The tourist nodded. "Maybe. But getting to see Jordan play at Madison Square Garden means the trip wasn't for nothing."
The old man held out his hand. "Good luck."
The tourist shook it. "Same to you."
This was New York. This was Chicago. This was a collision between two cities, two teams, two eras. But on this May morning, on the eve of the series, something strange hung in the air. Not hatred, not hostility, but something almost tender—like two boxers embracing after twelve rounds, like two old trees saluting each other in the wind.
Everyone knew this was Jordan's last visit to Madison Square Garden as a player. Perhaps it would also be his last appearance in any arena as a player. That fact had softened the fire in everyone's hearts.
Eleven at night, Portland, Rose Garden Arena.
Game 6 between the Houston Rockets and the Portland Trail Blazers came to an end that night.
Before the game, the Trail Blazers' locker room was filled with the tragic resolve of a team fighting with its back to the wall.
Rasheed Wallace sat in the corner, his eyes as fierce as those of a trapped wolf.
Damon Stoudamire was stretching, his calf wrapped in thick bandages—the sprain from Game 5 had not fully healed, but he would not miss this do-or-die game.
"Men," Trail Blazers head coach Mike Dunleavy said from the center of the locker room, "win tonight, and we go to Houston for Game 7. Lose tonight, and we go home. It's that simple."
His voice was not loud, but every word carried weight.
Once the game began, the Trail Blazers showed everything they were supposed to have—youth, talent, speed, passion.
Wallace hit two three-pointers in the first quarter, his release point so high it drove defenders