The reporter pressed on: "Game 5 is in New York. Are you confident?"
Jackson looked into the camera, and there was something in his eyes—not confidence, but the certainty of "I know my players can do it."
"Of course we're confident. Because we've already proven that we can win on the road. We won Game 3. We won Game 4. Game 5, in New York, we can win that too. Not because we're better than them, but because we want it more."
He turned and walked toward the locker room, his steps unhurried.
Inside the Knicks' locker room, the atmosphere was completely different.
It wasn't dejection. It was the stubborn defiance of "we lost, but we won't accept it." No one spoke, and no one moved. Only the drip-drip of a faucet sounded unnaturally clear in the silence.
The players sat in front of their lockers, still in their jerseys, their sweat not yet dry, but too exhausted to change.
At that moment, they were simply sitting, breathing, trying to accept one fact—it was 2-2 now.
Li Fei sat before a locker in the corner, an ice pack on his knee, thicker than usual.
His ankle was wrapped in bandages too, and kinesiology tape covered his back.
His stat sheet lay beside him: 28 points, 11 rebounds, 5 assists. But he didn't look at it.
He was looking at another line on the stat sheet—"Fouls: 6."
His finger lingered on that line for a moment. Then he folded the sheet and tossed it aside.
Sprewell sat beside him, holding a bottle of water without drinking it.
His expression wasn't anger. It was the unwillingness of someone who had given everything and still lost.
"I guarded Kobe in the fourth quarter. He made that three. My hand was right in his