Li Fei looked into his eyes. There was exhaustion in them, relief, and a veteran's resignation to the passage of time. But there was something else—fighting spirit.
The same invincible, unquenchable fighting spirit that had dominated the entire league in the nineties. It was still there, just not burning quite as brightly.
"See you next season," Li Fei said.
Jordan released his hand, bent down to pick up the ice pack from the floor, and headed toward the players' tunnel.
His steps were slow but steady. Under the lights of Madison Square Garden, his retreating figure looked especially lonely, yet stood especially straight.
At the tunnel entrance, he paused without looking back. He knew the young man behind him was still watching. He also knew that this young man would take the torch from his hands and carry the league to new heights. But he would never concede defeat. Never.
"See you next season," he murmured, then disappeared into the tunnel.
In the plaza outside the United Center, the old man holding the sign was still standing there. He was not watching the big screen, because the game on it had already ended.
He simply stood there, holding his "Thank you, Michael" sign and gazing at the arena's dome.
Someone beside him asked, "What are you looking at?"
The old man was silent for a moment. "I'm watching Jordan play."
"The game's over."
"I know." The old man lowered his sign and wiped the corners of his eyes. "But in my mind, he's still playing."
He turned and headed toward the parking lot. His steps were slow but steady.
The Chicago night wind blew hard, setting the flags in the plaza snapping. The figures in red jerseys slowly dispersed, but in their minds, Jordan was still playing.
Shooting fadeaways. Driving