The lights at Madison Square Garden dimmed, then came back on.
Before the tip-off, Sabonis stood near the center circle, hands on his hips, watching O'Neal across from him.
His expression was calm, but there was something in his eyes—not nerves, but the silence of a veteran before his final charge.
The referee blew his whistle and tossed the ball into the air. Sabonis did not jump. His knees would not let him outjump O'Neal.
He merely rose onto his toes, watched O'Neal tap the ball backward, then turned and ran toward the frontcourt.
On the Knicks' first possession, the ball was in Sprewell's hands.
He dribbled across half court without rushing, waiting for Sabonis to get into position. Sabonis stood near the free-throw line and raised his left hand, calling for the ball.
Sprewell hesitated—that was usually Li Fei's spot, but Sabonis wanted the ball. He passed it over.
The instant Sabonis caught the ball, all of Madison Square Garden fell silent. Not out of nervousness, but because everyone wanted to know what this thirty-five-year-old veteran, this Lithuanian whose knees could not hold out much longer, this legend who would retire at the end of the season, was about to do.
Sabonis held the ball above his head with both hands, his eyes sweeping over every teammate on the court.
His form was textbook, elegant, like an ancient sculpture. O'Neal crouched low in front of him, arms spread, waiting for a shot or a pass. O'Neal knew Sabonis's playmaking from the high post was the heart of the Knicks' offense, so he did not lunge forward. He simply stood there, using his body to block Sabonis's path to the basket.
Sabonis threw a fake—not a shot fake, but a pass fake. He turned his head left, looking at Houston