After the meeting ended, the players returned to the court to practice.
O'Neal hammered home dunk after dunk in the low post, throwing down five times over the backup center. Each dunk shook the basket support, and every shake boosted his confidence another notch. Kobe practiced midrange jumpers from every spot in the half court. His movements flowed like water, every release textbook-perfect.
His expression was as cold as ice. There was no fatigue in his eyes, no hesitation, only an almost ruthless focus.
Fisher practiced three-pointers at the top of the arc. He had gone just one for four from deep in game one. He knew he needed to do better in game two, to hit shots when Kobe and O'Neal were double-teamed, to punish Sprewell whenever he sagged into the paint. Horry practiced threes from the corner. His job was to space the floor, draw Marshall out of the paint, and create one-on-one opportunities for O'Neal.
Jackson stood on the sideline, watching his players practice.
His expression still held that inscrutable Zen calm, but his gaze was warmer than usual.
He knew this team was stronger than the Knicks. He knew that as long as they played at their own pace, the Lakers could win.
But he also knew basketball games weren't won on talent. They were won on execution.
Whoever executed their game plan better, made fewer mistakes, and stepped up in the crucial moments would win.
After practice, Kobe sat in the locker room with his phone in his hand. On the screen was a message from Phil Jackson: "Are you ready?"
Kobe typed back, "I've been preparing all along."
He put down his phone, stood, and left the locker room. In the hallway, O'Neal leaned against the wall with a bottle of water in his