Sprewell, you need to put more pressure on Kobe on the perimeter.
Houston, you need to hit your mid-range shots.
Sabonis, you need to get more physical with O'Neal in the low post.
Marshall, you need to knock down threes from the corner. Jackson, you need to bring energy off the bench.
Every one of you needs to do what you're supposed to do."
He paused, and his voice grew deeper.
"Intensity. That's what we need most in Game Three. We're on the road. The referees' whistles won't favor us, the fans' boos won't favor us, and luck won't favor us. We need to win with intensity. Not skill, not tactics—intensity. Every defensive possession, every box-out, every rebound, we have to be tougher, fiercer, nastier than them. This is the Finals, not the regular season. You can't expect your opponent to hand you the win. You have to take it, fight for it, bite down and earn it."
Li Fei closed his laptop and looked at Van Gundy.
"Coach, you're right. Intensity, focus, attitude. Those things matter more than skill. Skill can be practiced, tactics can be learned, but intensity can't be trained into you. You have to play it out. We're on the road, so we need to bring even more intensity than we would at home. Because the opponent won't let us win, the referees won't let us win, and luck won't let us win. Only we can make ourselves win."
Van Gundy looked at him, the corner of his mouth lifting slightly.
It wasn't a smile. It was the certainty of someone thinking, "I knew you'd say that."
The plane continued westward, through the clouds, across the continent, through this era that belonged to them. Outside the window, the sunlight was bright. Los Angeles was waiting for