Fisher was being interviewed at the other end of the locker room.
His expression was calmer than either O'Neal's or Kobe's—not the calm of someone who didn't care, but the calm of someone who knew exactly what he needed to do. He had scored ten points in Game 6, an unremarkable stat line, but his defensive performance was something the box score couldn't capture.
He had hounded Cassell for a full thirty-six minutes, holding the Rockets' point guard to just eight points.
"The Rockets are a team worthy of respect,"
he said. "Barkley, Olajuwon, Pippen—their names alone are legends. It was an honor to face them on this stage. But now we have to look ahead.
"The NBA Finals. The Knicks. Li Fei, Sprewell, Houston, Sabonis. They're the defending champions, and they're the best team in the Eastern Conference. But we're not afraid."
Horry sat in a corner, quietly changing his clothes. He had scored just eight points in Game 6, but his defensive box-outs and rebounding had been key to the Lakers' fast breaks. The box score listed only eight rebounds, but three of them had come on the offensive glass, and every one had led to points.
"I won two championships with the Rockets,"
he said. "I know how good those three old guys are. But I also know their limits. Their legs can't hold up for seven games. The Knicks have the same problem—they have Li Fei, but Li Fei can't play forty-eight minutes. Can the others step up? Can Sprewell average twenty points? Can Houston hit shots in crunch time? Can Sabonis outrun O'Neal? I don't know. But I do know we're ready."
Phil Jackson was the last to appear before the reporters. His trademark calm expression remained on his face, as though the Western Conference