The son handed his father a bottle of beer beaded with cold condensation.
Old John took the beer, skillfully bit off the cap with his teeth, and tipped back his head for a huge gulp.
"It's the same watching at home. Those Los Angeles media mouths sure have been loud, saying we're going to get crushed by O'Neal?"
Old John picked up the tongs and slowly turned the meat on the grill. There was not a trace of anger on his face, only the calm detachment of someone who had seen it all.
"They don't understand basketball, and they understand Texans even less. We never win with our mouths."
His son leaned against the pickup truck, watching the windmill turn slowly in the distance.
"But Dad, O'Neal really is a huge problem. His weight is terrifying."
"A huge problem? That mad Bulls we dealt with on the farm back then weighed twice as much as O'Neal."
Old John gave a cold laugh, a flash of old-cowboy sharpness glinting in his eyes.
"When you're dealing with brute force, you can't meet it head-on. Tim is a smart kid, David is a real fighter, and that old man Popovich is sly as a fox. He knows how to drag The Big Shark into the mud. As long as they turn the game into a meat grinder, those young masters from Los Angeles who are used to walking red carpets won't be able to outlast us."
On the River Walk in downtown San Antonio.
This commercial street, winding along the San Antonio River, was the most bustling part of the city.
Lush trees shaded both banks, the river flowed quietly, and tour boats drifted leisurely across the water.
Old Texas, a Mexican restaurant, was packed with local residents who had just gotten off