May 22, New York, Madison Square Garden.
As the last glow of sunset sank into the Hudson River, Manhattan's streets began to surge with a tide of blue and orange.
Seventh Avenue was packed with fans in Knicks jerseys, holding signs and chanting slogans, stretching from 34th Street all the way to the arena entrance.
Hot dog vendors pushed their carts through the crowd, New York rap blared from speakers, and the whole neighborhood felt like a party heating up.
But the people inside the arena knew this was no party. This was war.
Two hours before the game, an unusual silence filled the visiting locker room.
Jordan sat in a corner with ice packs on his knees, flipping through a magazine. His expression was as relaxed as if he were lying on his own couch, rather than waiting for an Eastern Conference Finals game in the visiting locker room at Madison Square Garden.
No one dared disturb him. Not because he had a bad temper, but because everyone knew he was doing something only he understood—calming himself down.
In this arena, in this city, before every matchup against Li Fei, he needed that calm.
Because if he wasn't calm, he would remember those losses, those shots Li Fei had drilled over his head, those postgame press conferences where he had been forced to admit, "He played well."
A reporter cautiously approached him. "Michael, it's another playoff matchup against the Knicks. You've faced them in the playoffs for three straight years. Counting back to when Li Fei was with the Phoenix Suns, you've met in the playoffs for five consecutive years. How do you feel about it?"
Jordan turned another page without looking up.
"No particular feelings." His voice was as calm as if he were discussing the weather. "We