More on this book
Kindle Notes & Highlights
Ainge missed from fifteen feet, but drew a foul. Then missed both free throws. Pat Riley called time-out. The players gathered round as he diagrammed the last play. Magic was smiling down at Riley. Kareem was sitting at the end of the bench, a towel over his head. Michael Cooper waved the ball over his head on the sideline, searching for an inbound pass. He found Magic across the floor with just enough time for Johnson to put up a one-handed off-balance 3, less shot than throw, the way you throw a crumpled piece of paper into the trash.
Just a couple of things, Ainge made one of two, and Magic’s shot was a two, his foot was on the three point line.
A basketball team is a family, a collective, a series of alliances, relationships, rivalries, and triangles. Horace Grant loved Scottie Pippen, who loved Michael Jordan, who also loved Michael Jordan.
He retired, then settled in to a mansion in the Chicago suburbs, where he’s been a grumpy presence ever since. (Local waiters refer to him as “No Tippin’ Pippen.”)
