The day he returned to New York from Long Beach, Stephen Jackson was the last person to emerge from the arrivals corridor at Kennedy International Airport.
He wore an unbranded baseball cap pulled low over his face, and the Knicks-logo T-shirt on his body was wrinkled and soaked through with sweat.
A simple gym bag hung from his back, and he carried no luggage in his hands. There was not a trace of joy at returning in glory on his face; instead, his brows were tightly furrowed, as if he were still reliving that game-winning shot in the finals that had missed by a hair.
The thunderous cheers at Walter Pyramid still echoed in his ears, but to him, the bitterness of that narrow double-overtime loss was far more deeply etched into his memory than his 25.8 points per game and First Team honors.
He had screwed it up. He could have come back with the championship trophy.
"Hey, Stephen!"
A familiar voice interrupted his thoughts.
Jackson looked up to see the team's general manager, Elgin Baylor, and head coach Jeff Van Gundy standing beside a black Lincoln Town Car, smiling at him.
Jackson froze for a moment, then quickly walked over and called out somewhat awkwardly, "Mr. Baylor. Coach."
"You played well, kid."
Baylor gave him a firm pat on the shoulder. "Jeff and I watched the tapes of every one of your games. You showed the whole league your energy. Good job."
Van Gundy adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose, his gaze behind the lenses sharp and direct. "That last shot in the finals—you made the right choice, and you took it decisively. You were just a little unlucky. Having the courage to take responsibility under that kind of pressure is more important than making