Before the game, reporters had already been waiting a long time in the hallway outside the Lakers' locker room.
O'Neal was the first to emerge. He wore a purple suit jacket over a white shirt with the collar open, and a thick gold chain hung around his neck, gleaming so brightly under the lights that it hurt to look at.
He walked slowly, every step carrying the ease of someone who knew they were all waiting for him.
"Shaq, you're matched up against Sabonis in Game 1 of the NBA Finals. How many points do you think you can score on him?"
O'Neal smiled that trademark smile, a little smug and a little lazy.
"Arvydas is my friend, and I respect him a lot. He's a great player and a great opponent. But tonight, I'm going to score 30 on him. Not because he isn't good enough, but because I'm too strong."
The reporters hurriedly took notes.
"Aren't you worried about Li Fei? He'll give you trouble when he comes over to help."
O'Neal's smile faded a little.
He lowered his head and looked at the reporter who had asked the question. The way he towered over him was an answer in itself.
"Li Fei is the best help defender in the league, bar none. His wingspan, his leaping ability, his timing—put those together, and he's every big man's nightmare. But I'm not afraid of nightmares. I'm Shaquille O'Neal. I'm a nightmare myself."
He patted his chest, producing a dull thump against his suit jacket.
"I'll put the ball in the basket before he comes over to help. I'll spin before he jumps. I'll dunk before he can block me. That's not bragging. That's a fact."
The moment Kobe walked out of the locker room, everyone sensed a difference.
It