"Boss," he said weakly, "I really think you should play football."
Li Fei sat beside him, leisurely drinking water. "Why?"
"Because your body is too freakish." Jackson sat up with a serious expression. "Seven foot four, 265 pounds, and you can run, jump, and shoot—this makes no sense. God must have been drunk when He made you."
Sprewell came out of the shower room, his hair still dripping. "Stephen, how many points did Li score over your head today?"
"I don't count that."
"I counted for you." Sprewell held up three fingers. "At least thirty points. And Li only played three quarters."
Jackson let out a wail and covered his face with a towel.
Li Fei stood up and patted him on the shoulder. "Don't worry, Stephen. Your defense was already very good today."
Jackson peeked out from behind the towel. "Really?"
"Really." Li Fei spoke earnestly. "At least you jumped. You didn't block it, but you jumped."
"...What difference does that make?"
"It makes a huge difference," Li Fei said. "Jumping means you still have fighting spirit. If you don't jump, you've already lost."
Jackson froze for a moment, then laughed. "Boss, are you comforting me, or yourself?"
Li Fei did not answer. He picked up his backpack and walked toward the door.
"Number 22," he said without looking back, "let those old men from Chicago know that New York's basket wasn't made for them."
A low chorus of agreement rose from the locker room.
Meanwhile, in Chicago.
The Chicago Bulls' plane landed at O'Hare International Airport in the evening. Outside the cabin windows, Chicago lay under a gray dusk, while winds off Lake Michigan whipped the flags beside the runway into snapping waves.
The players dragged their exhausted bodies down the stairway. Jordan walked at the front, his