Only the sound of waves remained, tirelessly lapping against the shore in the night, as if foretelling a superstorm that would soon sweep through the entire league, quietly gathering strength.
The next day, the eyes of the United States did not immediately turn to the bitter feud between New York and Philadelphia, because in downtown Indianapolis, a historic tragedy of an underdog toppling a giant was unfolding.
That night, only one game remained in the entire league: the second-seeded Eastern Conference Indiana Pacers hosted the seventh-seeded Eastern Conference Chicago Bulls.
The air inside Conseco Fieldhouse seemed frozen, every breath thick with the scent of gunpowder.
Larry Bird stood on the sideline with his hands in his suit pockets, an unusually anxious expression on his pale face.
He watched the figure in the red No. 23 jersey on the court. Even though that man was nearly thirty-seven, even though Karl Malone—equally advanced in age—stood beside him, the overwhelming pressure they exuded still left the legendary coach breathless.
The game was dragged into a brutal overtime.
"Michael, can you still move?"
Before the overtime tip-off, Karl Malone wiped away the sweat cascading down his forehead and asked between heavy breaths.
Michael Jordan said nothing. He merely lowered his head and tightened his shoelaces, then looked up. In those hawk-sharp eyes, there was nothing but the basket.
At the start of the season, countless media outlets had mocked the Bulls' roster as a "retirement home." Ron Harper, Sam Cassell, Michael Jordan, Karl Malone, Luc Longley—the average age of that starting lineup was astonishingly high.
But when the playoffs arrived, the resilience unleashed by those old men made the entire world tremble.
Twelve seconds remained in overtime, and the Pacers led by one.
Reggie Miller had just hit a nearly game-winning mid-range jumper and