O'Neal walked up to Kobe and held out his right hand.
Kobe looked at him and held out his own. Their hands clasped—not in a perfunctory, polite handshake, but one that said, "We fought, we won, and we're going to win again."
O'Neal squeezed hard, and Kobe squeezed back. Veins bulged along their arms, as though they were testing each other's strength—or confirming that the other was still there.
"We win the next one, too."
O'Neal's voice was low and firm.
Kobe nodded.
"We win again. Tie it at 2–2, then go back to New York and take Game 5." O'Neal released his hand and patted his shoulder. "At 2–2, that's when it really begins."
Another cheer erupted in the locker room.
Jackson walked into the middle of the room and looked over everyone present.
His voice wasn't loud, but every word was clear.
"We won Game 3, but the series isn't over. It's 2–1, not 2–2, not 3–1. We're still chasing them. We have to win Game 4, too. Not through Kobe alone, not through Shaq alone, but through all of us. Defense, boxing out, rebounding, fighting for loose balls. We can't let up on a single possession. This is our court, our city, our era."
"For Game 4!" Everyone joined in: "For Game 4!" Their voices carried all the way into the hallway. Kobe said nothing, but clenched his fists.
Staples Center, Game 4 of the NBA Finals.
When the Knicks emerged from the tunnel, the boos from twenty thousand fans were louder than in Game 3.
These weren't boos that said, "We hate you." They said, "We're going to tear you apart." With every Knicks player who appeared, the boos grew louder.
When Sprewell came out, the boos were deafening.
When Houston came out, they rose