Before the second half began, the lights at Madison Square Garden dimmed for an instant.
It was not a malfunction, but the arena director setting the mood.
The roars of twenty thousand people converged in the darkness into a low rumble, like a slumbering beast awakening.
When the lights came back on, Li Fei stood on the court with his hands on his hips, staring at the Lakers across from him.
His expression had not changed, but his eyes had—gone was the first-quarter patience of "letting his teammates find their rhythm first." In its place was the naked killing intent of a hunter spotting a weakness in his prey.
At halftime, Van Gundy had said only a few words in the locker room.
"They've dismantled our system. Sabonis is getting doubled, Sprewell is being covered one-on-one, and Houston is being hounded. Their defense has no holes, and our offense has no rhythm. So in the second half, get the ball to Li Fei. No tactics, no teamwork, no off-ball movement. Give him the ball, spread the floor, and let him go to work."
Sprewell said nothing. Houston said nothing. Sabonis said nothing either.
They all knew Van Gundy was right.
Li Fei had scored eighteen points in the first half, but the team was down by eleven.
It was not because Li Fei was not strong enough. It was because he had started scoring too late.
If he had taken over from the opening of the first quarter, if he had answered Kobe's eight straight points with scoring of his own, the gap would never have reached double digits. Now, he would not wait any longer.
On the first possession of the third quarter, the Knicks had the ball. Kidd brought it across half court and, without hesitation, fed Li