"The first game?"
Frank abruptly turned his head and roared hoarsely, "Did you see that clearly? Was that what a fucking first game was supposed to look like? We got beaten like a bunch of high schoolers! Where was the defense? Where the hell was our defense? That monster Li Fei did whatever he wanted in the paint, and that old guy Sabonis stood in front of Malone like a mountain! And our offense? Other than Michael's fadeaways and Karl's post-ups, what the hell did we have?"
His roar drew everyone's attention, but no one refuted him, because he had voiced the pain in everyone's heart.
At the other end of the bar, a young fan with glasses and a scholarly appearance was refreshing posts on a fan forum on his phone.
His face grew paler and paler as his fingers trembled across the screen.
"It's over... it's all over..."
He muttered, "The forum's already exploded. Some people are cursing the front office, saying bringing in Malone was a mistake. Some are cursing Phil Jackson, saying his Triangle Offense is outdated. And some... some are saying Michael is old."
"Bullshit!"
Frank slammed his fist onto the bar, furious. "Who the hell dares say Michael is old? How many points did he score tonight? Over thirty! It's us! The rest of us aren't worthy of him! Karl Malone? He looked like some civil servant clocking in and out of work in Chicago! And Kukoc—what the hell was he hesitating for at the top of the arc with the ball? Pass it! Shoot it! Fuck!"
In the corner of the bar sat an old fan with graying hair, who had been watching the Bulls since before their Dynasty.
He silently drank his whiskey, looked at the faces around him—angry, disappointed, lost—and let