Let’s roll back the time a bit to May 31, 1997, Salt Lake City, the final game of the Western Conference Finals, a suffocating showdown for the Western crown.
The Triangle Center that night could only be described as insane, even more so than the Finals that followed.
The fans not only made noise; they were in a collective state of frenzy.
And there was only one goal, to disrupt the Portland Trail Blazers as much as possible, they wanted to defeat Ah Gan.
To a certain extent, this was an honor more brag-worthy than winning the championship.
The Trail Blazers rallied in Game 6 to push the series to a Game 7, but when it came to the actual Game 7, the immense pressure almost crushed everyone.
The players were not mentally prepared, whereas the Utah Jazz, playing at home, had been waiting for this day too long.
In terms of mentality, only three people on the Trail Blazers were unaffected: Gan Guoyang, Bird, and Kobe.
Gan Guoyang performed as steadily as ever, and the Jazz had long anticipated this, committing to the wildest double-teaming and encirclement on him.
A triple-team from the start, a quadrupedal envelop was the norm, and under the basket, it wasn’t unheard of for all five to rush at him.
If the rules allowed, Sloan would have rushed up to contribute, and the fans on the sidelines yelled madly, spewing trash talk to disturb him.
In this situation, Gan Guoyang had to pass the ball to his teammates, and many openings appeared outside, but the Trail Blazers’ outside shooting was particularly terrible tonight.
The dual pressures of mind and body distorted the players’ shooting motions—the Jazz’s shooting rate wasn’t high either, but their attacking point was more diffuse.
By the fourth quarter, besides Kobe, no one on the Trail Blazers dared to take a shot from outside.
If Van Exel were here, this madman would fearlessly shoot, though not necessarily scoring, at least he dared to take responsibility.
Van Exel’s departure left the burden of holding the offense on Kobe, and Old Porter’s ball-handling was no longer a significant threat.
Kobe used Gan Guoyang’s defensive attraction and passing, repeatedly breaking into the basket to score, which drew the Jazz’s defensive focus on him.
Jerry Sloan sent Brian Russell to mainly guard Kobe, who, in the final stage, couldn’t break through and could only attempt forced shots after catching the ball.
A complete airball, Gan Guoyang picked up the ball, and his putback succeeded.
Again, another airball, Gan Guoyang scooped the ball again, hooked it in successfully.
Kobe’s airballs almost became assists under the basket, making it unclear whether he genuinely missed or faked a shot to pass for real.
But by the third time, when his third airball went out of bounds and Gan Guoyang didn’t get it, people realized he genuinely couldn’t make the shot, didn’t have the capability.
Ah Gan had already done his utmost to cover, but there was nothing to be done; offensive rebounds inherently need luck, and with the Jazz’s defense focused 100%, there was no chance.
The Trail Blazers lost the game, and on his way off the court to the locker room, Kobe continuously received abusive taunts from the Jazz fans on the sidelines.
However, when Gan Guoyang passed through the player’s tunnel, the fans immediately changed their stance, clapping, cheering, and smiling at Ah Gan—after all, they won, might as well be nice.
If they made Ah Gan mad, and he punched a kid in the crowd, there’d be big trouble.
Back in the locker room, the atmosphere among the Trail Blazers was depressing; they were just one step away from the Finals.
Although everyone knew in their hearts, in terms of hard strength, overall the Trail Blazers weren’t a match for the Jazz.
If they had won by luck tonight, they would still find it tough to compete against the Bulls in the Finals—but who doesn’t want to create a miracle?
But only those who’ve truly experienced it would understand that a miracle can’t just happen by wishing for it.
Miracles certainly seem easy in imagination: hitting those incredible shots, opponent making inexplicable mistakes.
Reality, however, is often the opposite; the opponent makes those incredible shots, and you end up making inexplicable mistakes.
The Jazz had prepared for this day for many years, playing a perfect season, with Stockton and Malone perfecting their pick-and-roll for 10 years.
Whereas the Trail Blazers were merely riding on Ah Gan’s support, Bird’s insight, and Kobe’s fearlessness—all of which were far from enough.
In the locker room, Bird, as usual, cared about Kobe, asking, "How do you feel?"
Bird was clearly referring to those three airballs, predicting an impending media storm aimed at Kobe.
And Kobe shrugged, saying, "Pretty good, why?"
He indeed looked quite frustrated but didn’t cry, didn’t complain, and showed no fear.
"You missed three crucial shots," Bird reminded Kobe.
Kobe stood up and shouted, "To hell with it, that’s because no one else dared to take the shot! What should I do if I didn’t shoot? You want to try, Larry?!"
Gan Guoyang was outside giving interviews, and no one in the locker room dared to refute Kobe because indeed no one else dared to step up.
Kobe dared to step up to the plate and was willing to voice his grievance afterward. He was only 18; that’s just his nature, unembellished, quite childlike, but also with a heroic spirit.
In the post-game, Gan Guoyang naturally shouldered the responsibility himself, praising Kobe for still daring to take those shots in such circumstances, calling it remarkable.
However, the media is cruel, and fans or the media won’t care about every player’s emotional journey before a shot. Many people just focus on the results—score and you’re a hero, miss and you’re a bear.