"You're our answer. Olajuwon keeps O'Neal occupied, and Pippen locks down Kobe. The rest is yours. Horry can't guard you. Nobody in this league can stop you in the low post. You need to get the ball down low and start every possession there. Make Horry foul you, make Grant rotate over, make O'Neal come over to help. When O'Neal comes over—"
He glanced at Olajuwon.
"Hakeem will be open."
Barkley chewed his gum, the corners of his mouth slowly lifting. It wasn't a smug smile, but the satisfaction of an old hunter watching his prey walk into a trap.
"So," he said, "you want this old man to demolish their weakest position."
"Exactly."
"And when their defense collapses inward, Hakeem will be waiting in the middle."
"Exactly."
"And when their defense falls apart, Scottie will knock down open threes on the wing."
"Exactly."
Barkley stood and patted his chest. The light in his eyes was exactly the same as it had been ten years ago, in Philadelphia, in Phoenix, during those MVP seasons.
"No problem," he said.
Tomjanovich put down his marker and looked around. His gaze moved from Olajuwon to Pippen, from Pippen to Barkley, then from Barkley to the young men sitting on the bench. His expression was as solemn as if he were delivering his last wishes.
"I know what people out there are saying about us," he said. "They say we're too old. They say we can't run anymore. They say the Lakers will finish us off in five games. Maybe they're right."
He paused.
"Maybe they're wrong."
He picked up the coaching board and headed for the door. When he reached it, he stopped and turned around.
"We have nothing to lose. Three old men against two young guys. Losing is what everyone expects.