His voice never wavered. It remained cold, an emotionless statement of fact.
"These aren't your problems. They're our problems. They're problems all of us share."
O'Neal raised his head and opened his mouth, wanting to say something, but in the end, nothing came out.
Kobe walked over to the tactics board and picked up a marker.
The plays from the previous game were still drawn on the whiteboard. Half had already been erased, but their general outlines remained visible. Kobe drew several arrows and player positions in a blank section.
"The next game is in Houston. Their court, their fans, their tempo. If we lose, it's three-three, Game 7, back in Los Angeles. But if we win, we advance to the NBA Finals. So we have to win the next one."
He wrote a number on the tactics board: 48.
"Forty-eight minutes. We can't let up for even a second. From the opening tip to the final buzzer. Every possession, every defensive play, every rebound—we have to play them like the last possession of the NBA Finals. If we lose in Houston, we have to play Game 7. Anything can happen in Game 7—the officials' whistles, how well players shoot, sheer luck. I don't want to leave our fate to luck."
He put down the marker, returned to his seat, and picked up his backpack.
"We fly to Houston tomorrow. The day after, at the Compaq Center, we're going to win. No ifs, no buts. Win."
He walked toward the door, his steps steady and his back straight. At the doorway, he paused without turning around.
"Get some rest tonight. Eight tomorrow morning, in the film room. I'll break down that fourth-quarter offensive run by the Houston Rockets for you."
The door closed. Silence hung over the locker room for