A huge poster hung on the hallway wall, showing the Houston Rockets winning the championship in 1994—Olajuwon stood on the podium, holding up the championship trophy amid a shower of streamers. The poster had yellowed, but the man in it was still standing here, very much alive.
Olajuwon stopped and looked at the poster.
"Those were my best days," he said.
Barkley stood beside him, looking at the poster too. "Your best days? Your best days haven't come yet."
Olajuwon turned to look at him.
"Your best days," Barkley said, "are the days when you're still playing. It doesn't matter if you're twenty, thirty, or forty. As long as you're still out on that court, those are your best days."
Olajuwon was silent for a few seconds, then smiled. It was a faint, subtle smile, but a genuine one.
"Let's go," he said. "There are still reporters waiting out there."
The three men continued down the hallway. At the far end was the press conference room. The door stood open, and light spilled out, swallowing their shadows.
They went inside. The door closed.
Los Angeles, Staples Center. The atmosphere in the Lakers' locker room was completely different.
The champagne had already been opened, foam spilling from the mouths of the bottles onto the floor.
Some were laughing, some were shouting, and some were spraying each other. They had earned this celebration—after losing Game 5 on the road, amid a chorus of doubts, they had come to Houston and won in a rout on the Houston Rockets' home court, with twenty thousand fans roaring inside the Compaq Center, to advance to the NBA Finals.
O'Neal sat in front of his locker with a bottle of champagne in his hand, but he hadn't opened it. There was a smile on his