Harlan added, "And watch Sabonis's moves—his fakes, his driving lanes, his switch-hand layups. Those weren't done with his body; they were done with his brain. He knew O'Neal would bite on his passing fake, knew O'Neal's help defense would come from the left, knew O'Neal's hand would hit his arm. So he prepared in advance—fake, drive, switch hands, shoot, draw the foul. Every step had been planned ahead, every detail calculated beforehand. That was the sum of twelve years of playoff experience."
Albert nodded. "That wasn't a flash of inspiration. It was a veteran, in the final Finals game of his career, emptying out everything he had."
Before the roar of twenty thousand fans had even subsided, the Lakers' offense was already underway. Fisher dribbled across half court and gave the ball to O'Neal, who was calling for it at the high post. O'Neal caught it near the free-throw line, facing Sabonis's defense. The pleased, lazy smile he had worn before the game was gone from his face. His eyes had changed—not with anger, but with the focus of someone who had been provoked and had to respond.
"Get the ball to Shaq," Harlan said, lowering his voice. "He wants one back. Sabonis got an and-one over his head, and now he wants to get one back over Sabonis. That's a superstar's pride. That's the pride of a dominant big man."
O'Neal took one dribble, backed into Sabonis, and leaned backward. His strength was among the best in the league; no one could withstand his post-up power down low. But when he pressed in, he found that Sabonis had not given ground. The Lithuanian's lower body seemed rooted to the floor, braced there immovably.
O'Neal backed into him again, but Sabonis still did not budge.
His left knee pressed into