On the morning of May 22, Los Angeles, Toyota Sports Center.
The Lakers' training facility stood in southwestern Los Angeles, a modern building encased entirely in glass curtain walls. At that moment, sunlight streamed through the skylights onto the court, making the hardwood gleam.
Practice began at ten in the morning, but by nine-thirty, most of the players had already arrived.
When Shaquille O'Neal walked into the gym, he carried a huge cup of sports drink in one hand and chewed on some kind of snack. His stride was as leisurely as if he were taking a walk on the beach, rap beats pulsing through his headphones.
He walked to the sideline, set down his drink, and clapped his hands.
"Brothers," his voice echoed through the empty gym, "today is the first practice day for the Western Conference Finals. Who's ready?"
Fisher was shooting beyond the three-point line without looking back. "Shaq, you're ten minutes late."
"Late?" O'Neal glanced at the clock on the wall. "Your watches are fast. Shaq's time is always right."
Kobe was stretching in the corner. At those words, the corner of his mouth twitched slightly—that was probably the closest expression he had to a smile. A patch of his practice jersey was already soaked through, clearly showing that he had been training for at least half an hour.
Phil Jackson stood at the sideline with his arms folded, his signature Zen-like expression on his face. He said nothing, merely watching the players warm up in silence.
Once practice began, the atmosphere was more intense than usual.
O'Neal dominated everything in the paint. Against backup center Travis Knight's defense, he threw down three consecutive monster dunks, each one making the rim hum and shudder. His spins, his little hooks, his baseline drives—all of it flowed as