No one rested. No one spoke.
Everyone knew exactly what awaited them: the most terrifying dragon's den and tiger's lair in the league.
After an unknown amount of time, the plane slowly descended and came to a steady stop at Detroit Airport.
The moment the cabin door opened, a bone-chilling blast of cold wind struck them head-on.
Completely unlike the mild weather in Los Angeles, Detroit in June had glaring sunlight that seemed to stab painfully into their bodies.
Wave after wave of heat crashed into them.
Like flame-element Beasts ready to devour the Lakers.
Everywhere along the airport passageways were huge posters celebrating the Pistons' three straight championships.
Close-ups of Arthur's domineering dunks and Antoine's towering figure overlooking the court covered every wall.
Banners and slogans celebrating the Pistons' impending fourth straight championship were everywhere.
There was not the slightest respect for the visiting team, only overwhelming contempt and arrogance.
Once they left the airport terminal, every street screen, billboard, and illuminated sign in sight
was looping documentaries about the Pistons winning championships, along with pregame sports clips mocking the Lakers.
Pistons Fans were everywhere on the streets, moving about in groups with fierce looks in their eyes.
They stared at the people in Lakers practice gear, pointing at them, laughing, and mocking them.
Whistles, laughter, and taunting chatter poured endlessly into their ears.
In this city where everyone was a diehard supporter of the dynasty,
the Lakers, who had come from far away, were like a flock of lambs that had wandered into a pack of wolves.
Weak, thin, helpless, utterly out of place.
They were the victors who had fought their way out of the Western Conference.
Yet deep in enemy territory, they could not even receive the most basic respect.
A depleted team, aging veterans, inexperienced