Ewing shook his head, his eyes filled with admiration, along with the complicated emotion an old veteran felt when facing someone even older. "He's not human. He's Michael Jordan."
Harper sat in his chair with his hands clasped behind his head, staring at the ceiling. "I've played in this league for fourteen years and spent three years as Jordan's teammate. I thought I'd seen every miracle he could perform. Tonight, I saw another one."
At the press conference, the reporters waited for a long time.
Jordan usually appeared at the press conference within fifteen minutes after a game, but today, they waited nearly half an hour.
When Jordan finally pushed open the door and walked in, everyone saw the exhaustion on his face—an exhaustion that was not simply the fatigue of playing a high-intensity game, but something deeper and heavier, as if something had hollowed him out from within.
He sat down in the chair. The microphone stand in front of him was a little low, so he adjusted it. His fingers trembled slightly, but his expression remained calm.
"Michael, you scored 55 points tonight. This was your last playoff game at the United Center. Is there anything you'd like to say?"
Jordan fell silent for a moment. His lips moved, but no sound came out. He cleared his throat before speaking, his voice as hoarse as sandpaper scraping against wood. "I just did what I had to do. My teammates needed me to score, so I scored. My coach needed me to stay on the court, so I stayed on the court. Nothing special."
A reporter pressed him. "Was this your last playoff game at the United Center?"
The corner of Jordan's mouth twitched slightly, the expression somewhere between a smile and a bitter one. "Maybe. If it was,