While the Kings were enjoying a lively team dinner at a restaurant, the Warriors' office remained brightly lit.
The large conference room was packed with Warriors management and players.
Steve Kerr's eyes were bloodshot from hours of strain. After rubbing them, he finally broke the silence.
"We've gone through the game footage twice already. Doesn't anyone have something to say?"
But his words were met with silence. No one dared to speak.
"What's wrong with you all? Cat got your tongue?" Kerr frowned, raising his voice.
Pride was everything to Steve Kerr, and he would never allow his team to bow out without a fight.
A sudden, muffled cough broke the stillness. Everyone turned toward the sound.
Jerry West, the soul of the Warriors' front office, slowly rose from his seat.
As the team's most authoritative figure, even he couldn't sit still after tonight's loss. Weary and frail, he had dragged himself to the meeting.
"Jerry, do you have a plan?"
Seeing the Logo Man stand, Kerr straightened. This old man was the anchor of the franchise, someone Kerr deeply respected.
"I don't have much of a plan either."
West shook his head helplessly. "Jokić is simply a natural counter to us."
"I thought it would take at least two years before other teams figured out how to deal with our system. But it looks like we ran straight into the Kings' trap."
A flicker of puzzlement crossed West's eyes.
The small-ball era was just beginning, yet somehow Chen Yilun had anticipated it—already grooming a stretch big man two years early. And he just happened to find Jokić, a natural-born cannon.
"We only have two ways to win the next game."
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "Actually, no. Those two ways are essentially the same."
"The Kings beat us for two reasons. First, CJ targeted Curry relentlessly, wearing him down until he had nothing left for the second half.
Second, Jokić's impact inside was overwhelming. The tricks we used on other big men don't work on him."
West tilted his head, thinking for a moment.
"So we'll have to return the favor. Their two main weapons? Jokić early, Butler late."
"I know Butler well—he's an iron man, impossible to break. Our only chance is to go after Jokić."
His voice grew steadier with each word, carrying a power that calmed the restless room.
Few knew that this man, who radiated such reassurance, had battled mental illness his entire life—and even in old age, he still struggled with deep insecurity.
"Next game, Bogut plays more minutes."
West finally laid out his plan. "Shrink the perimeter defense, push Jokić inside. The Kings played the clock against us this game—so we'll do the same to them. Burn out Jokić's stamina and reduce his impact in the second half."
"I've watched plenty of his games. His biggest weakness right now is youth."
West shuffled slowly to the front of the room. "Youth can be a blessing, but it also means immaturity."
"His passes are wildly creative, but his assist-to-turnover ratio isn't great. Too often, his vision is too ideal, and his teammates can't keep up. And unsurprisingly, the kid hasn't built up his conditioning yet."
Then West delivered his final point.
"Don't let his flashy style fool you. Look at his body—he's built like a bruiser! A frame like that can't last long without rest. Just look at Malone's substitution pattern today—rotating Oden and Porter to keep Jokić's minutes short. It's all to help him recharge."
"Exactly!"
West's eyes burned with intensity. "Our best move is to tighten the defense, compress the perimeter, and on offense, give Barnes and Iguodala more ball-handling duties. Force Jokić off the floor!"
With his authority steadying the room, the Warriors quickly finalized their strategy for the next game.
"Alright, everyone's worked hard. Go home and get some rest."
As Kerr finished, people slowly filed out of the room. But West remained seated, unmoving, like a stone statue.
"Jerry, is there something else?"
When only the two of them were left, Kerr walked over and asked quietly.
"Heh…" West stood, letting out a laugh without warmth. His eyes remained cold.
The main lights were off, the projector still casting game footage. Its dim glow stretched their shadows long across the floor.
"This is the brutal truth of the league. We win our first championship, and already we're facing such dangerous rivals. Chen Yilun and Mike Malone will be roadblocks you can't avoid on your path to greatness."
"But you're still here…"
Kerr stopped mid-sentence, staring at him in disbelief. "Old man, what do you mean?"
"I'm old."
West sighed deeply. "My body's at its limit. I've got maybe two years left. I'll retire and enjoy what time I have left. From then on, the team will rest on your shoulders."
"Your health?"
Kerr looked at him, stunned.
"Relax, I'm not dropping dead tomorrow." West waved it off lightly. "Birth, aging, illness, death—that's life. Don't dwell on it. What I care about now is the team."
"The West won't hand us a dynasty. The Spurs, the Kings, and the Rockets, watching hungrily from the shadows—they'll all come after us."
"These are challenges you must face."
With those words, West seemed to age another year. His already stooped back bent even lower.
"You're a genius, but the past two years have been too smooth. I worry you won't withstand the pressure ahead."
"But withstand it you must!"
A sudden fierceness lit his gaze. "The crown is already on our heads, and we must defend it at all costs. That is your duty—and the only path to becoming a truly great coach!"