Chapter 891 - 54: The Game of the Brave

Jordan inevitably fell into an agitated mood.

"Son of a bitch."

After hearing Gan Guoyang’s words, Jordan cursed silently in his heart.

Because time was too tight, he didn’t even have a chance to retort before Gan Guoyang walked away.

Jordan could only return to the bench, sitting there sulking.

This was the first sentence Gan Guoyang had said to him since the playoffs began.

Welcome to the Finals, fuck you, what do you take me for?

Though Jordan understood deep down that Gan was waging psychological warfare, a signature tactic of his.

But upon closer thought, Gan did have a point—Phil Jackson’s strategy might actually have flaws.

In the Eastern Conference Finals against the Pistons, and other teams as well, Jackson always asked Jordan to start as a team player, blending into the collective Triangle Offense to let his teammates shine first.

During the first quarter or the first half, Jordan would usually test the waters, grab around 10 points, and maintain a warm shooting hand.

By the time the critical third and fourth quarters rolled around, Jordan would take more control with the ball, deciding the course of the game.

At that point, Jordan’s rhythm would be hot, while his teammates would also be in a good state, forming a positive resonance.

This harmonious resonance allowed Jackson to ease the tension between Jordan and his teammates, enabling the Bulls to play with a better rhythm. Combined with their consistently strong defense, they naturally dominated the Eastern Conference.

But the Trail Blazers weren’t the Detroit Pistons, and Gan wasn’t any other star player.

Thinking back to previous regular-season matchups between the Bulls and the Trail Blazers, they were always fiercely contested battles.

By the end, when everyone else was out of steam, it would always boil down to Gan vs. Jordan. The two would consistently put up high scores.

Since Jackson took over, the Bulls’ strategy had shifted, with Jordan and Gan playing more as team players, no longer as "soloists."

"But Phil seems to have forgotten—that was the regular season. Gan, in the playoffs, is a super scorer capable of sinking opponents single-handedly. The bastard’s stamina is even crazier than mine, and when his shooting hand gets hot, his scoring explosiveness is even stronger than mine."

"My biggest advantage is that I’m a perimeter player, meaning I have greater offensive autonomy. Now Phil has stripped me of that autonomy, thinking we can leisurely let Cartwright, Parkson, and the others find their rhythm in the early game. But damn it, Gan is already firing on all cylinders!"

"Shit!"

Jordan wasn’t exactly a patient man.

The only thing that could keep him patient was his teammates performing excellently, leading, and winning games.

Otherwise, Jordan would immediately spiral into irritation. He couldn’t stand mistakes, couldn’t stand his teammates’ foolish errors—even though many of these were unavoidable.

He was especially impatient with Bill Cartwright and Horace Grant, as he didn’t have a good relationship with either of them, and he disliked their playing styles.

Cartwright’s post moves always looked awkward, while Grant, in Jordan’s mind, had never measured up to Buck Williams.

In fact, judging by playoff performance, Grant was actually surpassing Buck, especially with his versatility, which an old-school player like Buck could never match. Jordan just hadn’t recognized this yet.

"Michael, Michael! You need to get more involved in the offense, do you understand?"

Jackson’s voice pulled Jordan out of his thoughts. Jordan hadn’t heard a word Jackson said earlier; he was too busy mentally bickering with Gan.

"What? Get more involved in the offense? Finally, it’s my turn to attack?"

"No, you didn’t listen to me. What I mean is that you need to contribute to the team offense more actively—move, pass, and put pressure on Gan!"

"Pressure on Gan? Are you asking me to single-handedly defend Gan? That’s not my job!"

The arena was loud and chaotic, forcing players and coaches to shout to communicate, making every conversation sound like a quarrel.

Jackson picked up on Jordan’s dissatisfaction through his tone but continued to urge him to be patient—the game was still long.

Jordan avoided Jackson’s gaze, pressing his lips together without saying a word. He had already made up his mind: he couldn’t sit idle and would have to keep up with Gan and the Trail Blazers’ pace.

Meanwhile, over on the Trail Blazers’ bench, things were more harmonious.

Gan Guoyang repeatedly reminded Sabonis to focus on his supporting and defensive responsibilities in the paint.

"Screens, picks, blocks, passing, defensive rotations—that’s all on you. I need to shift more of my energy to isolation offense."

"We need to control the game and the tempo of the entire series! We’re doing well now, but trouble will come later, so be mentally prepared, guys."

"Michael is highly likely to start attacking. Reggie, make sure you manage your fouls—don’t provoke Michael. Stay composed. If big trouble arises, I’ll come to help you. Remember, stay calm, keep your resilience strong. The game is long."

Stepping into the Finals, Gan Guoyang was no longer just a player—he was a true commander.

He had already foreseen that after his initial mental assault, Jordan would undoubtedly adjust his rhythm, disrupting the Bulls’ tactical setup.

The Bulls’ offense and defense would gradually fall into disarray, giving the Trail Blazers a greater edge.

Bobby Berman crouched quietly nearby, scribbling away on the strategy board with his marker, saying nothing. He knew this moment wasn’t his.

Berman had worked with Gan Guoyang for many years and understood well that Gan was an unabashed control freak.

Controlling the court, controlling teammates, controlling coaches, controlling referees—affecting the game’s flow from every conceivable angle.