Back at the apartment, he showered and lay down on the bed. The ceiling was white, without any decorations. He liked it that way—simple, clean, free of distractions.
He closed his eyes, and the footage began playing again.
This time, it was a clip of Pippen guarding Karl Malone in the 1998 Finals. That had been Pippen at his peak, his feet as quick as Lightning, his long arms always appearing in the most lethal spots. Pippen was thirty-four now. His feet had slowed by half a step, though his arms were still just as long. But half a step was enough. In the playoffs, half a step was the distance between life and death.
He turned over and forced himself to stop thinking. There was still much to do tomorrow.
At two in the morning, he finally fell asleep.
Houston.
That same evening, the Houston Rockets' practice facility was brightly lit.
It was an old gym located in an industrial district southwest of Houston. Much of the paint on its exterior walls had peeled away, and the asphalt in the parking lot was riddled with cracks. But inside, the hardwood floor gleamed, the nets had been newly replaced, and the equipment in the weight room was all top-of-the-line—the old men knew that their bodies were their last weapons, and a place for maintaining those weapons could not be neglected.
Practice began at four in the afternoon and lasted until eight that night. Four hours was already the limit for a team with an average age of thirty-five.
Olajuwon was the first to leave the court. He was thirty-seven, and his knees needed ice immediately after practice. He sat on a chair by the sideline with both legs submerged in ice buckets, towels draped over his knees. His expression was