On the charter flight from Boston to Los Angeles, the cabin was so silent you could almost hear the cold wind blowing through the fuselage.
0-2. This was an opening result that no media outlet had predicted before the match, and it was a prelude to pushing this star-studded team to the brink of collapse.
The physiotherapy area in the rear of the cabin was filled with a strong smell of disinfectant.
The Lakers ' veterans were already exhausted after two rounds of seven-game battles against the Mavericks and Sacramento Kings. Boston's physical exhaustion and " Hack-a-Shaq " tactics in the first two games were the final straw that broke the camel's back.
Charles Barkley's left knee was swollen again, and the team doctor was carefully applying ice to it. Ewing Patrick Ewing lay flat on the floor with an eye patch on. Shaquille O'Neal O'Neal's toenails had turned a frightening purplish-black.
The entire team is gritting their teeth and persevering with sheer willpower and painkillers.
Michael Jordan sat in his individual airline seat, his knees and the back of his neck wrapped in thick ice packs. He held a stat sheet from Game 2 in his hand, which he had been staring at for a long time.
On that screen, Marion and Odom had abysmal plus-minus ratings. And his own shooting percentage plummeted dramatically in the fourth quarter when he was exhausted.
Jordan closed his eyes, and the image of Grant Hill blowing past him and slamming a dunk flashed uncontrollably through his mind.
He was an obsessive winner with an insatiable thirst for victory. He hated admitting he was getting old, but he hated losing even more. Torn between "refusing to grow old" and "losing the championship," the soul that had been dominated by the desire to win his entire life finally made a choice.
Jordan ripped the ice pack off his neck, stood up, and limped toward the middle of the cabin.
Phil Jackson, wearing glasses, was watching Boston's defensive video with a furrowed brow. Jason Kidd sat diagonally opposite him, flipping through a magazine with a blank expression, as if the loss had nothing to do with him.
" Jason, Phil."
Jordan's voice broke the silence in the area.
Kidd looked up and saw Jordan walking over, a hint of surprise flashing in his eyes. Phil Jackson also took off his glasses.
Jordan pulled out an empty chair and sat down heavily. He didn't exchange pleasantries or say any morale-boosting platitudes; instead, he slammed the crumpled statistics sheet onto the small table.
We have to make changes.
Jordan's first words made Phil Jackson's heart skip a beat.
This God of Basketball, who was fiercely competitive throughout his life and never bowed to anyone, peeled away the last veil of pretense in the Lakers' locker room with an extremely calm yet unwavering tone.
" Charles ( Barkley ), Patrick ( Patrick Ewing ), and I, we overexerted ourselves in the first two rounds," Jordan said, pointing to his knees covered in ice packs. "Those bastards in Boston knew that. They wore us down with fouls, physical play, and endless back-and-forth running, they bled us dry. If we played like that in Game 3, we wouldn't even need to go into the fourth quarter; we'd be carried off the court in the third quarter because of cramps."
Phil Jackson remained silent. He knew Jordan was right, but as a coach, he couldn't bring himself to strip these veterans of their tactical importance.
"So, Jason," Jordan turned his head, his still sharp, eagle-like eyes fixed on Kidd, "You were right after Game 1."
Kidd put down the magazine in his hand and sat up straight.
" Michael, you..." Kidd could hardly believe his ears.
"I'm handing over the ball to you for the first three quarters." Jordan's voice was deep, yet carried an undeniable decisiveness. "Stop worrying about this damn Triangle Offense Triangle Offense. When Shaq gets 'hacked' in the paint, or when Charles and I are resting, you take Sean ( Marion ), Lamar ( Odom ), and Quentin ( Richardson ) and that bunch of youngsters, and go play against Boston! Play freely."
Phil Jackson frowned slightly. " Michael, if you completely hand the court to Jason for the first three quarters, your rhythm with Charles will be completely disrupted, and then in the fourth quarter..."
"It's up to you now, Phil," Jordan interrupted the head coach.
Jordan placed his hands on the table, leaning forward—a posture befitting a ruler.
" Jason, play your way for the first three quarters, as long as you can keep the score close, or at least not fall too far behind."
In Jordan's eyes, a fire that seemed capable of burning through everything was rekindled—a flame of extreme desire for victory.
"With five minutes left in the fourth quarter..." Jordan said, enunciating each word clearly, "Give me the ball."
The only sound in the cabin was the roar of the engines.
Looking at the old man before Kidd, who had succumbed to the ravages of time yet still carried the weight of victory and defeat on his shoulders, Kidd's lingering resentment vanished. He finally understood why this man had been able to build the Chicago Bulls dynasty. He not only possessed the ability to destroy his opponents, but also a ruthless willingness to dissect his own pride in order to win.
"Mixed doubles." Kidd's lips curled into a cold smile. This point guard with extremely high basketball IQ instantly understood Jordan's intention. "I'll lead the young guys to keep the score close in regulation time. You and Charles, save all your energy for the final showdown."
"As long as you can keep the score close, leave the rest to me." Jordan stood up, picked up the ice pack again, put it on his neck, and turned to limp back.
Phil Jackson watched Jordan's retreating figure, then glanced at Kidd, who had picked up his whiteboard again and started scribbling, and gave a helpless, bitter smile.
As head coach, he completely lost control of the tactical system for this series.
But this luxurious warship, which was already on the verge of capsizing, has found a strange yet extremely dangerous balance again because of Jordan's "delegation of power".
The Los Angeles Lakers will not give up so easily.