anything."
Frankly, Kobe's words sounded immensely pretentious, but it was unmistakably something Kobe would say.
"What did you share?" Yang Shuai asked Garnett curiously.
Garnett shook his head. "At first I didn't think about anything, but then the snoring annoyed the hell out of me."
Well... that sounded painfully real.
"I did ask Phil a question, though. I asked him if he was burning weed. He said no, it was sage—a 'cousin' of marijuana."
Sage. Only then did Yang Shuai register this detail he had previously overlooked.
In his memory, the earliest connection to burning sage traced back to Kyrie Irving.
During his time with the Nets, Irving made major headlines when he walked around the court holding smoldering sage before a game against the Celtics.
That stunt eventually became one of many anecdotes fueling his reputation as the mystic "Sage Kyrie."
Looking back now, Irving hadn't been an outlier after all—he had just been copying Phil Jackson!
Chatting along the way, Yang Shuai and Garnett entered the training facility.
Just then, however, he noticed that Kupchak, who had originally been walking with them, was nowhere to be seen.
While he wondered where Kupchak had vanished to, his attention was abruptly drawn to Phil Jackson in the center of the court.
Jackson wore a loose, gray long-sleeved shirt rolled up to his forearms, its hem tucked into dark blue track pants. On his feet were a pair of leather cross-trainers that looked years old, their laces loosely tied.
No suit, no tie, and none of those trademark gold-rimmed glasses—he looked just like an ordinary retired old man.
The most jarring thing, however, was what he held in his hands.
It was a hand drum, circular with a wooden frame and dark animal hide stretched taut over the head. It looked less like a modern musical instrument and more like an ancient artifact from a museum.
Then, Jackson began beating the hand drum.
*Thump... thump-thump... thump...*
The rhythm was steady and unhurried, like a heartbeat.
If the man holding it hadn't been Jackson, Yang Shuai would have thought it was some kind of indigenous performance.
The drumming wasn't loud, yet the entire training facility quickly fell silent. Several returning Lakers players began walking toward the center of the court, and though the newcomers had no idea what it meant, they followed suit and gathered in the middle.
Within moments, the squad was assembled.
It was at that exact moment that Yang Shuai understood Phil Jackson.
Whether it was meditation or a hand drum, these were all tools the "Zen Master" used to assert control.
Jackson stopped drumming, turned, and handed the instrument to Kurt Rambis beside him.
Then, Yang Shuai saw Jackson turn his gaze toward him. Moments later, Brian Shaw walked over in his direction.
"Leave the gym?"
Yang Shuai found Shaw's request baffling. After all, the sole reason he had come to the gym was to observe team practice.
Fortunately, Shaw had worked with Yang Shuai during Summer League, so he patiently explained the reason: when the Lakers—or more accurately, Phil Jackson's team—held practice, only the coaching staff and the players were allowed. Absolutely no one else could be present.
Yang Shuai was slightly stunned; he had never heard of such a rule before. But now he realized why Kupchak had slipped away beforehand.
Unable to make sense of it, Yang Shuai had no choice but to depart.
Back in his office, Yang Shuai threw himself into other tasks.
With the season approaching, various departments—not just scouting, but player development, medical, logistics, and more—needed him to act as the "bridge" connecting them to the basketball operations division. He even had to coordinate scheduling for both internal and external meetings.
He stayed swamped until the afternoon.
When he finally finished his tasks and went to see Kupchak, he found the man leisurely sipping coffee in his office.
Sure enough, no matter where you worked, the head always had an easier time than the assistant.
It was then that he brought up a few questions regarding Phil Jackson.
If the front office couldn't even observe team practices, how could they stay on top of the team's condition and make targeted trades?
After all, evaluating players solely on game performance offered an incomplete picture, since their play was shaped not just by skill, but also heavily by tactics and rotational schemes.
In plain terms, operating this way gave the coaching staff vastly greater authority over team affairs.
Whenever a rift formed between front office and coaches, the staff could simply counter: "Do you know these players better than we do?"
"That's Phil Jackson for you." Yang Shuai had said a great deal, but Kupchak offered only a single sentence in reply.
From his tone, Yang Shuai heard mostly resignation.
Phil Jackson was the most famous head coach in the NBA, the architect of three dynasties and nine championships across the Bulls and Lakers. His stature was indisputable.
He had his own set of rules. Forget Kupchak—even Jerry Buss had to tolerate him, because the Lakers truly couldn't do without him.
On top of his coaching pedigree, Phil Jackson was the boyfriend of Jerry Buss's daughter, Jeanie Buss. In front of him, Kupchak held little real weight.
Thinking it all through, Yang Shuai understood Jerry West's earlier warning even more deeply: "I need to remind you that the Lakers are a dysfunctional team." The internal politics of the Lakers were far more intricate than he had ever imagined.
After reporting on his work and heading back to his own office, Yang Shuai spent some time stretching his limbs.
He hadn't felt it during the offseason, but now that the season was underway, he realized the workload of an assistant far exceeded his expectations.
With a hundred-thousand-dollar annual salary, not a single cent was unearned.
He really needed to push toward becoming a team's general manager as soon as possible.
Once finished stretching, Yang Shuai brewed himself a cup of fruit tea, then sank into his chair, closing his eyes to rest and recharge.
Before long, however, a knock sounded at the door.
He opened his eyes and called out, "Come in."
A profoundly aggrieved face appeared in the doorway.
The visitor caught Yang Shuai completely by surprise. It wasn't another staff member, but Marcus Camby.
"Mr. Kupchak told me to come see you. He said you were the one who brought me to Los Angeles."
The very first words out of Camby's mouth after sitting down left Yang Shuai nearly at a loss for words.
Apparently, Camby had gone to Kupchak first, and Kupchak had promptly pawned him off on Yang Shuai.
"What happened?" Yang Shuai gathered himself.
"I feel like I'm being targeted," Camby said, looking wounded.
From Camby's account, Yang Shuai pieced together the sequence of events.
It had all started during morning practice—the very session Yang Shuai had been ushered out of.
Not long after practice began, Kobe started nitpicking everything Camby did, baiting him with relentless verbal jabs.
Once they transitioned to full-court scrimmages, Kobe went out of his way to challenge his rim protection.
"Look, I came here to win games, not to be somebody's target dummy."
When Kobe finally posterized Camby and unloaded a barrage of trash talk, Camby reached his limit and fired back, escalating into shoving and chest-bumping.
Fortunately, Garnett stepped in immediately to separate them.
Yang Shuai was somewhat surprised to hear that, considering Garnett had previously told him he planned on putting pressure on Camby.
It seemed that next to Kobe, even Garnett looked like the reasonable one.
Still, Yang Shuai wasn't entirely shocked overall.
People always practiced selective narration, emphasizing what favored them while glossing over unflattering details.
Most directly, Kobe wouldn't single out Camby without reason.
Yet according to the rest of Camby's story, how things unfolded next caught Yang Shuai completely off guard.
The altercation drew Phil Jackson over.
Camby had assumed that even if Jackson favored Kobe, he would at least scold both sides equally, since Kobe had started the trash talk.
Instead, Jackson raised his right hand in front of everyone and proceeded to lay out the team's hierarchy.
More accurately, a ladder.
At the very top of the ladder stood Kobe. Below Kobe was Garnett. And several rungs down from there sat Camby.
"If you want more say, you have to climb higher."
Those were Jackson's final words.
Yang Shuai was utterly flabbergasted.
Everyone knew that even with Garnett in town, these Lakers remained Kobe's team.
Yet Jackson hadn't just stated it publicly—he had literally assigned everyone a clear-cut rank.
An NBA franchise operated much like a corporation, and teammates were essentially coworkers. Most head coaches at least maintained the facade of "everyone is treated equally" when managing a locker room; otherwise, they risked losing the trust of the majority and forfeiting control of the team.
Phil Jackson was truly in a league of his own.
Chapter 54