I watched him take that third shot—not as a move, but as a meditation. At 37, with tired legs and a silent gaze, he didn’t force the play. The ball didn’t fly like it used to. No flashy moves, no抢断动作—just presence. This isn’t about skill. It’s about how time reshapes greatness in silence. In Chicago’s mid-century rhythm, even defenders moved too easily, but he stayed still. That was the real single-thread opportunity.