A private club on Michigan Avenue in Chicago.
There was no deliberate small talk in the private room. Michael Jordan sat in a single sofa, an unlit Cohiba between his long, slender fingers.
Sitting opposite him were Phil Jackson, Jerry Buss, Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal, Jason Kidd, and others.
" Phil," Jordan said calmly, looking at his old acquaintance across from him, "You called me when you first went to Los Angeles. I told you then that I didn't need a meaningless ring. What, now that you've been thrashed by Boston, you think I'd change my mind and become your firefighter?"
"Of course not." Phil Jackson pushed up his glasses, his deep gaze fixed on Jordan. "I'm here to stop you from ruining yourself in Washington."
Jordan's eyes instantly turned cold.
"I know you were suffering in the Wizards ' box, Michael," Phil said calmly, but his words were sharp and cutting. "You watched those first-round picks strolling around the court, watching their clumsy footwork, and you wished you could take off your suit and step on the court yourself. You were planning a comeback in Washington, right? You thought you could teach those kids how to win, you wanted to prove you weren't just a great player, but could build a winning culture from scratch."
Jordan stopped toying with his cigar. Phil had guessed his thoughts perfectly.
"But I know you too well, Michael." Phil leaned forward slightly, his tone deliberately sarcastic. "You're not a good coach at all; you're a killer. You can't teach the will to win. If you go to Washington, all you'll do is berate those young guys on the practice court every day. They'll fear you and avoid you. You won't win games; you'll ruin your knees and end up retiring with a mess and media ridicule. You want to teach a flock of sheep how to eat meat? Isn't that absurd?"
A deathly silence fell over the box. Jordan didn't refute it, because the deep sense of powerlessness he had felt within the Wizards over the past few months precisely confirmed Phil's words.
"You don't need to teach a flock of sheep how to tear apart their opponents. What you need is to hunt a real monster with a group of equally bloodthirsty beasts."
" Kidd, Richardson, Marion, Odom, Shaq... This Lakers roster has the best rebounding, fast break, and defensive resilience in the league, but we lack a closer. We can push Boston to the brink, but in the final three minutes of the fourth quarter, we need someone to step up and take over the game."
" Michael, Boston has won three consecutive championships. The media is raving about them, saying they've surpassed the Chicago Bulls of yesteryear." Phil, noticing Jordan's slightly tightened jawline, threw out the most lethal bait. "In Larry Bird Larry Bird's era, you couldn't overcome the Boston Celtics at their peak. Now, another Boston Dynasty stands there. Go teach kids on the Wizards, or come to Los Angeles and personally end a dynasty? Which one is more worthy of your comeback?"
Jordan glanced at Phil, then his gaze fell on O'Neal.
"That sounds tempting, Phil," Jordan said, his tone still carrying a hint of arrogant scrutiny. "But there's only one basketball. Shaq, you're used to having the whole world revolve around you. Can you really stand handing the ball to me in the fourth quarter?"
All eyes were on O'Neal.
O'Neal shifted his massive frame in the leather sofa. He took a deep breath and stared intently at Jordan.
" Michael, everyone says I'm extremely arrogant, that I want the whole world to kneel down and pass me the ball. They're right." O'Neal's voice was like a deep, muffled thunder. " Michael, I'm not lying to you. If it were two years ago in this league, I would never have been anyone's second-in-command. If anyone but you had made that request, I wouldn't be sitting here today."
O'Neal paused, his bloodshot eyes revealing a sense of helplessness born from being pushed to the limit by Boston: "But man... after two years of being humiliated twice in Boston, if I had known things would turn out this way, I should have bought a plane ticket and flown to you when Phil asked you to come out of retirement."
Jordan's eyes flickered slightly.
"I've had enough of being the backdrop for Boston's championship win." O'Neal held up a thick, cigar-like finger, his tone more serious than ever. " Michael, come on, the Lakers will be your team. With three minutes left, the ball is yours."
O'Neal gritted his teeth and said, word by word, "I don't care who's the boss. If the ball misses, I'll grab the damn rebound and pass it back to you. I just want to beat Boston, I want to win the championship."
Kidd, standing nearby, chimed in with a remarkably calm voice. " Michael, you need to save your energy for last. You don't need to fight and battle with those young guards like you did when you were younger."
Kidd looked at Jordan and calmly made a promise, "As long as I'm on the court, you won't even need to dribble the ball across half-court yourself. You don't have to worry about anything, just walk to the position on the court where you feel most comfortable, and the ball will come to you in the most comfortable way."
Jordan fell silent.
At this moment, Jerry Buss, who had been silent until now, spoke up.
" Michael, I know you went to the Wizards wanting a stake in the team and to get into management." Dr. Jerry Buss smiled at him. "I can't give you ready-made control of the Lakers, but I can give you a promise. As long as you wear the purple and gold and help the Lakers end the Boston dynasty... on the day you hang up your boots, I will open up a portion of the Lakers ' shares for you to subscribe to."
Jerry Buss spread his hands. " Washington is too small for you. Being one of the owners of the Los Angeles Lakers is more befitting of your stature."
The Boston Celtics, at their peak, won three consecutive championships.
A Shaq O'Neal at his absolute peak, yet willing to relinquish ball possession in the fourth quarter.
A top-tier point guard who is even more astute than Ron Harper was back in the day, capable of handling all the dirty work in the backcourt.
And, the Lakers equity promised by Jerry Buss himself.
All the chips are already laid out in the open.
These conditions not only satisfied his business ambitions but also gave him a very real opportunity...
Under the threat of the Boston Dynasty, they sought to defend their reputation and historical standing.
Even further.
The private room fell completely silent; you could even hear the faint hissing sound of the cigar burning in Jordan's fingers.
Jordan leaned back on the sofa, closed his eyes, and remained silent for a long time.
When he opened his eyes again, those cloudy yet extremely sharp eyes still held the same murderous intent that had chilled the entire league in the 1990s...
I'm back.
Jordan brought the burning Cohiba to his lips and took a deep drag.
In the dim light, the glow at the tip of the cigar flickered suddenly.
Amidst the rising bluish-gray smoke, Jordan calmly looked at Phil Jackson.
"Fax the contract to my office tomorrow." Jordan exhaled a puff of smoke, his tone carrying an undeniable air of entitlement. "And while you're at it, please apologize to Quentin Richardson for making that kid sit on the bench."
Jordan flicked his cigarette ash and chuckled.
"But on the bright side... he just got the best season ticket in all of Los Angeles for next season, and it didn't cost him a penny."