Alex Mo sat on the end of the bench, still breathing a little hard, warm-up jacket zipped halfway, while the arena around him shook.
Gund Arena was losing its mind.
They'd just replayed his third preliminary dunk, the over-the-backboard windmill with Iverson's lob on the jumbotron for the third time. Every time the slow-motion angle showed Alex clearing the rim and hammering the ball through, the crowd roared like it was new.
On the Chinese broadcast, veteran commentator Zhang Wenli couldn't help himself.
"Just from those three dunks in the preliminaries," Zhang said, voice hoarse with excitement, "the dunk champion is already decided. There's no suspense at all."
And honestly? It was hard to argue.
Alex had walked into the contest still in his Lakers warm-up, hadn't even bothered to strip down to his game jersey, and then casually delivered three dunks that would've been finals material in any normal year.
Free-throw-line windmill.
360° side-windmill off the drive.
And then that absurd fly from behind the basket, twist past the rim, and windmill it home finish.
All with a jacket on.
When one guy's preliminaries look like that, and everyone else is struggling just to get perfect scores with their best tricks, what are you supposed to do?
The reality was simple: the trophy was already halfway in his hands.
Now the only questions left were:
What on earth was he saving for the finals?
And what was that special dunk Magic Johnson had teased in his interview, the one he said he'd personally pass the ball for?
Because if there was one thing everyone in this building agreed on, from kids in the cheap seats to legends in tailored suits, it was this:
The 1997 Cleveland Slam Dunk Contest was going into the history books because of one person.
Alex Mo.
Well… everyone agreed except one rookie in green.
Kobe Bryant sat a few chairs down from Jason Kidd on the East bench, towel over his shoulders, eyes locked on the replay.
Kidd nudged him. "You're thinking about it, aren't you?"
Kobe didn't answer immediately. The camera caught them leaning close, talking, while the commentators speculated about "some sort of combo dunk."
Finally, Kobe exhaled through his nose, jaw set.
"If I go up there with something easy," he muttered, "I lose for sure."
Kidd shrugged. "That's how it works. He's on another level."
"Exactly." Kobe's eyes never left the screen. "So the only way I have any chance is to do something nobody thinks a rookie can do."
Kidd leaned back, amused. "So you really want me to help with that pass?"
Kobe turned to him, seriousness all over his face.
"If I don't even try, I've already lost."
There it was—the core of Kobe, laid bare in one sentence.
Kidd studied him for a second, then grinned. "Alright then. Let's make it interesting."
◈◈◈
Meanwhile, hundreds of miles away in North Carolina, two guys were sprawled on a worn couch in a cramped off-campus apartment, a pizza box open on the coffee table, and the volume turned up way too loud.
Vince Carter's eyes were glued to the TV.
Tracy McGrady was, too.
They'd seen Alex in person at Rucker Park already. They'd lost to him in that impromptu street dunk showdown. They'd told themselves that was a one-off that, in a real contest, with prep, they'd be right there with him.
Tonight shut that door.
Completely.
"Tracy," Vince said suddenly, voice low, "you're still declaring this summer, right?"
McGrady didn't look away from the screen. "Yeah. I am."
He had that distant look in his eyes he always got when he started thinking about "higher levels" and "the ultimate realm" and all the other over-dramatic stuff Vince teased him about.
"Are you gonna do the dunk contest if you get in?" Vince asked. "If they invite you?"
McGrady let out a short laugh. "Challenge that in a dunk contest?"
He watched another replay of Alex's 360 windmill from the side.
Then his mouth twisted into a grin.
"If they give me the chance, I'm taking it," he said quietly. "That's exactly what I want. Real pressure. A real ceiling. If I can't beat him, I'll at least see how close I can get."
Vince swallowed, fingers drumming on his knee.
He'd been planning to stay one more year at UNC. That was the safe path. The smart path. Be the man, build stats, then go to the league with all the boxes checked.
But watching Alex tonight, three dunks in a warm-up jacket that looked like something a video game designer would call "unrealisti,c" and tone down something inside him snapped.
"If I hadn't seen him at Rucker," Vince muttered, more to himself than to McGrady, "if I hadn't watched this live… I'd stay in school. No question."
He took a breath.
"I don't want to wait anymore, T-Mac. I want to be in that dunk contest next year. With you. Against him."
McGrady finally turned his head, surprised. "You're declaring too?"
"If I don't chase this now," Vince said, eyes hard, "I'll regret it for the rest of my life."
The two cousins fell silent, listening to the roar of the Cleveland crowd through the speakers.
Different dreams. Different styles.
Same target.
Beat Alex Mo. On the biggest stage. In the air.
◈◈◈
Back in Cleveland, the arena lights dimmed, then flared to spotlight the court.
The three finalists stepped forward:
Michael Finley.
Kobe Bryant.
And Alex Mo.
Alex bounced in place near midcourt, rolling his shoulders, the All-Star IM1 colorway bright under the lights. Sweat was cooling on his neck, but his mind was oddly calm.
Three more dunks, he thought. Two at worst. Just finish this right.
He could feel eyes on him, Jordan, Pippen, Magic, Kareem, Wilt, West, Russell, all of them spread around courtside. Even legends who'd never played with a three-point line were here to watch a kid in a headband and purple-white sneakers jump like gravity was optional.
The PA announcer's voice boomed.
"First up in the finals… from the Phoenix Suns… Michael Finley!"
Finley stepped out, got a decent ovation, and took the ball with a smile that said he knew exactly where he fit in tonight's narrative.
He'd been good in the prelims. Solid athleticism, power, clean finishes. But after what Alex had just done, "solid" felt like a different sport.
So Finley went a different direction.
Entertainment.
He tossed the ball gently toward the right side of the rim, then backed up all the way near the three-point line.
Then he planted his hands and popped into a full somersault, flipping forward across the floor like he'd joined a gymnastics team by accident.
The crowd gasped, then laughed and cheered.
As he landed out of the flip, Finley broke into a sprint, gathered in the lane, snatched the ball from the air, and hammered it through with a strong one-handed finish.
It wasn't the highest or the most stylish, but as a whole? Somersault into a dunk?
It was fun.
It relaxed everyone a little.
"That's one way to compete," one of the TV commentators chuckled. "If you can't beat the alien, at least put on a show for the humans."
Scores flashed: 9, 8, 9, 9, 8.
43.
Respectable. Not history.
Finley knew it. He shrugged, grinned, and bowed to the crowd, clearly content with being the guy who made people laugh.
Kobe, on the other hand, wasn't here to relax anybody.
"The next dunker Boston Celtics rookie… Kobe Bryant!"
In emerald green instead of purple and gold, Kobe walked to the baseline, ball under his arm, jaw tight.
Jason Kidd joined him, patting him once on the back as they conferred in quick, low voices.
"Kobe might be calling in some help here," the commentator noted. "You can see Jason Kidd lining up on the side of the basket. This could be big."
Kidd took his spot just off the right block, ball in hand.
Kobe stood on the baseline, dribbled once, twice, then accelerated along the sideline, cutting toward the lane.
As he passed Kidd, Jason snapped a pass high off the side of the backboard perfect angle, perfect speed.
For a split second, the ball hung there, spinning in space.
Kobe planted, rose, turned.
He went for a full 360… didn't quite get all the way around, but still managed a 270° spin, grabbed the ball with both hands, and whipped it through the rim with a violent windmill.
"BOOM!"
The arena exploded.
Even if it wasn't truly 360, watching a skinny 18-year-old twist that far mid-air, catch a pass off the side of the glass, and still have enough control to windmill it in was insane.
On the floor, Kobe staggered on landing and would've gone down if Kidd hadn't caught him by the shoulders.
"You did it, man," Kidd yelled over the noise, grinning. "You got it down!"
Kobe's chest was heaving, but his eyes… his eyes were burning.
He glanced toward Alex, as if to say, Your move.
Scores went up, one by one:
And then, from Dr. J 9.
Total: 49.
On the broadcast, they caught Julius Erving's explanation as he leaned into the mic.
"It's a fantastic dunk," he said, smiling. "But if you're going to call it 360, it's got to be 360."
Standards of a man who'd once taken off from the free-throw line himself and glided like he was walking on air.
Still, 49 points meant Kobe had set the bar as high as it could reasonably go.
You wanted to beat that; you needed something from another planet.
Which, as it turned out, was exactly what was checking in.
◈◈◈
"Mo Ran's first dunk of the finals will be the one Magic Johnson talked about," Zhang Wenli said on CCTV, already half-laughing in anticipation. "The one Magic said he would pass for."
Alex and Magic huddled quickly near the top of the key, talking through angles and timing. Magic still moved like his body remembered every no-look pass he'd ever thrown, even if the game shape wasn't quite there.
"Don't float it too high," Alex told him. "Bounce it hard, straight up. I'll be there."
Magic eyebrows arched. "You better be."
Alex jogged back, all the way to the midcourt logo. The arena started to buzz, low at first, then louder as people realized he was lining up a full runway.
Magic walked to just inside the three-point line at the top of the arc, ball in hand, eyes bright like he was twenty-five again.
The ref nodded.
The crowd quieted.
Alex bounced on his toes, took one last deep breath, and exploded forward.
His strides ate up the floor one, two, three, faster and faster, like he was trying to sprint through the court instead of across it.
As he crossed the arc, Magic fired the ball down hard, straight into the lane.
It smacked the floor, ripped back up into the air, perfect height, perfect timing.
Alex planted on the free-throw line, heel just kissing the stripe, and launched.
Time stretched.
He rose, grabbed the ball, and in one impossibly smooth motion, turned.
Full 360°.
Body squared back to the rim.
One-handed windmill.
CRASH.
"WHAT. THE. HELL?!"
The commentary team lost anything resembling professionalism.
Wilt Chamberlain actually left his courtside seat, jogged down from the first row like a man half his age, and grabbed Alex in a bear hug the moment he landed.
"Mo!" Wilt shouted, laughing, practically shaking him. "Do you know what you just did?!"
Kareem Abdul-Jabbar half-stood, then thought better of it and sank back into his seat, shaking his head and smiling in disbelief.
Jerry West reached out with both arms, as if he might actually need to keep Kareem and another legend from sprinting onto the court.
On the Lakers bench, Ben Wallace and Allen Iverson were already halfway to the floor before an assistant coach grabbed their jerseys.
"Boss, you're flying out there!" Ben yelled.
"You're not human!" Iverson hollered, hands on his head. "You're a straight-up superhero!"
The judges barely needed to confer.
Dr. J lifted his 10 card before anyone else.
"This is the dunk I came to see," he said, more to himself than the mic. "That is a perfect fifty."
The others followed: 10, 10, 10, 10.
Unanimous.
On CCTV, Zhang Wenli was practically shouting into his microphone.
"If the full score were 100," he said, "this dunk is 100! It doesn't matter what the maximum is, however high you set it, Alex's dunk deserves all of it!"
Everywhere you looked, someone was standing with Jordan with a rare, genuine grin, Pippen clapping, Magic pointing proudly at Alex like a proud older brother.
Under that, a simpler truth spread through the building.
The contest was over.
For everyone but one man.
◈◈◈
On the Suns' bench, Michael Finley exhaled, then smiled to himself.
When Alex finally made it back to his own sideline, Finley stepped forward and slapped his hand.
"Man," Finley laughed, shaking his head, "you just killed the contest."
Alex grinned back, still breathing a little hard. "Thought you were trying to do that somersault thing yourself."
"Hey, somebody's gotta entertain the crowd while you disrespect gravity," Finley said. Then, more quietly, "You're the best dunker I've ever seen. And you just won the three-point contest. That's… messed up, man."
Alex chuckled. "Guess I'm greedy."
Finley only sighed. "Some people get all the gifts."
Kobe, for his part, wasn't quite ready to surrender, even if his eyes told him what the scoreboard already had.
For his second dunk, he went even bigger, calling out veteran Celtics big man Dino Radja to stand beneath the hoop as a human obstacle.
The idea was bold: fly over a seven-footer, catch, twist, finish.
The execution… wasn't there yet.
Time and again, Kobe ran up, took off, clipped Radja's shoulder, lost the ball, or lost the rim. The effort was there, the courage was there, but the legs just weren't ready for that level.
After the third miss, the rules forced him to move on.
The crowd still cheered him. They'd felt the strain, the ambition. Everyone with a little imagination could see the future in the outline of his attempts.
But the present belonged to someone else.
When the dust settled, the scoreboard told the story everyone already knew:
Michael Finley is third.
Kobe Bryant was the runner-up.
And the new Slam Dunk King is
Alex Mo.
Rookie Challenge MVP.
Three-Point Contest Champion.
Slam Dunk Contest Champion.
All in the same weekend.
The first rookie in NBA history to pull off that triple.
◈◈◈
Under a rain of camera flashes, Alex stepped back to center court, trophy in his hands for the second time that night. The polished metal reflected the bright arena lights and the flicker of jumbotrons, and somewhere in the back of his mind, he thought about how heavy it would feel once the adrenaline faded.
A sideline host walked up, microphone ready, smile way too bright.
"Alex," he said, voice booming through the PA, "earlier tonight when you won the three-point contest, you promised you'd say more after the dunk contest."
He gestured around them.
"Well, you've just won that, too. You've got the rookie MVP, the three-point crown, and the dunk title. How does it feel? The whole world wants to hear from you."
Alex adjusted the trophy under one arm, lifted the mic with the other, and took a second just to listen.
The fans are chanting his name.
The mix of languages in the stands.
Iverson was waving a towel like a madman at the end of the bench.
Wilt clapping slowly. Magic smiled widely. Kareem nods, almost proud.
He could've said something wild and called himself the best, but instead, he told the world to get ready.
Instead, he laughed softly.
"It feels," he said, "like I still have one more game to win."
That got a laugh, a ripple of applause.
"I'm grateful," Alex added. "To the fans, to the legends who came out, to my teammates… and to the guys who pushed me tonight. Kobe, Finley, those weren't easy to follow."
He paused, glancing up at the massive All-Star logo above the court.
"But this is just Saturday," he said. "Tomorrow is the real test. I've got a Western All-Star jersey waiting in the locker room, and some guys I still owe a few plays."
He lifted the trophy a little higher.
"So thank you… But don't go anywhere. I'm not done yet."
The crowd roared again.
Somewhere, twelve-year-old LeBron James watched on a giant TV outside a Cleveland mall and clenched his fist a little tighter.
Somewhere in North Carolina, two cousins turned from the screen with identical looks of determination.
And in the bowels of the arena, in a quiet corner of the Western locker room, Alex finally sat down, unlaced his shoes, and let himself feel the ache in his legs.
He pulled his phone from his bag, an old brick by future standards, and scrolled to his mother's number.
When she picked up, he could barely hear her over the TV in the background. She was watching the replay already.
"Mom," he said, tired and happy. "You see that?"
Her voice came through warm and proud. "Of course I did. Don't stay up too late. You still have a game tomorrow."
Alex smiled, leaning back against the cool metal of the locker.
"Yeah," he murmured. "I know."
The trophies could wait on the shelf.
The real season, the real fights, the Rockets, the Bulls, the playoffs were still ahead.
For tonight, though, the kid in the headband, the one who'd bent the three-point line and gravity in the same evening, let himself close his eyes for just a moment.
Tomorrow, he'd be back under the lights.
Tonight, he'd earned a little silence.