Alex didn't hang onto the three-point trophy very long.
He lifted it once for the cameras, smiled for a few flashes, then handed it off to an arena staffer with a quiet word of thanks. The crowd was still buzzing about his perfect round, chanting his name, but his mind had already moved on.
"This is just the beginning," he said into the microphone during the quick on-court interview. "I've got one more event to win tonight. I'll talk more after the dunk contest."
The arena roared at that.
He wasn't just promising a show.
He was promising a sweep.
Up in the stands, people turned to each other, voices overlapping.
"Did you see that three-point round?""He didn't miss. Not once!""If he does anything close to that in the dunk contest, it's over."
Everybody knew how All-Star Saturday usually worked. The three-point contest was fun, sure, but it was the dunk contest that lived on in memories and highlight reels. Jordan's free-throw line dunk. Dominique's windmills. Dr. J is soaring in that old grainy footage.
But tonight, the three-point contest had felt like a main event.
Now the dunk contest had to somehow top that.
No pressure.
Bulls Corner: The "Friend"
On the sideline, the Bulls section sat clustered together, Phil Jackson in a suit, Scottie Pippen in a warmup, Dennis Rodman in sunglasses and a hat pulled low despite being indoors.
Michael Jordan leaned forward with his forearms resting on his knees, face unreadable.
"You're awfully quiet," Pippen said, glancing sideways at him. "You getting nervous? Or you just really excited to see what the kid's gonna do?"
"About the dunks?" Jordan shrugged. "I'm not expecting anything in particular."
Pippen gave him a look.
Jordan smirked.
"I have a friend," he said. "He wants to see what Alex can really do in the air."
The classic I have a friend line.
Pippen chuckled and let it go. The bad blood between Chicago and Alex on the court was real enough, but this was All-Star Weekend. Down here, beneath the lights and music, a lot of that melted away.
Even if he'd been kicked, outscored, and watched Rodman get knocked loopy in Chicago, Pippen was a basketball addict first. And Alex? For all the chaos he'd brought to the league, he was must-watch TV now.
"Just don't pretend you're not curious," Pippen muttered. "I want to see what kind of dunk a kid can do after knocking us around like that."
Jordan didn't answer, but his eyes stayed locked on the floor.
The Stage Is Set
During the short break between events, the floor crew moved like a drill team.
Extra cameras repositioned.
Sponsors' logos rolled out on the baseline.
Judges' platform set up near the stanchion.
The dunk contest in Cleveland, 1997. Alex remembered watching this one on old VHS tapes as a teenager: Kobe Bryant winning with smooth but relatively simple between-the-legs dunks and tomahawks. Fun, but not earth-shattering.
This time, history had been nudged.
Kobe was here. So was Michael Finley. So were a handful of other leapers.
But now there was also a 7-footer who'd just gone 25-for-25 from three and had already crowned himself king of Rucker Park dunks in a Nike event.
The original ceiling of this contest?
Alex was here to raise it.
The judges' row filled first:
Clyde "The Glide" Drexler.
George "Iceman" Gervin.
Lisa Leslie, representing the brand-new WNBA.
Former Cavs sharpshooter Mark Price.
And finally, the man everybody associated with airborne magic, Julius "Dr. J" Erving.
Five legends took their seats, greeted by a wave of applause.
Then the PA system boomed again.
"Ladies and gentlemen, your participants in the 1997 NBA Slam Dunk Contest!"
The Contestants
One by one, they came out to center court, jogging in from the tunnel.
First up: Darvin Ham, undrafted but fearless, a muscular forward who loved to dunk everything with maximum force.
Then Michael Finley, the high-flying Suns guard, all smooth lines and elastic limbs.
The crowd's volume spiked as the next name was announced.
"From the Boston Celtics… rookie guard… KOBE BRYANT!"
Kobe jogged out in green and white, jaw tight, eyes burning. The Celtics legends in the stands—Russell, Havlicek, and Cousy—clapped and whistled as if this were a playoff game. They knew the stakes weren't real, but pride never truly retires.
"We've got our own future cornerstone too," one of them muttered. "The Lakers aren't the only ones."
After Kobe came Ray Allen, elegant and compact, with a dunk package that tended to be underestimated. Then Bob Sura, the hometown Cavalier, was greeted with a roar that was more gratitude than expectation.
Five names down.
One left.
"And from the Los Angeles Lakers… your 1996 number one pick, Rookie Game MVP, and newly crowned Three-Point Contest Champion… ALEX… MO!"
The reaction was almost physical.
Alex walked out in his warmup jacket and All-Star IM1s, headband still on, the noise around him humming like electricity. He raised a hand, just once, then let it fall.
The dunk racks were gone. No more balls on stands. Just space. Just the rim. Just imagination.
Early Dunks – Setting the Bar
The rules were simple:
Six players in the first round.
Three dunks each.
Judges scored each dunk from 6 to 10.
Top three totals advanced to the finals.
Darvin Ham went first. No one envied him.
He took off the right side of the lane and pounded a right-handed windmill that rattled the entire basket. The second dunk was a powerful reverse with his back turned to the rim, and the third was billed as a 360… though the rotation started early and landed closer to 270.
It was explosive, fun, but not entirely clean.
36 points.
"Strong start," one commentator said. "But the judges are keeping a little in reserve."
They had to. There was a lot of contest left.
Michael Finley came next. His first dunk was a long, slicing one-handed tomahawk, his arm fully extended behind his head before he hammered it through. The second was a twisting reverse. For his third, he finally cut loose a huge running windmill that brought the crowd out of their seats.
Finley finished with 39 points, bumping ahead of Ham.
Then came Kobe.
Kobe's Turn
Kobe dribbled out to the right wing, bouncing the ball lazily, feeling the floor. The Celtics legends rose to their feet behind the bench, clapping, shouting encouragement.
"Let's see it, kid!" someone yelled from up top.
Kobe took a long, diagonal run toward the rim, elevated off one leg, and unfurled a one-handed tomahawk, his body stretched out like a bow in midair. The ball smacked the net and bounced high.
The crowd roared.
"Wow!" one of the TV commentators said. "That's a rookie? Look at the hang time!"
His second dunk started again from the side, but this time he wound his arms into a two-hand side windmill, body scissoring in the air before he flushed it home. Clean. Stylish. Not overly complicated yet, but dripping with flair.
For the third, Kobe went with something slightly more technical coming from the baseline. He drove, rose, turned his back to the rim midair, and snapped the ball through on a 180° spinning dunk.
No double-clutches. No between-the-legs. But the rhythm, the grace, the absolute control in the air were undeniable.
When the judges' scores went up, the arena buzzed.
45 points.
Kobe had effectively punched his ticket to the finals.
"It looks like this year's dunk contest might not be a one-man show after all," one commentator said. "We've got ourselves a Yellow vs. Green rivalry even here, Lakers and Celtics, carried into the air."
Ray Allen followed. His dunks were smooth and prettier than people expected, but coming right after Kobe, they felt understated. A reverse, a cradle, a mid-air switch. Nice… but not quite enough to stick in the memory.
34 points.
Then came Bob Sura, the hometown hopeful. He went for a 360 on his very first dunk, trying to make a statement, but the takeoff wasn't quite right, and he ended up just managing a normal tomahawk to salvage the attempt. The jitters never fully left him.
He, too, ended with 34 points.
So the leaderboard, with one man left, was:
Kobe Bryant – 45
Michael Finley – 39
Darvin Ham – 36
Ray Allen – 34
Bob Sura – 34
Three spots to the finals.
One last contestant.
"He Doesn't Even Take Off His Jacket?"
American commentators watched Alex stand near the baseline, Lakers warmup still zipped.
"Is he… not taking this seriously?" one of them asked. "He hasn't even taken off his jacket."
"He only needs 37 points to get into the finals," the other replied. "Maybe he's coasting, saving his real stuff for the last round."
Some fans frowned. They'd waited months, talking themselves into visions of impossible dunks, expecting something insane from the very first jump.
If he mailed this in, all that hype would feel cheap.
Meanwhile, in the Chinese broadcast booth up in the media row, the commentators saw it differently.
"He only needs 37?" Zhang chuckled. "Alex could get 37 without taking off his warmup. This is just him playing around. He's saving the real weapons for later."
Dunk 1 – Free-Throw Line Windmill… in a Jacket
Alex picked up the ball and walked slowly to the midcourt line, still in that purple-and-gold jacket, headband snug over his curls.
He took a few glances at the rim. Measured his steps. Then he backed up, standing near the center circle.
The crowd murmured.
"He's not really going from there, is he?"
Whistle.
Alex started forward.
His stride lengthened one, two, three, four long, surging steps, and as he neared the free-throw line, he planted, lifted off, and glided.
It wasn't just a free-throw line dunk.
In the air, at the peak of his jump, he turned his shoulders, swung both arms in a huge arc, and spun the ball through a full windmill before slamming it down through the rim.
He landed, jacket flapping, knees absorbing the impact like it was nothing.
For half a second, there was stunned silence.
Then Gund Arena exploded.
"Oh my are you kidding me?!" one commentator shouted. "A free-throw line windmill with his jacket still on!"
"This isn't even the finals!" the other nearly yelled. "He's doing this in the prelims!"
Dr. J, sitting at the judges' table, let out a low whistle and shook his head.
The judges didn't hesitate.
A perfect 50 on his first attempt… and he still hadn't unzipped his warmup.
Dunk 2 – 360 Airborne Windmill
If the first dunk was a thunderclap, the second was a lightning bolt.
Alex jogged to the left corner, ball in hand, face composed. He took a look at the cameras, then at the rim, then back down to the baseline where a few photographers were kneeling, lenses aimed up.
He nodded to the ref.
Then he ran.
Starting from the corner, he cut a path toward the side of the lane, took off just inside the dotted line
and in the air, executed a full 360-degree spin, his body turning smoothly, one hand palming the ball, arm extended away from his head like a scythe.
At the end of the rotation, as he faced the rim again, he snapped the ball through with a one-armed windmill motion, ripping it cleanly through the net.
The whole movement looked impossible like someone had hit pause in midair and given him extra frames to finish his spin.
He hung there just long enough for everyone to really see it.
Then gravity remembered its job and tugged him back to the floor.
"OH. MY. GOD!" a commentator screamed. "He just did a 360 single-arm windmill, and it looked like he stopped in midair to think about it!"
"This is a finals-level dunk," the other said, voice breaking with excitement. "And he just used it as his second dunk in the first round!"
Down in the Chinese booth, Zhang couldn't help but laugh.
"For Alex, this is basic operation," he said. "I don't know why everyone looks so shocked. They must not have been watching his games."
The cameras cut around the arena in quick succession:
Magic Johnson jumping up and slapping James Worthy's hand.
Jerry West standing with his arms half raised, instinctively blocking Jabbar and Wilt from rushing the court.
Old George Mikan smiling so wide the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened.
Even Pippen, hands on his hips, shaking his head in disbelief.
Once again, the scores came fast.
Another perfect 50.
Alex had already cleared the 37 points needed to advance before even attempting his third dunk.
But he wasn't done.
Dunk 3 – Over the Rim, Against Physics
Before the final dunk of the prelims, Alex walked behind the basket and gestured for the space to be cleared.
Photographers shuffled back. Ball boys moved to the side. Arena staff retreated a few feet.
Then Alex turned and crooked a finger at the sideline.
Allen Iverson was already standing, grinning like he knew a secret. He jogged onto the floor, ball tucked under his arm, chains glinting under the house lights.
They met under the back of the rim.
Iverson pointed to a spot on the back edge of the hoop, then mimed a soft lob.
Alex nodded once.
No words. They didn't need them.
They'd been doing this sort of unspoken communication all season.
The crowd buzzed, sensing something special.
"Looks like we've got a little Georgetown reunion," a commentator noted. "Iverson's going to be part of this one."
Alex backed up deep behind the basket, almost to the base of the stanchion.
He crouched.
He exploded forward.
By the time he crossed under the glass, Iverson had already tossed the ball up, sending it arcing over the backboard toward the front of the rim.
Alex's strides ate the space. He planted, rose, and his head sailed past the underside of the iron. For a split second, his face was level with the backboard.
He caught the ball over the plane of the rim, twisted his head to avoid clipping it with his chin, let his body float forward—
—and then, almost casually, he spun into another windmill motion, arm circling around as he dunked the ball back into the hoop from above, like a hand pushing a lid onto a jar.
"BOOM!!"
The sound shook the stanchion. The net snapped. A few of the photographers, despite being warned, flinched backward on pure instinct.
For a heartbeat, the arena felt like it had no roof.
In the legends' row, Wilt Chamberlain actually half-rose out of his seat.
"If I'd had that kid's face and hops," he laughed, looking at the camera nearby, "thirty thousand would've been easy."
Elgin Baylor, nominally the Clippers' GM now and a longtime Lakers rival, forgot who signed his checks and just clapped like a fan. Kareem leaned forward, hand on his chest, smiling in quiet awe.
Magic and Worthy collided in midair with a chest bump like they were back in 1987.
On TV, the American commentator gave up on any pretense of restraint.
"LET'S GO HOME!" he shouted. "Turn out the lights, folks! The dunk contest is over! The champion has been decided in the first round!"
Up in the Chinese booth, Zhang nodded solemnly.
"I don't know if the NBA needs to keep playing this," he said. "They should just hand him the trophy now. He's already the dunk king tonight."
The judges didn't even bother with suspense.
Another 50.
Three dunks. Three perfect scores.
A total of 150 points in the preliminaries.
Kobe's earlier 45 looked small now, like a really nice drawing next to a mural painted across an entire building.
Gravity, Outvoted
As Alex walked back toward the bench, the noise didn't die down. It changed.
From explosive cheers to a rolling chant:
"MO! MO! MO! MO!"
He sat, finally unzipping his warmup jacket, letting the cool air hit his sweat-damp jersey. Iverson dropped down beside him, slapping his shoulder so hard it almost hurt.
"Bro," Iverson said, laughing. "You know you just broke the contest, right? They should pack it up and give the rest of us our participation ribbons."
Alex took a sip of water, chest still rising and falling.
"We still got the finals," he said. "And I still owe Magic that alley-oop."
Iverson grinned. "You really going to do it?"
"Yeah," Alex said. "If I'm going to challenge gravity, might as well do it with a legend throwing the pass."
On-screen, the scoreboard confirmed what every pair of eyes in the arena already knew.
Top three advancing to the finals:
Alex Mo – 150
Kobe Bryant – 45
Michael Finley – 39
Darvin Ham's strong start, respectable as it was, simply existed in another world now.
The finals hadn't even started, and the Cleveland crowd felt like they'd already watched something historic.
Maybe the judges would still lift their paddles.
Maybe Kobe and Finley would still make their attempts.
But as the cameras panned across the faces in the stands kids standing on their seats, grown men shaking their heads in disbelief, legends talking excitedly among themselves it was obvious:
Tonight's dunk crown had already been claimed.
In a warmup jacket, from the free-throw line, spinning in the air like gravity owed him money,Alex Mo had locked up the title of Dunk King in advance.
And somewhere on the sideline, Magic Johnson was stretching his shoulders, smiling to himself.
The next time Alex took off, he was going to be on the other end of that pass.