Yet at the same time, he harbored a contradictory hope.
He wanted Li Fei to win.
Because only if Li Fei won the championship could it prove that the Chicago Bulls he led had lost to the eventual champions, rather than just another strong team.
That would salvage a shred of dignity for him and this rebuilt Bulls team.
Those two diametrically opposed emotions kept pulling at him, leaving him in agony.
And beneath that agony lay something deeper: a sense of helplessness.
The seven-game battle in the Eastern Conference Finals replayed in his mind, scene by scene.
He remembered vividly how Li Fei's defense had smothered him in the final moments of Game 7—that suffocating feeling he could never shake, that despair of always feeling as though a dark cloud blocked his vision whenever he shot.
He had to admit that time spared no one. At thirty-six, he could no longer compete with the twenty-two-year-old Li Fei in stamina or explosiveness.
For the first time in a playoff series, he, Michael Jordan, had felt a gap in sheer ability.
That feeling hurt him more than the defeat itself.
In a luxurious apartment in Houston.
Scottie Pippen lounged comfortably on the sofa, watching the experts heap praise on Li Fei on television, a genuine smile on his face. He had even opened a treasured bottle of red wine and poured himself a glass.
He was happy—truly happy about Li Fei's victory.
That happiness stemmed from a subtle, even somewhat dark impulse.
He had left Chicago for Houston to team up with Barkley and Olajuwon precisely to prove to the world that he, Scottie Pippen, could win a championship without Jordan.
He wanted to prove that he was not Jordan's sidekick, but a true superstar.
Reality, however, was cruel. The Houston