Champion Creed
Chapter 728 - 728 249 Only a pack of wolves are the true wolves Vote for monthly ticket!_3

728: 249: Only a pack of wolves are the true wolves (Vote for monthly ticket!)_3 728: 249: Only a pack of wolves are the true wolves (Vote for monthly ticket!)_3 However, the Hawks still managed to beat the 76ers by an average of 11.5 points per game, with AI never standing a chance from start to finish.

Roger’s scores over the four games were 33, 42, 37, 44, giving off an impatient vibe as if he couldn’t wait to play all four games in one night and get it all over with.

After Game 4, Roger and AI shook hands and embraced.

Ever since the regular season when Roger exploded for 61 points, the unruly AI had disappeared in Roger’s presence.

In his place was an AI still full of fighting spirit, but filled with respect for Roger.

“Congratulations, go win the championship,” AI patted Roger on the back.

“Not win, take it back.”

“Whatever you say, I just hope I lost to the championship team.”

“That’s a wish I can still grant you.”

After the embrace, Roger turned nonchalantly, high-fived his teammates, and then walked through the player’s tunnel.

The second round of the series ended with Roger sweeping the 76ers.

It was common for Roger’s team to sweep opponents in the first two rounds, but this year was different—the Hawks had won by double digits in seven consecutive playoff games!

This was a terrifying record, one that the dynastic Magic didn’t achieve, the 72-win Bulls didn’t have, and neither did the ’86 Celtics!

Bob Costas was yelling like mad in the commentary booth: “Their dominance in the playoffs is unprecedented!

Hey, somebody get me a shotgun!”

In stark contrast to Bob Costas was Roger, who was exceptionally calm, perhaps too calm.

Whether it was the 72 regular-season victories, the 35+5+5, or the domineering wins in the two series, Roger wasn’t too excited.

In the past six seasons, he had won too many games and crushed various great opponents.

Such victories could no longer satisfy Roger’s taste buds.

What he needed was that victory he had longed for.

Fortunately, he had finally reached this point.

He could finally do what he desired most.

Something he hadn’t yearned for so much since 1994.

Roger returned to the locker room, took a shower, and then attended the press conference.

At the conference, reporters told Roger about breaking the record.

“The Atlanta Hawks’ performance in the playoffs is unprecedented, winning by double digits in seven consecutive games.

What helps you maintain consistency?”

“The determination to win,” Roger’s response was dismissive, and he didn’t seem inclined to elaborate.

“What do you think about the Los Angeles Lakers losing last night to the Minnesota Timberwolves, making the series score 2-1?”

“That’s Shaq, my best assistant.

The first round he set the stage for me, the second round he’s still making me shine.

Without him, you’d all think it’s a given that I sweep my way through the playoffs.”

“Next, your Eastern Conference Finals opponent will emerge between the Indiana Pacers and the Miami Heat.

Who would you prefer to face?”

“No disrespect to that bastard Reggie, but I’m hoping to face the Miami Heat.”

“Why?”

Roger smiled.

Why?

That idiot’s actually asking me why?

This entire season, Roger has been focused on one thing, rebirth.

For six whole months, he’s been at it.

Sometimes he’d suddenly wake up at three in the morning, haunted by that damnable Game 7 of the Eastern Finals from last year.

He’d think of a distraught Paul Pierce, remember the Heat players celebrating crazily in front of him.

He watched the clock, counting the days, the months.

Wishing he could find a remote to control time, fast forward to the moment in this season’s playoffs where he’d face the Heat, and beat the hell out of those bastards, making every single one of them in Heat jerseys spit out teeth!

Yes, Roger wasn’t afraid of failure.

But his pent-up frustration and yearning had lasted an entire season.

An average win of 32 points in the first round against the Bucks meant nothing to him.

Beating the 76ers by an average of 11.5 points in the second round didn’t excite him.

He was like a man who had lost his sense of taste, no longer craving fine wine or food.

Because he knew those were just stepping stones to the Eastern Conference Finals.

And now, some idiot dares ask why he wants to play the Miami Heat?

Roger sat up, for the first time showing a demeanor of “let me properly answer this question for you.”

“Why?

Because last summer, we lost a series we could have easily won.

Since then, I’ve been wanting to stand under the shower for 10 hours a day, hoping to wash away the gloom of losing to Miami in 1999.

I often think of that game, waking up at night wishing to get rid of those bastards sooner.

I’m sick of it…!

Every single day of the past year has been torture!

My goal isn’t to sweep the Bucks or AI, nor to watch Shaq making a fool of himself—after all, hasn’t he embarrassed himself enough?

My goal is the championship!

To get past the Heat and win the championship!

Ever since the night we lost last year, I’ve thought of nothing else, and I’ve waited for this for a whole year!

Now, the time has come!”

This was the first time Roger talked about last year’s defeat.

He released the pressure and dissatisfaction he’d harbored for the first time.

After losing last season, Roger had never talked much about that defeat in public, not on any occasion.

People only knew he was regrouping, knew he was comforting Paul Pierce like a big brother would.

But who cared about what Roger himself felt?

Roger had said he wasn’t afraid of failure, but that didn’t mean he didn’t care.