"Michael! Michael!"
Chris Palmer, a veteran ESPN reporter, got the first chance to ask a question. "A 26-point blowout loss is obviously not the start to the season you wanted. Where do you think the problem lies? Chemistry, or tactical execution?"
Jordan's gaze was sharp as a blade. He swept his eyes across the surrounding reporters before speaking in a hoarse voice. "Problems? There are problems everywhere. Our defensive rotations are like they're made of paper, and there's no structure to our offense. When the opponent goes on a run, not one of us can step up and answer. This is not what a championship team is supposed to look like." His tone was full of disappointment, but even more so, suppressed fury.
"Some people believe the offense relies too heavily on isolation plays by you and Karl, causing the team to lose its cohesion. What do you think?" another reporter pressed.
"Relies on us?"
Jordan gave a cold laugh, the corner of his mouth curling with mockery. "When the plays don't work, when everyone else can't hit those damn open shots, tell me, who should get the ball? Should we pass it to the basket? Karl and I are the core of this team. It's our responsibility to step up and score. But basketball isn't a two-man game. I need my teammates. We need to be a unit."
There was a trace of exhaustion and helplessness in his words.
It was an emotion he had rarely experienced in his career.
He was still the omnipotent God of Basketball, yet for the first time, his divine power seemed unable to cover the entire court.
"One last question, Michael," a Chicago Tribune reporter asked. "After this loss, do you still have confidence in this season's goals—in beating Li Fei and the