Champion Creed
Chapter 99 - 99 065 Pat this is what you call cruelty!

99: 065: Pat, this is what you call cruelty!

(Fifth update, ask for monthly passes!) 99: 065: Pat, this is what you call cruelty!

(Fifth update, ask for monthly passes!) This was the first time the New York Knicks players realized how little they understood defense.

In 18 seconds, Roger scored 8 points.

The door to the finals opened a crack, and then Roger slammed it shut.

No, in 18 seconds, if Roger had just made one three-pointer, that would’ve been called closing the door.

But he scored 8 points; it was as if he didn’t just slam the door shut—he fucking deadbolted it!

Madison Square Garden faced another of its darkest moments.

Yeah, another one.

Let’s not even talk about Jordan’s past miracles—just this year, during the Eastern semis, Madison Square Garden had already witnessed Reggie Miller’s 25 points in a quarter.

Now, it’s Roger’s 18 seconds, 8 points.

New York fans are the happiest fans in the world, often witnessing greatness on their home court.

Yet, New York fans are also the most pitiful fans in the world because those great moments often belong to their opponents.

It was as if they were cursed, always falling at the moments that seemed the most secure.

On the bench, Doug Rivers, who was out for the season with an injury, was comforting his teammates.

Inexplicably, everything seemed to make sense.

The media had not predicted wrongly; this year’s top team in the East wasn’t as strong as people thought.

The media wasn’t wrong; the era of Roger was coming.

When the game finally ended, Roger had a lot to say to Pat Riley.

He really wanted to point at that arrogantly pompadoured figure and spray a mouthful of taunts.

Roger also really wanted to relish the look on Riley’s face after being completely fucked by him—it was definitely an interest every man had.

But he didn’t have the chance, because the moment the game ended, he was tackled by Toni Kukoc.

“We won, we won!

Roger, you did what you said!

Even without Michael Jordan, we can still beat the New York Knicks!

And you shoved that damn victory right down that bastard Pat Riley’s throat!”

At this moment, there were many others as excited as Kukoc.

This was the second time in the series that they had embraced Roger like a hero!

Pippen stood at a distance, not joining in the celebration.

He won, he won again.

But once again, he wasn’t the main character.

After the celebration, Riley had already left.

All Roger wanted now was to hurry back to the locker room, turn on the TV, and see the expression on Riley’s face the moment he lost the game.

But he couldn’t go back just yet; he still had to do the sideline reporter’s interview and attend the Eastern Conference championship award ceremony.

These were the busy times of a winner.

The flamboyantly dressed Craig Sager was wearing a red plaid suit today, smiling as he walked up to Roger.

The interview hadn’t started yet, and Sager privately embraced Roger, “Well done, kid.

The fans in Chicago must be proud of you.”

“Thanks for the praise.”

“You proved that you could replace Michael.”

“No Craig, no,” Roger shook his head, “If I can, I hope to surpass Michael one day.”

Sager laughed and patted Roger’s shoulder.

Thankfully, that comment wasn’t included in the official interview.

Otherwise, Michael might not be able to sleep tonight.

At this time, the cameras were ready, and the cameraman reminded them, “Look at the lens, three, two, one!”

“Congratulations, Roger.

Few players can lead their team to pick up the division championship trophy at your age.

Tonight, you played another great game.

Scoring 8 points in the last 18 seconds, no doubt, was a historical moment.

On such a night, what do you want to tell everyone?”

Roger had a lot he wanted to say, but in an instant, one phrase lingered in his mind.

He looked at the camera, showing a mischievous smile, “Tell Pat, this is what real cruelty is!”

At the post-game press conference, Pat Riley was ashen-faced.

He had just experienced the most heartbreaking loss of his life, even more so than being swept by the Pistons in ’89.

There were many reasons for the outcome in ’89, such as the aging team roster, injuries, and so on.

But this time, Riley could find no excuse for losing.

The only reason was…

he had no answer for Roger!

He let Roger score 38 points; in the seven-game series, Roger had four games scoring 30+ points.

This reason was absolutely unacceptable to Riley.

“It was a heartbreaking loss, and for the third consecutive year, we are eliminated by the Chicago Bulls.

We should have been in the finals, but we were beaten in the last 10 meters of a marathon.

The last 18 seconds changed everything, I couldn’t make any adjustments, I could only watch helplessly as Roger tore us apart.

That was a…

A moment of truth!”

Pat Riley coined a fresh term; similar events would happen in the future, T-Mac’s 35 seconds 13 points, Millsap’s 28 seconds 11 points…

More miracles would occur.

But none would ever bring Pat Riley such heartache again.

Yes, just as Roger said, this is what real cruelty is.

On the other side, at the press conference of the Chicago Bulls, the expressions of the New York media were not much different from that of Riley’s.

They had been fantasizing about the Finals, imagining the clash of titans between Ewing and Olajuwon.

But now, they could only search the Hudson River for the silhouettes of the Knicks players.

Rest assured, though, the New York media would reserve only the vilest words for their own players.

They might even scapegoat the spectator, Spike Lee, blaming him for yelling too loudly and aggravating Roger.

Roger entered the conference room and took his seat.

A reporter from The New York Times was the first to raise his hand, “Roger, what happened in the last 18 seconds?

How did you find your touch so quickly?

Or was it just good luck?”

Roger didn’t answer his question but instead posed one of his own, “Which paper are you from?”

“The New York Times.”

“Hmm, I remember what you said before Game 7.

Oh, Madison Square Garden isn’t a place for that punk to run wild.

You said it, Pat said it, John said it, you repeated the same lines to me three times.” After speaking, Roger leaned back in his chair and arrogantly propped his feet up on the table.

“Now here I am, sitting with my feet on the table, and what can anyone do about it?

No one will do anything about it!

Your words are just hot air!

Now you’re saying the last 18 seconds were just good luck?

If it were good luck, then I should sweep all the awards this season!

Face the facts, your team is under my feet, stop making excuses!”

Ultimately, Roger left the world with an image of defiance; he had no regard for the standards set by Stern.

His old friend Andrae was right; he would run wild wherever he wanted to.

The reporters from The New York Times had nothing to say; they could only capture the moment of Roger with his feet on the table.

For many years to come, this photo would be Roger’s trademark.

Because if you wanted to know what kind of person Roger is, this photo expressed it very directly.

Meanwhile, in the casino, Jordan was beyond excited, “Let’s begin, deal the cards!

Again!”

Even though he had already lost hundreds of thousands of US dollars, his mood hadn’t been affected at all.

He was still thoroughly enjoying himself, not because he didn’t care about money, but because he firmly believed as long as dawn hadn’t broken, he still had a chance to turn the tables.

This was the thrill of gambling, the rush that made Jordan’s adrenaline soar, always wanting to start the next round.

But he lost again; his luck had been terrible that day, dealing one bad hand after another, hardly winning at all.

His bloodshot eyes bulged, his expression grim, resembling a black version of Satan.

Jordan, fists clenched, took a puff of his cigar and decided to raise the stakes: “Deal the cards, hurry up and deal!”

At that moment, Jordan’s phone rang, terribly inopportune.

He didn’t answer; he disliked being disturbed at times like this.

He hung up immediately; no brand would be foolish enough to call Jordan at this hour, so that must have been a personal call.

It didn’t matter if it was disregarded.

But just as he set the phone down, ready to look at his hand, the ringtone sounded again.

This disrupted Jordan’s mood.

He removed the cigar from his mouth with one hand and answered the call with the other: “Hello.”

“Michael, did you watch the game?” On the other end of the line, David Falk was equally excited.

“David, what’s going on?

What time is it?”

“Did you watch the game?” David Falk didn’t care about Jordan’s complaint, “Roger won, he won!

He scored 8 points in the last 18 seconds, turning Madison Square Garden into ruins!

I said the game wasn’t over, I knew it!”

“You think I’m a three-year-old?

Don’t joke around with this nonsense.” Of course, Jordan knew that scoring 8 points in 18 seconds was theoretically possible.

But that was just theoretical.

“I’m not joking, Michael, by tomorrow morning, that kid is going to sweep across the United States!”

“What are you trying to say, David?

You called just to tell me he won?

I don’t care about that!” Jordan lied, his tightly clenched fists proved he did care.

David Falk got straight to the point:

“You know, Roger is with Reebok.

Initially, Nike was hoping Penny could compete with him, but now that seems like a futile attempt.

So I think, Nike might also want you to return.

We really need to get this on the agenda, Michael.

Think about it, make plans sooner rather than later.”

Jordan’s commercial value was maximized on the basketball court, and so were David Falk’s interests.

So he was eager for Jordan to come back, and sooner rather than later.

Jordan didn’t say goodbye and hung up roughly; he was completely out of sorts now.

What was he thinking just now?

He was thinking that there was always a chance to turn things around before dawn.

But now he knew, he wasn’t the one who could turn the tables tonight.

Jordan stood up, left the gambling table, and went to the restroom to wash his face.

Looking at his bloodshot eyes, his haggard face, beholding the ghastly reflection, Jordan smashed his fist into the bathroom mirror, shattering the image of himself.

The time had come.

It was time to rebuild from these shattered pieces.