The silence in the visiting locker room was a living thing, thick and suffocating. It was the silence of a funeral, but worse—it was the silence of a death that had been self-inflicted. The only sounds were the ragged breaths of exhausted men and the distant, mocking roar of the Madison Square Garden crowd celebrating their 3-1 series lead.
Kyle Wilson sat frozen on the wooden stool, a towel draped over his head like a shroud. The cold, hard numbers on the final box score were seared into his mind: 6-for-19 from the field. 1-for-7 from three. 4 turnovers. A team-worst -22. But the numbers were just the clinical summary. The real memory was a sickening highlight reel playing behind his eyes: every forced shot, every careless pass, every defensive lapse born of frustration and ego. He had been a black hole, and he had sucked the entire team into his orbit of failure.
