Harlan added one final line, his voice carrying the solemnity only a commentator witnessing history could possess.
"2–0, Knicks lead. The Lakers are heading back to Los Angeles. But no matter how this series ends, no matter who wins the championship, no matter who wins MVP, tonight, at Madison Square Garden, we witnessed a great game. We witnessed a great player make a great shot at the critical moment. That is basketball. That is why we love basketball."
On the Lakers' bench, the atmosphere seemed frozen solid.
Kobe sat in a corner with a cup of water in his hand, but he did not drink it.
His expression was neither angry nor dejected. It was a cold, almost ruthless focus.
His eyes were fixed on the floor, as if he were counting the grain in the hardwood. But everyone knew he was replaying that possession in his mind—if he had helped sooner, if he had switched assignments, if he had—yet he did not continue the thought, because what was past was past.
O'Neal sat in front of his locker with an ice pack on his knee and a bottle of water in hand. His face was calm, but there was something indescribable in his eyes—not anger, but the stubborn refusal to surrender of someone who had been beaten but would not admit defeat.
He had guarded Li Fei in the final moments. His hand had been right in Li Fei's face, yet Li Fei had still made the shot.
It was not because he had defended poorly. It was because Li Fei was too strong.
Phil Jackson stood at the locker room entrance with his arms folded. His expression still carried that inscrutable Zen calm, but his gaze was sharper than usual.
He said nothing. He simply stood there, waiting