New York's general manager, Ernie Grunfeld, was more like a logistics officer—one moment helping sort out the fishing line, the next running off to ask the guide about the latest conditions. The beads of sweat on his forehead did not even have time to dry in Montana's cool breeze.
Meanwhile, Mitch Kupchak quietly prepared lunch sandwiches for everyone.
They were like the "lackeys" at the sides of two big shots, eagerly currying favor while not daring to disturb the gentlemen's enjoyment too much.
Phil Jackson changed into professional waders and stood in the icy river, giving his wrist a light flick. The expensive Sage rod seemed to come alive in his hands.
The slender fly line traced several elegant S-shapes through the air, like a golden whip dancing overhead. At last, the tiny Royal Wulff fly landed silently and precisely in the center of an eddy dozens of meters away.
That beautiful cast alone made even the guide beside him whistle in admiration.
"Beautiful!" Dolan praised sincerely.
Dr. Buss also raised his glass in a distant toast.
Phil merely smiled without saying anything.
He enjoyed the tranquility, the sensation of the current striking his legs, and the Zen-like feeling of becoming one with nature.
He knew this was not the time to talk about basketball. Those two shrewd old hands understood better than anyone that retreating was sometimes the best way to advance.
Everything they did today was meant to secure a more advantageous position at the negotiating table tomorrow.
Sure enough, a wild rainbow trout over twenty inches long took the bait.
The line instantly went taut, and the fly reel let out a pleasant buzz.
Phil remained calm, using the flexibility of his wrist and rod to engage in a patient battle with the giant beneath the water.