Harden crumbled again.
Almost no one understood Wang Yi's decision.
Michael Jordan, sitting in the Commentary Booth, was quick to analyze it.
"If Durant takes a three, given that he's made three of seven tonight, there's a good chance he'll hit it, and then the Kings will be in serious trouble. So Wang Yi chose to foul him and send him to the line. Even if he makes both free throws, the Kings will only be down three, giving Wang Yi one last chance to send the game to overtime."
Shaquille O'Neal, sitting beside him, looked incredulous.
"But if you're right, then Wang Yi's last shot has to go in. If he misses, they still lose. Wouldn't it be better to defend properly and let Durant try the three? Three of seven isn't that outrageous a percentage for Durant tonight. Is Wang Yi really so confident he'll make a three in the final seconds?"
Jordan laughed.
"You don't understand the confidence players at our level have. I don't blame you."
Jordan had not only possessed skills that surpassed everyone else's; his confidence had surpassed everyone's, too.
Late in a game, even when his team was down by one, the coach would get nervous, but Jordan would hand him a glass of water—as if to say, Relax. I won't let you lose this game.
Then there was the Finals between the Bulls and the Jazz.
In the final moments, the Bulls were down by one.
After stealing the ball from Malone of the Jazz, Jordan advanced into the frontcourt.
Most players would have tried to shoot as quickly as possible.
Even if they missed the game-winner, they could still grab the rebound and set up a second-chance play.
But Jordan dribbled slowly in the frontcourt, waiting until the final second to