The replay looped on the Jumbotron over and over again.
Gary Payton's bounce pass.Two purple-and-gold jerseys soaring into the air.One ball.One rim.Two bodies colliding mid-flight.
And then
BOOM.
Alex Mo's forearm smashed the ball through the hoop, his chest colliding with Shawn Kemp's shoulder. Kemp's momentum died in mid-air, his body crumpling under Alex's power. The dunk counted, the crowd exploded, and the announcer nearly screamed into the mic:
"ALEX MO JUST DUNKED ON HIS OWN TEAMMATE, SHAWN KEMP, OFF THE ALLEY-OOP!"
The entire arena lost it.
Commentators could barely keep it together.
"This is going to be every highlight show tonight.""You see this in practice sometimes—but in an All-Star Game? On your own, teammate?""Kemp jumped. Mo just jumped higher. Simple as that."
Getting dunked on wasn't new for anyone in the league. It happened. Cost of doing business.
But getting dunked on… by your teammate… in an All-Star Game… on national TV?
That was a new level of pain.
"Welcome to My World"
Shawn Kemp sat on the floor for half a second, stunned. The rim was still shaking.
Alex landed, turned around, and realized Kemp was still down.
He reached out a big hand. "Yo, my bad, Sean."
Kemp grabbed his wrist and let Alex haul him up. His face was half-embarrassed, half-resigned.
"It's whatever, man," Kemp said, brushing off the back of his shorts. "Guess I'd better get used to it."
"Used to what?"
"Getting dunked on by you," Kemp replied, cracking a grin. "If it ain't tonight, it's gonna be next week anyway."
Alex laughed. "You make it sound like it's scheduled."
"Playing against you?" Kemp shrugged. "Feels like it will be."
Across from them, Gary Payton was stuck between pride and guilt.
"Man…" he muttered, shaking his head. "I just threw the pass. I didn't know y'all were gonna go full WWE in the air."
On the West bench, even some of the league's 50 Greatest were stunned into silence. They'd seen every kind of dunk imaginable, but teammates colliding on a lob and one completely baptizing the other at All-Star Weekend?
That was new.
Double Standards & Threats
As they jogged back on defense, Iverson smacked Alex on the arm.
"You're outta pocket," Iverson said, grinning. "Dunking on your own teammate? At All-Star Weekend? Where's the sportsmanship? Where's the morals?"
Alex glanced at him sideways.
"You talking about sportsmanship?" he asked. "You? The guy who almost started a fistfight with KG on Christmas?"
"That's different," Iverson said instantly.
"How?"
"'Cause that was KG."
Alex smirked. "If you keep talking, I'll dunk on you next. Or block your layup so hard your braids unravel."
Iverson's laugh cut off.
"You… wouldn't."
"Try me," Alex said.
Iverson stared at him for a beat, then just turned away.
"Man, human beings really are double-standard," he muttered.
The Five-Point Sequence
The East tried to settle down, finally running a proper set.
Penny Hardaway got a high screen, snaked his way around Karl Malone, and shook Gary Payton with a smooth hesitation dribble. As he slid into the lane, Alex slid over, ready.
Penny hung in the air, stretching out for a finger roll.
Malone stepped over late, arms up, and Penny used every inch of his wingspan to lay the ball in around the contact.
The ball kissed the glass, dropped through.
Whistle.
"And one."
The Eastern bench got on its feet. At least they were on the board again.
Next time down, the West went to something familiar.
Payton dribbled up top and called for the pick-and-roll with Alex. The crowd perked up. They'd already started to recognize it: the Mo-Payton action.
Alex slid into position, screened Jordan just enough for Payton to turn the corner, then rolled hard to the rim. Ewing stepped late, body angled, trying to contain both the pass and the drive.
Payton lobbed it high.
Alex snatched it with one hand, absorbed Ewing's bump mid-air, and powered in the finish.
Whistle.
"And one the other way!"
The arena roared as Alex walked to the line, shaking out his shoulders. Payton pointed right at him, yelling something nobody could hear over the noise.
Alex took the free throw.
It bounced off the back iron, popped up.
And before anyone in an Eastern jersey could react, he'd already left the ground again.
He exploded from just inside the free-throw line, grabbed his own miss with his left hand, switched to his right in mid-air, twisted his body away from Ewing's arm, and hammered the ball back in.
The ref blew the whistle again. Ewing had raked across his shoulder on the putback.
The big man let his arms fall, half-annoyed, half-amused.
This kid really turned a missed free throw into another highlight.
Two fouls on Ewing in less than a minute.Five straight points from Alex on a single possession sequence.
The commentators were losing their minds.
"Mo scores on the roll, misses the free throw on purpose, skies in from the free-throw line, and still gets another foul call!""This is Alex Mo's world, and everyone else is paying rent!"
Ewing shook his head, grinning despite himself.
"I should've stayed home," he muttered on his way to the bench. "Or on top of the Empire State Building with a banana."
Out of Matchups
By the middle of the second quarter, it was painfully obvious:
The East didn't really have anyone who could guard Alex.
He was too fast for Ewing.Too strong for Grant Hill.Too tall for Pippen, and if Pippen matched his footwork, Alex simply shot over him.
And the scariest part wasn't just his size or speed.
It was the jumper.
Pull-ups in transition.Step back behind the line.Catch-and-shoot threes from the slot.
Every time he rose, the defenders flinched, not because they thought they could contest it but because they knew they couldn't.
It was an All-Star Game, so the defense was softer than usual, but even with that, Alex managed to make the game feel unbalanced. Every trip down, he looked like a cheat code dropped into a pickup run.
Del Harris, Silver Fox, head coach of the Lakers and the West squad, had originally planned to limit both Alex and Iverson's minutes. They were young, sure, but they'd played heavy minutes all season. The All-Star break was supposed to be a break.
But watching them go?
He couldn't bring himself to pull them early.
It was their first All-Star Game. Their first time on this stage. And they were tearing it apart.
Let 'em enjoy it, he thought. Games like this, nights like this… You don't get many.
Halftime Numbers
By halftime, the scoreboard told the story.
West All-Stars – 76East All-Stars – 56
Twenty-point lead. At an All-Star Game.
Alex's line after two quarters?
35 points, 15 rebounds, 7 blocks.
In two quarters.
People in the arena started whispering about records. The single-game All-Star scoring mark. The rebound record. The blocks record. A triple-double with blocks at All-Star Weekend?
It all felt possible… and disturbingly routine for him.
As players headed into the tunnel, the arena lights dimmed, and the big screen shifted to a new montage.
It was time.
The 50 Greatest Ceremony
NBA Commissioner David Stern walked slowly toward center court in a dark suit, microphone in hand.
"The 1996–97 season marks the fiftieth anniversary of the NBA," he announced. "Tonight, at the All-Star Game in Cleveland, we honor the 50 greatest players in league history."
The crowd rose as legends emerged from the tunnel, one by one.
Jerry West.Magic Johnson.Kareem Abdul-Jabbar.Larry Bird.Julius Erving.Wilt Chamberlain.Bill Russell.Dozens of faces that had built the league brick by brick.
They shook hands at midcourt, some waving, some putting up fingers to acknowledge their rings, some just taking in the moment. The crowd gave them wave after wave of applause.
Then a staffer jogged over to the West bench.
"Alex, you're up. Go change into your jacket."
Del Harris tapped him on the shoulder. "Go on," the coach said. "They're calling you."
Alex blinked. "Seriously?"
"You're one of them now," Harris replied with a small smile. "Youngest one in the group. Try not to look too bored."
Top-50 Superstar
In the locker room, Alex put on a special navy-and-gold warmup jacket with a large embroidered emblem on the chest: NBA 50 Greatest Players.
It fit snug across his shoulders.
He didn't know if it was the actual fabric or just what it symbolized, but it felt heavier than a normal jacket.
When he walked back into the light, he joined the other legends standing in a row near half court. Some of them clapped him on the back. Some nodded silently. Some just studied him with a sort of curious approval, like they were seeing the future walk among them.
Stern stepped forward and shook his hand.
"Congratulations, Alex," Stern said. "You've done in half a season what most players don't do in a decade. Rookie of the Month, Player of the Month, All-Star starter, Rookie Game MVP, records piling up every week… and tonight." He gestured at the jacket. "You officially join the fifty greatest."
Alex looked him in the eye.
"When my career is over," he said steadily, "I want this to feel too small. I want people to say, 'Top fifty wasn't enough.'"
Stern smiled.
"Then we both have the same hope."
Somewhere watching, Shaquille O'Neal probably wasn't thrilled about being left off the list in this timeline. Alex knew, thanks to the strange memories buried inside him, how the list was supposed to look.
But this world was different now.He'd changed it just by existing.
Youngest ever inducted into the NBA's Top 50.Alex Mo.Half a season in.
It was insane.
But as he stood surrounded by legends, feeling the weight of past greatness around him, it didn't feel fake.
It felt like responsibility.
Second Half: Turning the Game Into a Showcase
Once the ceremony ended and the legends walked off to another thunderous ovation, the All-Star Game resumed.
And Alex picked up right where he left off.
He opened the third quarter with a step-back three over Grant Hill.Then a transition dunk off a Payton steal.Then another drive through contact against Pippen.
Eight quick points.
The West's lead ballooned from twenty to nearly thirty in a matter of minutes.
Phil Jackson, coaching the East, finally decided enough was enough. He signaled for subs.
Penny, Jordan, Pippen, Hill, and Ewing, all five starters, checked out together.
It looked noble on paper, resting his stars in a game that already seemed out of reach, but everyone understood what it really was:
We're not catching them tonight.Let's not risk anyone's knees while Alex is running hot like this.
On the other side, Del Harris watched the lead and the minutes.
When Alex hit 50 points on a turnaround jumper at the elbow over a rotating big Harris had seen enough.
He signaled to the bench.
Alex walked to the sideline to a standing ovation, his final line on the stat sheet looking more like something out of a video game than a real All-Star contest:
50 points. 25 rebounds. 15 blocks.
The first 50-point game in All-Star history.The first triple-double with blocks in All-Star history.And it wasn't even a grind; it looked fun for him.
The Result, and the Inevitable MVP
Even with both teams' benches finishing the game, the action stayed entertaining. It was still All-Star Weekend, lobs, deep threes, and no one really wanting to get hurt.
The final score:
West – 135East – 104
As the buzzer sounded, players from both conferences came together at midcourt, laughing, hugging, trading jerseys, and talking trash in good humor.
David Stern walked out one more time, SMVP trophy in hand.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "please join me in thanking these incredible players for a spectacular All-Star Weekend. And now…"
The crowd quieted.
"…the Most Valuable Player of the 1997 NBA All-Star Game in Cleveland"
There was no suspense.
"—Alex Mo!"
The arena erupted.
Alex walked forward, trophy in hand, almost amused by the weight of the moment. Rookie Game MVP. Three-Point Contest Champion. Slam Dunk Contest Champion. All-Star Game MVP.
Four for four.
Nobody had ever done it before.Nobody might ever do it again.
Postgame: The Gauntlet
After the ceremony, Alex made a point of hugging both teammates and opponents one by one.
He saved one particular player for last.
Karl Malone, still in his Western Conference jersey, met him near the free-throw line.
"The last time we played in L.A.," Malone said quietly, "you didn't suit up."
Alex nodded. He remembered. Injury rest. Ben Wallace is battling alone inside against Malone's brutal, old-school game.
"Your little pitbull in the paint," Malone continued, meaning Ben, "told me straight up: 'If Alex plays, we don't lose that game.'"
He grinned, but there was steel in his eyes.
"So I'm waiting for you in Utah."
Alex tilted his head. "You calling me out, old man?"
"I'm inviting you," Malone corrected. "To see if you're as good as they say. As good as he says." He jabbed a thumb in Ben's direction. "Our building. Our altitude. Our fans. Salt Lake City."
Alex's eyes sharpened.
"I won't be missing that one," he said. "You want to see me at full strength? I'll bring everything."
Malone nodded, satisfied. "Good. We'll be ready for you."
They bumped shoulders and parted ways.
As Alex walked toward the tunnel, the thought drifted into his mind:
Chicago was one kind of war.Salt Lake City's going to be another.
The Chicago "Martial Arts Club" game was still fresh in the league's memory hard fouls, trash talk, and fights on the verge of breaking out. The entire world had watched that one.
Utah could easily become the sequel.
A new battleground.
A new test.
And as far as Alex Mo was concerned?
He wasn't just ready.
He was hungry for it.