Inside the Compaq Center locker room, the air had solidified like a thick pane of glass.
No one spoke. No one moved. Only the drip-drip of a faucet sounded especially clear in the silence. The three aging veterans, whose combined ages exceeded one hundred, sat before their respective lockers like three statues weathered by time yet still standing tall. Their sweat had not dried, their jerseys still clung to their bodies, but they no longer had the strength to change.
At that moment, they simply sat there, breathing, trying to accept one fact—the season was over.
Barkley was the first to speak.
He sat in front of his locker, the ice pack on his knee having been replaced three times already, but his knee was still swollen like a steamed bun. Kinesiology tape covered his shoulder, and his right hand was wrapped in bandages. Every injury told the story of what he had given in this series.
His stat sheet lay beside him: eighteen points and eleven rebounds. It looked decent, but he knew most of those numbers had come in the first half. He had scored only four points in the second half because his legs could no longer run. He stared at the sheet for a long time, then crumpled it into a ball and tossed it into the trash can.
The paper ball struck the rim, bounced out, and landed on the floor. He did not pick it up.
"I'm tired."
His voice was hoarse, as though he had walked through the desert for three days and nights. "Not physically tired. Mentally tired. Every box-out, every jump, every sprint, I kept telling myself—hold on a little longer, hold on a little longer. But in the second half, my legs stopped listening to me. I clearly knew how